I wrote lots.
Aug. 19th, 2004 12:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lykomancerI went home yesterday and proceeded to write until I couldn't think of anything else to say. Here's the results.
We have a choice in this world: Go crazy or write.
-- a button I saw downtown.
I don't know what's going on in my head. I wrote on Livejournal earlier, and none of my feelings have changed, and everything I wrote came to pass almost exactly as I said. I could spill for days on the same subject and never feel tapped out; I am reminded of a passage in The Stand in which Harold reflects on how terrifying the unstoppable outpouring of hatred into his journal is, except for me it isn't hatred but despair. A flood of dismay and fear of the future and desperation and regret that I did not do more/savor more/plan better while at Northland and a feeling of sheer hopelessness at everything that's going wrong, all the work I have to do to catch up to where I want to be, and life in general that functions almost like a natural force-- gravity perverted, or the Heisenberg uncertainty principle multiplied by Murphy's Law.
It seems that all I ever write is anxiety and fear and depression. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of feeling it. I want to move on.
Seeing Tom's shrink once more seems like a good idea...until I think of the extra fifteen dollars every week/two weeks that would cost, not to mention the price of the meds they'd no doubt want to give me.
...
I just realized I said I'd rather save thirty dollars a month than make sure that I maintain my mental health. WTF. That's not right. That worries me more than the grip of the depression-- the depression's easier to fix.
Fucking money. I hate the goddamn stuff; it's the shining pool of water in the middle of the desert that you waste all of your energy running toward, only to collapse and die realizing that you killed yourself trying to reach an illusion.
If only I had more money, I could pay off Northland. If only I had more money, I could pay off United. If only I had more money, I could buy books and music. If only I had more money, I could have all the food I want to eat, all the time. If only I had more money, I could go to the gym and work out; I could see a shrink (I might not need a shrink!); I could do fun things, like go to clubs; I could have more than one pair of work pants; I could, I could, I could...
I'm fucking killing myself over "If only...", and I don't know how to stop.
Money isn't God. It can't cure my ills, make me a better person, or find me a mate. I control my life, and the promise of an easy end is an untruth. Money may talk, but everything its says is a lie. I am trying so damned hard to reject the American Gospel of Currency. I don't need any savior, and if I did need one, I'd be a Christian, not a capitalist.
I said to someone (probably Tom) the other day that I feel trapped in a rat race of monstrous proportions. In March, I said, everything will be alright if I can make it to graduation. After graduation, I said, everything will be fine if I can make it to Fall Equinox. Now, I've done some math and I say, everything will be fine in January. Satisfaction keeps getting pushed back, like the wedding date of an indecisive couple, and I realize I've been doing this most of my life.
One could say that this is an unhealthy attitude to have-- that I keep expecting things to become magically better instead of enjoying and savoring what I have right now, right under my nose. Well... the optimist claims we live in the best of all possible worlds, and the pessimist fear this is true. I've always been slightly pessimistic, and to think that this is the best of all possible ways my life could be going makes me suicidal, and no one likes suicidal people, right?
I feel caught between the hammer and the anvil. I know that the process is probably good for me, but it still hurts like hell, and I feel like I have nothing to hold on to that might help dull the pain.
I am confronted once more with the lack of direction in my life-- a personal demon so familiar (intimate, even), so constant, and so soul-devouring I'm considering giving the damned thing a name. Dammit! I'm twenty-three years old; I should have some vague inkling of what I want to do with the rest of my life... but no, I have this smothering, suffocating, panic-inducing sense of I don't know.
(I don't know is almost an emotional state; that stomach-churning, headachey feeling that grips you when your boss points out a humongous fuck-up and asks how it happened, and you have the sneaking suspicion that it was probably something you had a hand in.)
It was the same irrational anxiety that Joy Meeker made me feel when she stared at me after I admitted that I couldn't imagine myself working for a double-digit-per-hour wage, or creating a opening in the job market for myself, or really doing anything besides working at Wal*Mart for the rest of my life. It creeps up the back of my throat, wraps a loving hand like a band of steel across my esophagus, and filters into my brain, and there I sit, possessed by this malignant spirit of fear and rage and helplessness and hopelessness, feeling slow and stupid and misunderstood and stubborn, gasping for air and words past my constricting throat, feeling my face burn with humiliation and my eyes aching with unshed tears.
I don't know.
I don't know if I want to teach, or do PR, or if I could afford to write freelance (even if I want to write freelance), or be a minister or counselor. I don't know if I want to edit for publications, or be a journalist, or a translator, or a novelist. I can't even think of anything else I could do; ah, look part of the problem: I don't know what my options even are. What on earth does one do with a BA in writing and an eventual MA in Theology and the Arts/M.Div? Write about religion? Well, yes, thank you, I cansay starving artist.
And, as much as I said about hating money and not wanting to kill myself for it, I do want to be able to afford to live.
I don't know what I want to do, or where I want to live-- I can't picture myself living in a real house, only an apartment, but is that really satisfactory?-- or where in what country-- stay in the States, move to Canada, the Netherlands, Japan, Australia, France, Egypt?-- if I want to live with someone for the rest of my life-- the idea makes me shudder, but I'm not so sure I want to be alone either-- or how far I want to pursue my formal education.
I have all the sense of direction of a leaf blown in the wind. Congratulations, I know nothing about myself.
Really, in some ways I wish someone would just some along and tell me what to do. That'd be awfully handy. Maybe I should get out my D&D dice and start rolling them for options. They did real well picking out my major for me.
I would like to say, I'm alright. Everything's cool. I'm just having a little freak-out.
But, I'm not alright. Everything's chaos. My little freak-outs have been accumulating over the course of a year, getting worse and worse. I just want some logic, some sense. I just want everything to be ok again, like they were last fall semester, before I had to worry about my capstone and graduating and what I was doing after.
Christ. I feel crazy.
My family consists of my grandparents, and they don't even really listen to me. Provided that I have a roof over my head and that I'm not starving, my life is of no real interest to them.
My friends... while I love you guys, you can't "fix" me or my problems. I don't-- can't-- expect that from you. You can only try to advise me (which is annoying most of the time) or help me push it aside for a little while.
And that leaves me, alone, trying to stop up all the leaks in my shark-chewed dingy and wondering what I'm doing wrong; none of the patches are holding.
(Later: Around 10 PM)
So, I'm sure you all want to hear about my job. I work in the bakery department of Rainbow foods, and I spend seven hours a day "bagging biscuits"-- as I like to say. It's not quite that simple, but it is, too. Mostly, I package, which means that I put all the buns, rolls, breads, pastries, pies, etc. in their appropriate bags and plastic containers with little promo stickers in the lower left corner. I also sometimes slice bread, which is a minor pain the ass and if I can avoid it I do; ice brownies and drizzle glaze on pastries and creme cakes; butter garlic bread; and tray up uncooked cookies. I've had to help out with set-up a few times, which is just putting the frozen shaped doughs on pans, putting the pans on racks, and putting the racks in the freezer. Sometimes, I am the "runner," which means that I print out labels, stick them on the packages, and fill the floor so that everything is stocked up. Most days, I also take care of the doughnut case, which mostly means that I go out there and pull all the doughnuts and fritters and muffins forward so that people can reach them, and I take the empty trays out-- basically, I prettify the case so that it looks nice and neat. If I work nights, I get to hose the floor down and use a huge squeegee to rake the water down the drain
Everyone hates doing the (doughtnut) case, and if I don't have to do it, someone-- Candi-- usually begs me to do it for her because she hates doing it. I don't mind, really... although, I note that any activity by the case-- such as me fixing it up-- attracts customers' attention and they feel the almost compulsive need to get doughnuts while I am trying straighten up. Customers turn one fifteen minute project into a thirty or forty minute affair that I actually end up doing three or four times.
I also note that wearing a deep blue Rainbow employee shirt signals to the customers that it is OK to not see me (much in the same way white plantation owners didn't see their black slaves) and that it is therefore my fault if they hit me with their shopping cart.
Thirdly, I note that people have a few standard jokes to make to bakery employees, particularly the employee trying to do the case. One is some variation on, "So, have you found a way to bake the calories out of this yet?" Um, no. Sorry. If you don't want calories, try not eating fried chocolate iced doughnuts. Duh. Another common comment is, "What's the tastiest/best thing out here today?" How the hell should I know what you'd think is tasty? If you're old enough to be shopping on your own and you don't even know your own taste in doughnuts, there's no help for you. Sorry, move along. Tryin' to work here.
Most of my coworkers are semi-decent people, although it's clear enough after four weeks that most of them have nothing in common with me. That's ok. We don't have violent disagreements, either, and I'm comfortable with neutral work-day pleasantries. Dayna's been working there for years and just finished training to be a nurse, so she hoping not to stay much longer; big bald Bubba is homophobic and apparently lives in a town that's permanent Wisconsin Mardi Gras; D'ete is 82 years old and still working; Dawn lives in a rougher neighborhood and raised her four sons on her own; Candi's a devoted Pentecostal who wants six children and plans to open an orphanage in Uganda... Lisa, Rita, Don, Sheri, Colette, Stacey, Linda.
Then there's Eric, who was hired the same time I was. At first I thought he was in my age bracket, but I was wrong. He's 33, and has apparently held more jobs than most of the rest of us combined. He's a complete slacker who periodically just leaves the bakery to go smoke, talk, or do whatever. I can't wait until he gets fired. Working with him is a pain in the ass, because he does everything so slowly and abandons everything to you for fifteen minutes out of every hour.
I may not want to work but, dammit, if I'm there I will; he doesn't share that philosophy, and it pisses me off that he's paid the same as me and I'm doing all the damn work.
Last week I was complimented on how well I'm doing by Lisa, Rita, Stacey, and Linda. I'm hoping this means that I'll get a raise as soon as I'm eligible.
Earlier when I was writing, Tom came home. He said hi and I said hi, and he said, you don't sound so happy, and I about took his head off.
I do that periodically to him, and I don't know if I feel that bad about it. I'd feel terrible and apologize if I snapped at Daysha like that, or almost anyone I know and would think that I could live with, but I don't with Tom.
I've got the not-so-paranoid idea that he's watching my mental health the same way I watch his, and I don't know if I feel completely comfortable confiding in him (for his watchfulness and for other reasons) the way I would with others. If Daysha wandered in and asked what was up, I looked a little out of it, I would tell her because I know she'd accept it even if she didn't understand and because she would know how to address my feelings subtly, without flat-out asking about the possibility of depression or trying to placate my anxieties. Maybe it's just the feminine touch that I respond to. Caring without analysis.
This strange isolation-that-isn't has made me feel very wolfy. Maybe it's just my heightened level of self-awareness...I find that when I am in a tightly woven social network, I spend less time thinking about myself (ripping myself into pieces) and more time pondering others and our strings of relationships. With others, I am more what they want-need-expect-- more facade and less substance, until the facade is the substance. That's not a bad thing at all.
When I'm alone, I have to shift between different facades (one for Tom, one for work, one for Annie and Marybeth when they were here) like shuffling through cards, while meanwhile getting dragged own and nearly drowned in the undercurrents of wild though and emotion that is me: an undertow that only crops up when I spend a lot of my time entertaining myself and talking to myself-- it's an El Nino year in Jess's soul; watch out for the erratic gulf stream current.
And it makes me feel very wolfy. I lay on Envy (that's my couch; don't ask), savoring the soft texture of my blanket and my smell on my pillows, and I stretch, feeling my muscles pull and release, the strength of my own body. Some portion of me-- the irrational animalistic voice that haunts edges of my consciousness-- insists that I am not aging and that I cannot die, and that I am beautiful beyond all measure, and that I am a tool of justice meant to shape the world to harmony. He insists that I am heir to the legacy of Anubis and the padfoots and the Gabriel Hounds; he is pleased by my decision to go to seminary, and I'm sure that it is his urging that makes me consider the ministry more and more. Est ecclesiae factus lupa hic sub dogmate tracius. (And behold, the wolf is made a priest eloquent with dogma.)
In the meantime, waiting for school to start, we-- I-- want simple things. I spend my time daydreaming and desiring fleshly pleasures: the taste of warm meat and cool milk in my mouth, time to nap undisturbed in the sunlight, a place to run on soft grass beneath the whispering trees lit with sylvanshine and moonlight, a strong body to nuzzle up against and drink in the scent of. That I cannot have these things makes the furred creature crawling around my head and heart irritable, which in turn makes me irritable. The wolf in me wants these things, and I want these things, and there is little disagreement about that. Just the same, the wolf is more...patient-- maybe because he thinks we cannot die. I say, now, and the wolf says, not yet; we can wait for what rewards we deserve; you cannot force fate.
Now, this all might sound crazy to you-- that I distinguish two parts of myself that are yet a unified whole, and that one part is female and human and that the other is male and a wolf, but I assure you that this is very normal (if mostly unspoken) for me, and that really, right now, the wolf seems the most sensible, calm, non-crazy part of me. He doesn't give a damn about my indecisiveness or anxiety about the future or lack of money...maybe he knows something I don't. (Or, more likely, he just doesn't care.)
___
Holy hell, I wrote six freakin' pages single-spaced just here, and probably another page, maybe page and a quarter on Livejournal. Well, I knew I needed to vent a little... *shakes head* Purging the poisons is more like it.
I wish I knew when there would be a sweat lodge, so that I could try to make arrangements to be in Ashland for it. And good, cleansing, purifying sweat would be just perfect for me right now, just what I need. For now, I guess I'll have to make due with exercising my fingers on the keyboard more regularly.
And yeah, I feel better today and the weather is gorgeous, I get paid tomorrow and we can go grocery shopping, and for now, once more, the world seems an ok place. My demons have be appeased by the offering of words and tears, and have quietly retreated. That's good enough for now, although I am already thinking about how to shut them up for good.
Right. I'm off to go online rat shopping.
We have a choice in this world: Go crazy or write.
-- a button I saw downtown.
I don't know what's going on in my head. I wrote on Livejournal earlier, and none of my feelings have changed, and everything I wrote came to pass almost exactly as I said. I could spill for days on the same subject and never feel tapped out; I am reminded of a passage in The Stand in which Harold reflects on how terrifying the unstoppable outpouring of hatred into his journal is, except for me it isn't hatred but despair. A flood of dismay and fear of the future and desperation and regret that I did not do more/savor more/plan better while at Northland and a feeling of sheer hopelessness at everything that's going wrong, all the work I have to do to catch up to where I want to be, and life in general that functions almost like a natural force-- gravity perverted, or the Heisenberg uncertainty principle multiplied by Murphy's Law.
It seems that all I ever write is anxiety and fear and depression. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of feeling it. I want to move on.
Seeing Tom's shrink once more seems like a good idea...until I think of the extra fifteen dollars every week/two weeks that would cost, not to mention the price of the meds they'd no doubt want to give me.
...
I just realized I said I'd rather save thirty dollars a month than make sure that I maintain my mental health. WTF. That's not right. That worries me more than the grip of the depression-- the depression's easier to fix.
Fucking money. I hate the goddamn stuff; it's the shining pool of water in the middle of the desert that you waste all of your energy running toward, only to collapse and die realizing that you killed yourself trying to reach an illusion.
If only I had more money, I could pay off Northland. If only I had more money, I could pay off United. If only I had more money, I could buy books and music. If only I had more money, I could have all the food I want to eat, all the time. If only I had more money, I could go to the gym and work out; I could see a shrink (I might not need a shrink!); I could do fun things, like go to clubs; I could have more than one pair of work pants; I could, I could, I could...
I'm fucking killing myself over "If only...", and I don't know how to stop.
Money isn't God. It can't cure my ills, make me a better person, or find me a mate. I control my life, and the promise of an easy end is an untruth. Money may talk, but everything its says is a lie. I am trying so damned hard to reject the American Gospel of Currency. I don't need any savior, and if I did need one, I'd be a Christian, not a capitalist.
I said to someone (probably Tom) the other day that I feel trapped in a rat race of monstrous proportions. In March, I said, everything will be alright if I can make it to graduation. After graduation, I said, everything will be fine if I can make it to Fall Equinox. Now, I've done some math and I say, everything will be fine in January. Satisfaction keeps getting pushed back, like the wedding date of an indecisive couple, and I realize I've been doing this most of my life.
One could say that this is an unhealthy attitude to have-- that I keep expecting things to become magically better instead of enjoying and savoring what I have right now, right under my nose. Well... the optimist claims we live in the best of all possible worlds, and the pessimist fear this is true. I've always been slightly pessimistic, and to think that this is the best of all possible ways my life could be going makes me suicidal, and no one likes suicidal people, right?
I feel caught between the hammer and the anvil. I know that the process is probably good for me, but it still hurts like hell, and I feel like I have nothing to hold on to that might help dull the pain.
I am confronted once more with the lack of direction in my life-- a personal demon so familiar (intimate, even), so constant, and so soul-devouring I'm considering giving the damned thing a name. Dammit! I'm twenty-three years old; I should have some vague inkling of what I want to do with the rest of my life... but no, I have this smothering, suffocating, panic-inducing sense of I don't know.
(I don't know is almost an emotional state; that stomach-churning, headachey feeling that grips you when your boss points out a humongous fuck-up and asks how it happened, and you have the sneaking suspicion that it was probably something you had a hand in.)
It was the same irrational anxiety that Joy Meeker made me feel when she stared at me after I admitted that I couldn't imagine myself working for a double-digit-per-hour wage, or creating a opening in the job market for myself, or really doing anything besides working at Wal*Mart for the rest of my life. It creeps up the back of my throat, wraps a loving hand like a band of steel across my esophagus, and filters into my brain, and there I sit, possessed by this malignant spirit of fear and rage and helplessness and hopelessness, feeling slow and stupid and misunderstood and stubborn, gasping for air and words past my constricting throat, feeling my face burn with humiliation and my eyes aching with unshed tears.
I don't know.
I don't know if I want to teach, or do PR, or if I could afford to write freelance (even if I want to write freelance), or be a minister or counselor. I don't know if I want to edit for publications, or be a journalist, or a translator, or a novelist. I can't even think of anything else I could do; ah, look part of the problem: I don't know what my options even are. What on earth does one do with a BA in writing and an eventual MA in Theology and the Arts/M.Div? Write about religion? Well, yes, thank you, I cansay starving artist.
And, as much as I said about hating money and not wanting to kill myself for it, I do want to be able to afford to live.
I don't know what I want to do, or where I want to live-- I can't picture myself living in a real house, only an apartment, but is that really satisfactory?-- or where in what country-- stay in the States, move to Canada, the Netherlands, Japan, Australia, France, Egypt?-- if I want to live with someone for the rest of my life-- the idea makes me shudder, but I'm not so sure I want to be alone either-- or how far I want to pursue my formal education.
I have all the sense of direction of a leaf blown in the wind. Congratulations, I know nothing about myself.
Really, in some ways I wish someone would just some along and tell me what to do. That'd be awfully handy. Maybe I should get out my D&D dice and start rolling them for options. They did real well picking out my major for me.
I would like to say, I'm alright. Everything's cool. I'm just having a little freak-out.
But, I'm not alright. Everything's chaos. My little freak-outs have been accumulating over the course of a year, getting worse and worse. I just want some logic, some sense. I just want everything to be ok again, like they were last fall semester, before I had to worry about my capstone and graduating and what I was doing after.
Christ. I feel crazy.
My family consists of my grandparents, and they don't even really listen to me. Provided that I have a roof over my head and that I'm not starving, my life is of no real interest to them.
My friends... while I love you guys, you can't "fix" me or my problems. I don't-- can't-- expect that from you. You can only try to advise me (which is annoying most of the time) or help me push it aside for a little while.
And that leaves me, alone, trying to stop up all the leaks in my shark-chewed dingy and wondering what I'm doing wrong; none of the patches are holding.
(Later: Around 10 PM)
So, I'm sure you all want to hear about my job. I work in the bakery department of Rainbow foods, and I spend seven hours a day "bagging biscuits"-- as I like to say. It's not quite that simple, but it is, too. Mostly, I package, which means that I put all the buns, rolls, breads, pastries, pies, etc. in their appropriate bags and plastic containers with little promo stickers in the lower left corner. I also sometimes slice bread, which is a minor pain the ass and if I can avoid it I do; ice brownies and drizzle glaze on pastries and creme cakes; butter garlic bread; and tray up uncooked cookies. I've had to help out with set-up a few times, which is just putting the frozen shaped doughs on pans, putting the pans on racks, and putting the racks in the freezer. Sometimes, I am the "runner," which means that I print out labels, stick them on the packages, and fill the floor so that everything is stocked up. Most days, I also take care of the doughnut case, which mostly means that I go out there and pull all the doughnuts and fritters and muffins forward so that people can reach them, and I take the empty trays out-- basically, I prettify the case so that it looks nice and neat. If I work nights, I get to hose the floor down and use a huge squeegee to rake the water down the drain
Everyone hates doing the (doughtnut) case, and if I don't have to do it, someone-- Candi-- usually begs me to do it for her because she hates doing it. I don't mind, really... although, I note that any activity by the case-- such as me fixing it up-- attracts customers' attention and they feel the almost compulsive need to get doughnuts while I am trying straighten up. Customers turn one fifteen minute project into a thirty or forty minute affair that I actually end up doing three or four times.
I also note that wearing a deep blue Rainbow employee shirt signals to the customers that it is OK to not see me (much in the same way white plantation owners didn't see their black slaves) and that it is therefore my fault if they hit me with their shopping cart.
Thirdly, I note that people have a few standard jokes to make to bakery employees, particularly the employee trying to do the case. One is some variation on, "So, have you found a way to bake the calories out of this yet?" Um, no. Sorry. If you don't want calories, try not eating fried chocolate iced doughnuts. Duh. Another common comment is, "What's the tastiest/best thing out here today?" How the hell should I know what you'd think is tasty? If you're old enough to be shopping on your own and you don't even know your own taste in doughnuts, there's no help for you. Sorry, move along. Tryin' to work here.
Most of my coworkers are semi-decent people, although it's clear enough after four weeks that most of them have nothing in common with me. That's ok. We don't have violent disagreements, either, and I'm comfortable with neutral work-day pleasantries. Dayna's been working there for years and just finished training to be a nurse, so she hoping not to stay much longer; big bald Bubba is homophobic and apparently lives in a town that's permanent Wisconsin Mardi Gras; D'ete is 82 years old and still working; Dawn lives in a rougher neighborhood and raised her four sons on her own; Candi's a devoted Pentecostal who wants six children and plans to open an orphanage in Uganda... Lisa, Rita, Don, Sheri, Colette, Stacey, Linda.
Then there's Eric, who was hired the same time I was. At first I thought he was in my age bracket, but I was wrong. He's 33, and has apparently held more jobs than most of the rest of us combined. He's a complete slacker who periodically just leaves the bakery to go smoke, talk, or do whatever. I can't wait until he gets fired. Working with him is a pain in the ass, because he does everything so slowly and abandons everything to you for fifteen minutes out of every hour.
I may not want to work but, dammit, if I'm there I will; he doesn't share that philosophy, and it pisses me off that he's paid the same as me and I'm doing all the damn work.
Last week I was complimented on how well I'm doing by Lisa, Rita, Stacey, and Linda. I'm hoping this means that I'll get a raise as soon as I'm eligible.
Earlier when I was writing, Tom came home. He said hi and I said hi, and he said, you don't sound so happy, and I about took his head off.
I do that periodically to him, and I don't know if I feel that bad about it. I'd feel terrible and apologize if I snapped at Daysha like that, or almost anyone I know and would think that I could live with, but I don't with Tom.
I've got the not-so-paranoid idea that he's watching my mental health the same way I watch his, and I don't know if I feel completely comfortable confiding in him (for his watchfulness and for other reasons) the way I would with others. If Daysha wandered in and asked what was up, I looked a little out of it, I would tell her because I know she'd accept it even if she didn't understand and because she would know how to address my feelings subtly, without flat-out asking about the possibility of depression or trying to placate my anxieties. Maybe it's just the feminine touch that I respond to. Caring without analysis.
This strange isolation-that-isn't has made me feel very wolfy. Maybe it's just my heightened level of self-awareness...I find that when I am in a tightly woven social network, I spend less time thinking about myself (ripping myself into pieces) and more time pondering others and our strings of relationships. With others, I am more what they want-need-expect-- more facade and less substance, until the facade is the substance. That's not a bad thing at all.
When I'm alone, I have to shift between different facades (one for Tom, one for work, one for Annie and Marybeth when they were here) like shuffling through cards, while meanwhile getting dragged own and nearly drowned in the undercurrents of wild though and emotion that is me: an undertow that only crops up when I spend a lot of my time entertaining myself and talking to myself-- it's an El Nino year in Jess's soul; watch out for the erratic gulf stream current.
And it makes me feel very wolfy. I lay on Envy (that's my couch; don't ask), savoring the soft texture of my blanket and my smell on my pillows, and I stretch, feeling my muscles pull and release, the strength of my own body. Some portion of me-- the irrational animalistic voice that haunts edges of my consciousness-- insists that I am not aging and that I cannot die, and that I am beautiful beyond all measure, and that I am a tool of justice meant to shape the world to harmony. He insists that I am heir to the legacy of Anubis and the padfoots and the Gabriel Hounds; he is pleased by my decision to go to seminary, and I'm sure that it is his urging that makes me consider the ministry more and more. Est ecclesiae factus lupa hic sub dogmate tracius. (And behold, the wolf is made a priest eloquent with dogma.)
In the meantime, waiting for school to start, we-- I-- want simple things. I spend my time daydreaming and desiring fleshly pleasures: the taste of warm meat and cool milk in my mouth, time to nap undisturbed in the sunlight, a place to run on soft grass beneath the whispering trees lit with sylvanshine and moonlight, a strong body to nuzzle up against and drink in the scent of. That I cannot have these things makes the furred creature crawling around my head and heart irritable, which in turn makes me irritable. The wolf in me wants these things, and I want these things, and there is little disagreement about that. Just the same, the wolf is more...patient-- maybe because he thinks we cannot die. I say, now, and the wolf says, not yet; we can wait for what rewards we deserve; you cannot force fate.
Now, this all might sound crazy to you-- that I distinguish two parts of myself that are yet a unified whole, and that one part is female and human and that the other is male and a wolf, but I assure you that this is very normal (if mostly unspoken) for me, and that really, right now, the wolf seems the most sensible, calm, non-crazy part of me. He doesn't give a damn about my indecisiveness or anxiety about the future or lack of money...maybe he knows something I don't. (Or, more likely, he just doesn't care.)
___
Holy hell, I wrote six freakin' pages single-spaced just here, and probably another page, maybe page and a quarter on Livejournal. Well, I knew I needed to vent a little... *shakes head* Purging the poisons is more like it.
I wish I knew when there would be a sweat lodge, so that I could try to make arrangements to be in Ashland for it. And good, cleansing, purifying sweat would be just perfect for me right now, just what I need. For now, I guess I'll have to make due with exercising my fingers on the keyboard more regularly.
And yeah, I feel better today and the weather is gorgeous, I get paid tomorrow and we can go grocery shopping, and for now, once more, the world seems an ok place. My demons have be appeased by the offering of words and tears, and have quietly retreated. That's good enough for now, although I am already thinking about how to shut them up for good.
Right. I'm off to go online rat shopping.
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Date: 2004-08-19 07:04 pm (UTC)I heard somewhere that pride isn't the worst cardinal sin -- despair is. I don't know much about all that stuff, but I agree with the sentiment it's expressing. I decided a while ago, after dealing with all this depression crap for way too damned long, that the only way I'm ever going to be able to deal with it is by myself, first and foremost. They can give me drugs, tell me to get more sleep, and make their pitiful attempts at therapy, but when it comes down to it, in the end it's always my own stubbornness that allows me to drag myself back out of the pit. I think, from talking to people, that it's this way for a lot of us. Drugs might give you a boost, but they can't make you appreciate what's good in your life; that's entirely up to you. I guess we each have to find our own little tricks to get through each week -- for some people, that's religion. For me, it's investing my energy in the little things. I'm no therapist, but my prescription would be a little time each week in a quiet place, trying to figure out what your guide rope is...maybe part of the problem is that with your displacement, you need a new one, and you just haven't figured it out yet?
Also, you could spend your whole life wishing you'd done more in any given situation, from your childhood onward. But seeing as how our conception of time is linear, and we've not any way to change the past, it seems kind of pointless. Why not let yourself off the hook? Why not take the time to appreciate *now*, so two or three years down the road, you're not just saying, "Damn! There's another life period I forgot to savor...because I was angsting over having not savored the previous one!"?
I kill myself over "if only", too. If only I were thin, I'd have more confidence and people would like me more. If only I were confident, I could get a better job. If only I had money, I could go to Japan and have some padding in my checking accounts. If only I were more responsible, I wouldn't screw up so much and cause myself trouble. If only I were a better person, if only I could part with material things, if only I studied harder...
Talk about a dead end road. Fuck money, fuck appearance, and fuck "if only". We do what we can and our lives are decided on that basis, not on the basis of possibility. What happens to you tomorrow doesn't depend on what you could've done today, it depends on what you did do today. So, none of us have much money right now. Well, if we had it, we'd spend it, and then we wouldn't have any money anymore. xD You'll be paid off at Northland eventually, and so will I, and that will be that. Don't stress it; you have a steady job. The details will take care of themselves.
Good christ, I sound like a fucking self-help manual. -_-; Somebody smack me already.
And the spell-checker has informed me that "angsting" isn't a word. WTF?
no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 07:24 pm (UTC)I could go on for another four pages, but it doesn't seem like there's much point. You're right, I can't fix your problems, and there's nothing else I can really do (especially since my advice just comes from my own abysmal experience and thus usually sucks -_-;)
So I'll keep it short. I read, I sympathize, and I wish to hell you didn't stress so much over the things you can't control, because you're too good of a person to be dragged down by the world's river of shit.
And there aren't enough of the benevolently bizarre as it is. >_<