I survived the buttstuff and am back to post Day 10 just before midnight. Sweet biscuits. I made it! (Btw, so far, mostly good news and at least one answer so far, but awaiting biopsy/lab results to know more.)
Today’s theme is another I wish I could skip, but I’m gonna go through with it. Let’s get right to it, shall we?
Day 10: A Song That Makes You Sad
As with many of the others, it’s difficult to narrow down just one. Don’t we all have those cathartic sad playlists? Those that we have to be very careful about when and how often we listen to? I haven’t listened to mine in a long time, because I’ve been on the mend in a lot of ways. And the “sad/down” playlists are risky for the mental state. But I can withstand a few, as long as I don’t dwell too long in it.
Let’s start with this one. Sophia’s “Resisting”. There was a brief time in my life when I listened to this entire album basically on loop. Seemingly endlessly. In the midst of heartache and depression and hopelessness. This was beautiful and cathartic. Sad and uplifting all at once.
From here, it gets undeniably sad. The Frames (and much of Glen Hansard’s work) have a remarkable ability to relate. To pain. To sadness. To hope. To hopes dashed. This is just one of many examples.
I’m treading into dangerous territory here. But let’s keep going, because these are beautiful songs. Sad, though they may be. They’re just so...reminiscent. Such as Damien Rice’s “9 Crimes”.
Another Damien Rice, because fuck.
Fiona Apple certainly belongs here as well.
The entire score Clint Mansell did for The Fountain is something I listen to on occasion. In the dark of night, when I’m in desperate need to feel. To internally emote. To release. To sink and rise and float away on a current of emotion. I can’t even describe what this album does to me. But what I can say is that is is important. Deeply so. This is my favorite.
I’m stopping myself here, before I get too far. Music has that ability, you know? To underscore a mood we’re already in…or to throw a switch and derail your train onto an entirely different track. I’m rapidly approaching that intersection and must proceed with caution.
What songs make you sad? Or underpin your sadness?
As in, I can’t write this. Not in the way I set out to. Not in a full purging of details, getting it all out in a neat and tidy summing up.
It’s fucking me up in a few ways. So while I’ve come to feel obligated to tell the tale (by my own doing, I mean), I have to allow myself to not. Bits and pieces may appear, randomly peppered in here and there. Or hell, maybe I’ll change my mind and resume the full telling.
But for now, I need to put it aside because it has become a roadblock for me here. And it’s not putting me in a good mental space, spending so much time dedicated to telling it or thinking on how to tell it or what to tell or how in depth to delve or is it even fucking safe to do so.
Hi. I’ll write more soon. About something unrelated, most likely.
Last night, I finished a show called “13 Reasons Why.” Now that it’s all said and done, I’m frankly not sure I should have watched it. And I’m not sure how I feel about it. Did I like it? Not really. Did I hate it? Nah. Too harsh. Did I need to watch it? Not sure. Is it topically important? Yes. Absofuckinglutely. Was said topic handled properly? Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. On the fence here.
Before I begin: If you or someone you know needs help, please reach out. Right now. Right. Fucking. Now. You aren’t alone, and there are people who are fucking eager to help you. Don’t wanna talk to anybody? How about texting? Some awesome people who realize phone calls can be scary have set up a texting crisis line. Go. You’ve got nothing to lose if you’re at that point.
High school girl commits suicide. She leaves thirteen cassette tapes (well, thirteen sides) explaining why she chose to end her life, hence the title. The show follows one particular student as he listens to the tapes, which leads to at least half of the show being presented as flashbacks to when the girl – Hannah Baker – was still alive.
13 Reasons Why I’m on the Fence (spoilers ahead):
The blame game. No sense in saving this one for last; it needs to be addressed right away. Hannah (and therefore the show) strongly asserts that there are thirteen people responsible for Hannah taking her own life. Not Hannah, the girl who sat down in the bathtub and opened her wrists. Not Hannah, the girl who baited her guidance counselor into failing her. Not Hannah, the girl whose mom asked more than once if anything was wrong. The reason I’m on the fence? Well, that’s easy: it’s realistic. It’s extremely realistic for troubled people, regardless of age and stage in the whole hormones and puberty thing, to seek out people to blame. I think it’s more realistic for us to blame ourselves, but we do point fingers. If only that motherfucker hadn’t… If only she’d listen… If only he’d stay… If only they would pay attention… If only… They all hate me… They’re better off without me… Why do they all treat me like shit?… It’s so. Fucking. Realistic. The problem lies in the fact that teenagers and other people who are in highly susceptible states of mind are watching this show (based off of a book that I didn’t know existed until the end of the show), and they’re thinking…yeah! Fuck those guys! I’ll show them! So where do we draw the line between depicting realistic scenarios and being socially responsible? Do we only show one type of suicidal narrative? Do we avoid it altogether? Do we allow the conversation to occur in all forms? Was the show irresponsible? Or was it honest? Or…was it both? I’d say both. It was honest to the narrative of some and irresponsible to all. Does that mean it should be censored? See what I mean? Fence-rider.
Dangerous implications that are never addressed. There are things shown or implied in the show that never get proper treatment. For example, toward the end, the boy who plays a photographer / stalker is shown stockpiling weapons in a secret compartment at the bottom of a clothing trunk. This is never addressed, but the implications are clear. There isn’t one gun. There are several. And the picture the mind paints in this post-Columbine society is one of an impending black trench coat and a troubled, bullier / bullied boy, going out in a “blaze of glory” in the middle of school, taking out as many students and teachers as he can before he aims the muzzle at his own head. Again, these are conversations that need to be had. The problem is that we are shown one or two images that imply these things, but there is never any discussion about it. It’s merely displayed there and left to you to understand that this is yet another terrible type of fallout from bullying and exploitation.
Soft-core pornification of rape. Two girls in the show are raped: Hannah and her one-time best friend, Jess. As with the previous two points I broached, I’ll also say that this is yet another topic that needs to be addressed. It’s all too often swept under the rug, hidden away as something shameful and secret. So I’m okay with the fact that the show discussed rape, the rape mentality and the conflicted emotions felt by victims and witnesses. What I’m not okay with is the way one scene in particular was drawn out. When it gets to Hannah’s rape, it seemed like the scene would never end. Were producers trying to convey the endlessness of victims’ experiences? Were they trying to make viewers feel as much discomfort as possible without showing rape-porn? Perhaps. And I understand that – we need to be uncomfortable. We need to be confronted with shit we try to hide from; otherwise, it will never be addressed. But the soft lighting? The endless slapping sounds as he took her from behind? The close-up camera zoom on Hannah’s breasts as the perpetrator fondled her and slipped her bra down? Or the zoom on her ass as he pulled her panties down? Was that really fucking necessary? “Hey guys, I need you to get a better shot of her ass! Wait, hang on, there’s not enough tit in this scene! If we’re gonna show a real rape, we need to show WHY THE FUCKING RAPIST WANTED HER?!?!?!” What. The. Fuck. And how long are we supposed to sit there while we watch her body rocking back and forth, back and forth, as she’s being raped? I sincerely think this was mishandled. And that isn’t me saying we shouldn’t talk about rape. We should.
Okay so I’m not done with the blame bit. How many times are we told that Clay, the main character who listens to Hannah’s tapes, is responsible for Hannah’s death? Sometimes he’s told, “We’re all responsible.” Okay, fair enough. Fine. But right before Clay begins his own tape, he asks Tony something like, “Did I kill Hannah Baker?” And Tony tells him that yes, he did kill Hannah Baker. A few fucking minutes into the tape, Hannah says YOU SHOULDN’T BE ON THESE TAPES, CLAY, BECAUSE WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN US WAS MY FAULT. And yet, the narrative through the rest of the damn show is that yes, Clay did kill Hannah Baker. Is being shy, nervous around girls and somewhat introverted a crime? He didn’t kill Hannah Baker; he only hurt her by his inaction sometimes. Yes, he could have stood up for her a couple times. But fucking hell, is there zero room for “mistake” in life? Not according to this show. You so much as breathe around someone who dies the next day, and it’s your fault. Yeah, we need to have discussions about our roles in each others’ lives. About how we treat each other. About compassion and empathy. But you fucking killed Hannah Baker because you left the room AFTER SHE TOLD YOU TO LIKE A HALF-DOZEN TIMES? Piss right off.
The treatment of authority figures. Throughout the show, the students / kids are taught a myriad of lessons. Whether they stick or not isn’t my issue – it’s realistic that most people aren’t gonna fucking change. And it adds to the true story of how horribly we treat each other, and how we all need to do a gut-check. The kids are shown discussing these matters, though. They at least get chances at redemption, telling the viewers that they deserve another chance. The authority figures? Hmm. Let’s see. Over the course of the show, we watch as Hannah’s perception of her parents grows more and more negative, though I will say they are treated the kindest. Them and Clay’s dad (though he is a bit oblivious, but not criminally so). (Oh, and by the way, of fucking course the victim’s parents – victims themselves – are painted with a soft brush. God forbid they have flaws aside from extremely common arguments over finances. No, let’s save the flaws for everyone else in the show – every last one of them are murderers! Until they kill themselves, then Hannah’s parents morph into villains, too.) Alex’s dad, the police officer, has no redeeming qualities. He’s proud that his sons fight people. He let’s them break the law, regularly. He’s constantly looking for a way to escape responsibility, for himself and his boys. Is this realistic? Yeah, for a lot of people it is. But he’s not even a three-dimensional character. There’s no depth to him and no opportunity for reflection or growth. He’s a stock stereotype. (Oh, and by the way? Alex shoots himself in the head at the end of the show. With one of his dad’s guns. AND WE DON’T TALK ABOUT IT AT ALL.) Justin’s mom and her boyfriend, another set of stock stereotypes: abusive, neglectful drug addicts. Yes, these people exist. But in the show – all the kids get a chance to own up to shit they did and change their ways. Repeatedly, in fact. “Oh you won’t be reasonable in this episode? Well, you’ll get a chance IN EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THE REMAINING TWELVE EPISODES! Your parents? Man, fuck them. Adults suck.” The guidance counselor? He never fully accepts his responsibility and his role in his students’ lives. Realistic for a lot of people, fine. But again, young and susceptible viewers are validated, “SEE! THIS is EXACTLY why I won’t go see Mr. Smith. Guidance Counselors are a fucking joke. AND SO ARE ALMOST ALL ADULTS IN THE HISTORY OF EVER.” There are a lot of shitty adults. Because, all too often, shitty kids turn into shitty adults. But a show that claims to want to help the suicide epidemic is making it worse by telling kids that adults are useless.
How peaceful they made the act of suicide look. When it came time for Hannah’s suicide scene in the denouement? It shows the whole scene set-up, from start…to finish. And it fucking wrecked me. That part, I’m not gonna take umbrage with. It should have wrecked me. People need to be wrecked to take this shit seriously. It’s fucking serious, and people are in danger. The problem I have is that, once Hannah slits her wrists (which it shows – explicitly), there’s no real demonstration of pain. Maybe there is no pain – maybe she’s too numb and in a state of shock to feel it or express it. But you know what’s fucked up? How g-damn peaceful they made it look. I even thought, “Damn. Maybe…I mean, look how easy that was… WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, STEPHANIE.” I knew right then they’d fucked that part up. She shivered. Hannah shivered. She fucking shivered, then closed her eyes, slid down a little, and peacefully went to sleep while the bathwater turned a warm shade of pink. Yes, suicide is a private thing. Probably often done in silence. And there’s a complete sense of being abjectly alone. But I think creators of a show like this had a responsibility to make it not look like you’re TAKING A FUCKING NAP IN THE BATHTUB. Look. Just LOOK at how EASY it is: a momentary wince and then a nice little nap. <—THAT is irresponsible.
You know what? I’ve just talked myself out of almost any redeeming quality about this show. It’s irresponsible and dangerous. Hell, I knew what it was about going in – and my reaction when it was over? “I should not have watched that show.” I even said that same thing to two people: “I should not have watched that show. I really shouldn’t have watched it.” I was a fucking wreck. And I’m a grown-ass woman with at least like, one or two coping mechanisms. And it fucked me up at the end. I can’t imagine what it’s doing to kids. No, I won’t go so far as to say: ban it. Not gonna do it. But is the show irresponsible? Fucking right it is.
P.S. I’m fine now, by the way. At least from the effects of the show. I’m more concerned with the impact it’s having on kids – or adults who aren’t currently strong enough to fight.
The awesome Rob at The V-Pub invited me to do a song-a-day challenge thingy. And since I love songs. And thingies. I decided to participate. Plus, it gives me extra incentive to actually show up every day for five days straight. What! To think I once posted every day for like forty days. Who was THAT person?
Anyhoodles. I love – and agree with – what Rob says about music: “It’s something that speaks to individuals in different ways. It’s universal and paradoxically personal.” Yes. That. Yes.
So. Yes. Rules. How I love thee, rules. (Did you hear that? I just snorted.)
Post a song a day for five consecutive days. (Oh shit.)
Post what the lyrics mean to you. (Optional. Sweet. I like options. And crawfish. Damnit, I miss crawfish. Oops.)
Post the name of the song and video. (Not optional. Come on, dudes. This is supposed to be the easy part.)
Nominate 1 or 2 bloggers each day of the challenge. (Fuck.)
Slow Cheetah – Red Hot Chili Peppers
Yep. Gotta start off with my current favorite Peppers song. (Peppers favorites shift for me. But right now, it’s Slow Cheetah.) Have a listen and take a look at the lyrics, and you’ll see why.
Waking up dead inside of my head Will never never do there is no med No medicine to take
I’ve had a chance to be insane Asylum from the falling rain I’ve had a chance to break
It’s so bad it’s got to be good Mysterious girl misunderstood
Dressed like a wedding cake
Any other day and I might play
A funeral march for Bonnie Brae
Why try and run away
Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it’s on today
Slow cheetah come
It’s so euphoric
No matter what they say
I know a girl
She worked in a store She knew not what Her life was for She barely knew her name
They tried to tell her
She would never be
As happy as the girl
In the magazine
She bought it with her pay
Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it’s on today
Slow cheetah come
It’s so euphoric
No matter what they say
Everyone has So much to say They talk talk talk Their lives away Don’t even hesitate
Walking on down To the burial ground It’s a very old dance With a merry old sound Looks like it’s on today
Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it’s on today
Slow cheetah come
It’s so euphoric
No matter what they say
Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it’s on today
Slow cheetah come
It’s so euphoric
No matter what they say
I’ve added emphasis to the lyrics that resonate the most with me and, therefore, mean the most and hit me the hardest.
I’m not one to look up song meanings. I’d rather listen. Feel. Soak. On my own. I don’t want someone telling me what the takeaway is. Not even the singer/songwriter. Music is so deeply personal, and lyrics are so often the poetry of my soul.
I don’t need someone to tell me that Slow Cheetah is about being: lost, adrift, alone, aimless, pointless, worthless. And fucking numb and over it all. It’s…euphoric. Right? No matter what they say. And I sure as hell don’t need someone telling me that not what it’s about. Even if it really isn’t. After all…everyone has so much to say, they talk talk talk their lives away. But this song…is deeply personal to me. And for me, it has become about survival in spite of myself, no matter what they say.
Because this is one of the many songs I attribute to saving my life. Even on days when I barely knew my name, this and countless other songs spoke me in the dark. Made me feel seen. Understood. Part of something – even a dark something – and therefore less alone. Not alone. I’ve had a chance to break, so I took that chance – even against my will – and I’m still. Fucking. Here. And no matter what the fucking predatory depression says or does…I’m not alone.
The ‘net runs rampant with posts about how 2016 is the most terrible year ever to be had. No, not the years of the Bubonic Plague outbreaks. Not the years of the Holocaust. Not the years of Genghis Khan’s hordes. It was 2016: the year we lost certain celebrities, the year of yet more unfortunate film adaptations and remakes, and then the year Trump became President Elect of the United States. Tragic? The latter, for sure. The former happens all the time. It’s called life. Sucks, yeah. Any loss of life is tragic for the individual and his families. But come on. The loss of my dear Leonard Cohen and isn’t enough for me to call 2016 the worst year on record.
Fine, I glossed over the Trump bit. That was intentional. I don’t wanna talk politics, but if you wanna know how I feel about him, specifically – I’ll just say – fuck that guy. And not in a fun – I wanna do you all night long kinda way. But with like a mile long, herpes-infested cucumber-up-the-ass kinda way. That opinion has nothing to do with politics, by the way. (Okay, that’s not 100% true.) But it tends to spring forth from a woman when a man tries to grab her by the pussy because he’s a slimy-ass rich celebrity who thinks he can get away with it, because he can. And is my little STD-ridden cucumber fantasy hypocritical? Yes, I’m aware. That is all.
So. That’s the Internet’s 2016. My 2016 was far less focused on celebrities, and actually far less focused on Trump that my little rantlet makes it sound. A couple of Very Important People encouraged me about how well I’d done this past year, not to mention all the encouragement I received here from the WordPress fam. But the thing is, the saying, “I’m my own worst critic” is an adage for a reason. Upon reflection, I’m thinking they were right. It was messy (isn’t life supposed to be?), but I did make progress. Sure I want it to happen faster, cleaner…Right. Fucking. Now. But that’s not how shit goes down. In my typical random fashion, here’s some shit that did go down in my 2016.
Divorce – Yep. Let’s get that one out of the way. Surprised? “Regulars” probably are. Thing is, I was separated for somewhere between 4 and 5 years. But he refused divorce, and I didn’t pursue legal channels to enforce it. So I was stuck. In so many ways, I was stuck. 2016 was the year I finally asserted myself, broke the toxic patterns that had ended our marriage and stood up for myself. It took roughly five years, but it’s now official. Now…one never marries intending for things to go down that way. We’d been a couple since I was fifteen. But if things do go sour (and they did), it’s fucking toxic to be held in limbo for so long. With the support and urging of a couple of very strong and important friends, oh and some strong doses of anxiety meds, I finally asserted myself and ended that limbo.
Therapy – I finally caved and tried therapy, after at least twenty years of decrying it as a scam. I’ve tried talk therapy as well as meds, but with all that I had going on concurrently – in addition to limited financial means – I haven’t found the right combination yet. But. I do intend to try this out again. I’m still taking Lexapro, at least until my refills from Louisiana run out (soon), and I have a handful of Xanax left. But I haven’t been able to afford new doctors yet. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get that sorted soon. So 2016 was the year I finally really began addressing my mental health.
Masturdating and Social Interaction – Along with my therapy, I also pushed myself to move beyond my boundaries. At least a bit. I took myself out to a couple of movies (Deadpool, yeah! And something with Bill Murray, because Bill Murray!). I took myself to a concert. I took myself to a poetry slam (which I haven’t told y’all about!). I took myself to Happy Hour (more than once). And I even took coworkers up on invitations a few times. I mean, this chick drank IN PUBLIC. She did not dance. She did not karaoke. (How many times does she have to say HARD LIMIT for people to get it?) But how she laughed. Oh how she laughed. 2016 was the year Stephanie hid a little less.
Quitting a Toxic – But Solid – Job & Moving Across Country – For the town I lived in, I had it made at my job. Aside from Queen Bitch, that is. But the direction things were moving in the last month or so would have had me in a new department under a brand new director with a brand new title and brand new salary. Yeah. There was no pressure at all at work. They didn’t beg me to stay or make my decision increasingly harder and more panicky each and every day. No. Not a chance. (I hope your sarcasm detectors are on and working.) Point is: Stephanie took shittons of Xanax in the last month and especially in the last two weeks in Louisiana. I met with a brand new therapist on the proverbial eve of my departure, and after an extended session, he agreed with all of my decisions. Except: he disapproved of the job I intended to accept in Oregon. It would have sapped me of my all and left me wrung out and an even greater emotional danger to myself than I already was. In the end, I agreed with him (though I had a tough time with the decision), but that has me still unemployed at the moment. I have made the move, though, and I’ve been in the Greater Portland Area since September. Newsflash: I Fucking Love Oregon. And, as yet, I have no regrets. 2016 was the year I gambled everything, turned my back on “everything I’ve ever known,” and risked staid stability to chase a dream in spite of everyone breathing down my neck what a fool I was. And I’m damn fucking proud I did.
Dispensary – Fucking right. I visited a dispensary for the first time. I’m in Oregon, dudes. What did you expect? So yeah, I got a J and a lollipot. I still have half the j left. (I may have a piss test in my near future. Yeah. Even in Oregon.) And I’m totally having the lolli if I land the job. Or at least part of the lolli, in celebration. Hm. Or maybe the other half of the j. Oh yeah! Pretty sure I’m gonna smoke it up with someone over Skype. I’ll toke over here. He’ll toke over there. It’ll be neato. Except I’ll have to find somewhere to do it, because of my “roommates.” Yeah. Remind me to tell you about them. I’m in a…weird situation. But one I’m grateful for. It’s just…fucking weird and uncomfortable sometimes. A lot of times. Anyway. Yeah. Old Stephanie never would have been brave enough to just stroll into one of those places, even though I’d have smoked whatever my friends brought out of there. I don’t see why people still think it’s such a big fucking deal. I’ve been smoking pot since…11 or so and I turned out. I still wouldn’t have gone in there. 2016 Stephanie? Dispensary-bound!
There’s probably more shit. I mean, it was a whole fucking year. But I need to get my shit ready for tomorrow. I don’t have a real job yet, but I do have a little side gig in the afternoons. Tutoring some kids on algebra and science. It’s not much, but at least it’s something for now.
I don’t do resolutions, so I ain’t making promises about writing. But when I come back, I’ll maybe tell ya about Oregon stuff. Oh! Oh! And I’ll leave you with a lovely piccy taken right here in Oregon, this very day.
She awoke with a gasp, bolting upright in bed. Gathering the soft fabric of her nightgown about her neck, she clutched tightly and frantically searched the room.
No. The room was devoid of life, aside from herself. And Darkness.
She tried this every night, to no avail. Every time she woke from these furtive but desperate attempts, only Darkness and her own haggard panting greeted her.
They were partners in an arranged marriage. One she didn’t want to be in, but Darkness was insistently insidious.
The visit to the weathered old woman was a pointless endeavor. Give up. That’s what the old woman had said. “You’ll find no light there, no redemption. This isn’t hope; it’s desperation. Stop now before it’s too late.”
If the old crone wouldn’t help her, she’d go it alone.
From that day forth, she spent every day in bed. Flat on her back, hands clasped over her heart, she sank into a trance state.
Through the void, she reached, fingers grasping at the viscous mass of nothing. But they found no purchase; what she sought simply wasn’t there.
For days she was like this, until finally. Finally, something happened.
She stood at the foot of the bed looking down upon her own sleeping form. The brief flutter of hope immediately crushed under the weight of what had actually happened.
She had peered too long into the darkness, mining its depths for some glimmer of light. Only now did she realize she had faced the wrong way.
Of course! There is no light in Darkness. Darkness is the very absence of light, cast aside by it. It was all consuming of those who plumbed its depths for answers to futile wishes.
And now? Now?
She was Darkness.
By the time the reclusive woman was found some months later, her corporeal form had withered into a corpse.
Only Darkness remained. Insistent. Insidious. Lifeless.
So. Great progress in some ways. None at all in others. Let’s get to it, so I can get it off my chest. Kind of like the pain in the everything bra that hits the deck as soon as I get home every day. I can feel it there, driving me crazy, all fucking day. So maybe I can get some mental shit off my chest, and I’ll feel a bit of relief? Doubtful, but let’s try it anyway.
The house goes on the market tomorrow morning. Sign in the yard, MLS, Zillow, the whole nine. Well. She said Zillow usually takes three to five days to pick new listings up. But after that, it will be available for any google search. Sweet biscuits.
She said houses are selling fast in my neighborhood, but agreed with me that having only two bedrooms and one bathroom will make it harder than most to sell. That’s fine – I anticipated that from the moment I bought the place.
She offered me a full percent less on her commission than I anticipated, so I didn’t even negotiate that. I was gonna try to knock her down half a percent, but she did way better than that on her own.
She also named the exact list price I was going to suggest (I’ve been researching comps for weeks). We both know it probably won’t go for that, but it gives me room to negotiate without fearing dropping below my bottom line.
So tonight, I do the final touches: tucking stuff away in closets, mopping everything one more time, water the plants and put the hose away, clearing the back deck, tidying the storage room, etc. Then I’m gonna take a much needed superlong soak in the tub and hit the hay.
She’s meeting me at the house at 9:00 AM in the morning. She said we’ll do all the paperwork then, photograph and video everything, then go ahead and toss the sign up. Weeeeeeeee. Here we go!
Fucking sucks. Still no feedback from slowass corporate about the jobs I applied to in hopes of staying with my current company.
Still nothing but dead-ends on the couple hundred apps I’ve done thus far in my search. (That isn’t an exaggeration. If anything, it’s an underaggeration. Yeah. That’s a word now. Suck it.) Now and then, I get serious nibbles or even bites. A couple times, I’ve all but been offered jobs (talking only about ones that would pay enough to live there)…only for them to fall through at the last minute.
There’s time yet, as the house is only now being listed. But…I’m still nervous as fuck. I’m not sure what the hell I’m going to do if the house sells and I’m still stuck down here with the same shitty prospects. Do I gamble it all and drive my ass up there? Hoping employers will be far more amenable since I’m in situ? (And risk losing it ALL in the process?) Or do I sign a fucking six month lease on an apartment here and keep wiling my life away, waiting for change.
For now, I shall focus on the sale of the house, continue applying my ass off and bide my time.
Mental Health Stuff
I still wake up wishing I hadn’t. I struggle mightily with things I want and think I need, but feel they’re far from my grasp. Perhaps eternally so.
I’ve had some mopey days. I’ve had some weepy days. I’ve had times I’ve had to hide in the bathroom at work, so I could cry it out and compose myself.
I still think I’m a pointless waste of space, an inconsequential non-blip on the universe’s radar. I still wonder what the fuck the point of it all is.
I fight hard not to dwell on that, because I don’t have the answers. I know I have it better than so many do, but it doesn’t really help to know that. It doesn’t ease the pain in my soul. God, I sound like such a whiny little bitch. Yet, it’s how I feel.
I’m fighting. I’m not giving up. I’m not giving in. I’m not. But. Motherfuck, some days it all feels so fucking impossible.
So. Good things ahead. New things ahead. Things I’m nervous about. And things I’m still struggling with.
Overall. Trending upward. The trick is to keep it that way.
Okay, not really. But I really don’t wanna go to work tomorrow. That’s usually the case, especially on Sunday nights, but damnit. The feeling is especially strong tonight.
Could it be because I spent Friday marathoning Game of Thrones to get caught up, so that day and night flew by? Perhaps. (Speaking of GOT, the season finale was tonight. Hot damn was it a good one.)
Could it be because I spent Saturday (all day and most of the night) wallowing in bed, feeling sorry for my self, crying off and on? Perhaps.
Could it be because I spent most of the day today working on house stuff to get it ready for market? Plus laundry and dishes and assorted other chores? Perhaps.
Could it be because I’m feeling like a lazy bastard and am dreading Archie coming back? (She’s been off for a week for health reasons.) Perhaps.
I’d actually like to curl up in bed with a good book right now (Murakami, I’m looking at you), and read into the wee dawn hours. Yes, I said read. I think my brain is ready to read again. We shall see!
When the weekend passes by in a daze, the last thing I want to do is go to work. I feel like I haven’t had a weekend at all – do you know what I mean? I should have gone to the park (I’m sorry, you know who.). I should have gotten my bike out (uhm, again, sorry). I should have done a lot of shit. But I was in an epic wallowing funk and couldn’t snap out of it. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Semantics. I can identify some of the causes of my sadness, but I know the things I can identify aren’t enough to cause just how deep down I got. I suppose it’s just another depressive episode. S’alright. It’ll pass. They always do.
Anyway! Anyway! Guess what!
A week from tomorrow, I’m calling a realtor to finafuckingly list the house. It’s taken seven damn forevers, because I’m not the sole owner of the house. But now things are finally in place, and the place will be all tidied up and clear of almost every stitch of furniture. (Trust me, the place looks better with no furniture than staged up with what I had. Shit I’ve had since I was 17. So yeah.)
Yay! I’ll be one big step closer to moving on.
I’m also gonna spend any spare time I get at work this week on applying to new opportunities. Something may yet come through with my current employer, but I’ve put all my eggs in that basket for about a month and a half now. I need to start casting my net again, see if I can catch something other than more disappointment and headaches. Something has to give at some point.
Annnnd. That is all. I have a bit more tidying to do in the bedroom before I can actually relax enough to sleep in here. I hope y’all had a kickass weekend!
P.S. If you watch Game of Thrones, I’d love to hear your reactions from the finale, or hell the season at all. Thinking of doing a post, but I’m not sure I have enough to say for an entire post. We shall see! Without being spoilery yet, I will just say….I fucking knew it about Jon! Called it!
I’ve been off all psychiatric drugs for a while now – at least six weeks. I can’t handle the side-effects or expense anymore – and, frankly, they hadn’t really changed anything. I continued riding (fairly) high and optimistic for a while. It’s easy to begin thinking there won’t be another downswing (I had even more of them on the drugs.). But there has been. There is. These last few days have been hell.
I recognize that a lot of it is circumstantial. (Caution, whining ahead.)
I’ve come off an intense anxiety-fest over what could be wrong with my body. (Never thought in the history of ever that I’d be happy to have ulcers.) Coming off shit like that strangely and oftentimes leads to low moods for me.
I found a dead sparrow in my bedroom when I got home. It’s a complete fucking mystery. It can’t have flown in as I was leaving this morning…because I enclose the cats in the bedroom and kitchen areas before ever opening the front door. It’s not a mystery as to how it died…but how it ended up in the bedroom? Beats the hell outta me. I cried for a good half hour after finding it this evening. I also thought weird shit that I don’t even believe in – like what kind of fucked up omen is this?
My mortgage payment spiked up to $300 over what it’s always been. Because of recent historic floods, FEMA remapped my neighborhood. Fuckers. So my mortgage company kindly bought a policy for me, without consulting me. I’m not in a big fancypants house – it’s quite a bit smaller than average (that’s what she said). So I don’t understand why it’s costing so much. Needless to say, that shit wasn’t in my budget…and I’m kinda fucked if I don’t get out from under this thing soon.
The job situation has stalled out. I haven’t heard anything on the ones I applied to with my company, so I’m tossing resumes at new shit again. Got a tentative job offer today…for Colorado Springs. Dude. That’s nowhere near where I’m looking to go. I don’t want to reconsider my PNW. May have to at some point, unless I want to settle for any ole thing and continue living paycheck to paycheck. (Not something I can afford to do anymore – nor should I have to.)
These fucking headaches are the pits, and my usual go-to OTC stuff is not an option anymore. Small price to pay for not having cancer, doncha think? Can’t make a doc appointment yet, as their office is closed for vacation.
Other personal shit that is taking more of a toll on me than I realized, I think.
What else can I whine about? I don’t know. That’s more than enough for now. Suffice it to say I’ve been a tearful, moody mess for the last couple days. A lot of it is circumstantial – which sucks, really, because resolutions are kinda far off. Either way, an actual human hug would be nice. Then again, so would winning the lottery, but we can’t have everything.
Anyway, sorry. I don’t even actually want to talk about any of this shit. At all. Just needed to vent, I suppose. Not giving up. Just having a shit time of it right now.