Guzzled sangria on an empty stomach. I feel amazing and fucking awful. Eating my emergency walnuts to stop the stomach pain. But how nice to fear a little less.

Things to ask my therapist:

Why do I keep doing things that tweak my back?

Why can't I clear the table, shower, or go outside? What's stopping me?

Why do I not communicate, and then feel bad no one wants to reach out to me? Why won't I ask for help?

Why do people describe sex as "fun"? It's delightful and involved, but necessary. It's a need, not a desire. "Fun" is a roller coaster or a game of tag or an inky pen flowing smoothly, or a comedian, or Uno. Sex is filling. It turns into a body-leaving experience. It is not "fun." It's where my body feels the bliss that is usually reserved for my mind. And the mind drifts away.

 New Year's Eve. The fireworks are starting early, and I'm good with that. Lily is scrunched against my legs. It was overcast and holidayish earlier. Rewatched episodes of my Guilty Pleasure for the 12th time? T went somewhere; K is in her room. Feel very all alone. These weird evening sorrows (so like my childhood thoughts)--what to say about them? They are a source of comfort to me. Would company help me anyway?

 State of flux, on the cusp, going thru some personal rite of passage. Half a century alive in human form. In a human's body. My body. That's a milestone. Same age as hip hop. Comical, that.

But, right?!? Need to decide on my Path. Is it cats or violet and periwinkel oil pastels or is it X or is it chauvin--a letter to him in prison--or is it Food or is it collage or is it pharmacy or is it library or is it Shoah or is it film or plays or is it Memoirs (although all I can report are impressions and not many external to my Psyche) or is it to sit and ponder in the Darkness or is it to witness dawn's approach or is it to love and admire art on Pinterest or is it to portray people with paint or pencil or chalk or oil pastels?

 I would very much like a cappuccino right now. In a thick white cappuccino mug.

 I've been reading Rollof Thunder Hear My Cry, and last night that Echo and the Bunnymen song, so that may have dredged my emotions. 

It's crazy how 1986-1989 seemed like decades to me. Three crazy fuckin' years. Puberty will mess with your mind. Hell, 1988 to 1989 was a blitzkrieg. In the world, but also personally. 

 It's winter, just after Christmas. I feel I am headed into it. It's still impending.

The dark wilderness

 Sex hunger

Food hunger

Sad song hunger

Crush hunger

Sleep hunger

Water hunger

Flying hunger

I am aware of E. at all times.

Calmite.

 Okay, so another song too much for my little soul. Goddamn it, I forgot what darkness has been in me since 6th grade. Thought it didn't show up till 8th grade. Jesus. I was an alto in choir and we'd show up for practice before school started. Sometimes it would still be dark out. I did like choir. Still have my little gold pin somewhere. Was it hormones that dented my mind? Dad left the military and came back home to stay. My eldest brother went off to college. Mom, my younger sister, and other brother still lived with us at home, so why do I remember being alone? That's when sad music possessed me. It was exquisite? The longing, so piercing. I get tears now just thinking of how the pining for that town in Oregon took my breath away. Gave me goosebumps. Not even my crushes could make me feel quite the same way. And that night camping with the Girl Scouts when, in my tent, I realized I wouldn't find anyone who would look at the stars the way I do. In the beautiful charcoal-navy sky.

 Wish I could be a more grateful person. I'm privileged, and don't handle difficulties well. Or change. Or being told to calm down. And I keep bottling my stress up until the wrong mild thing sets me off. Even when I try to keep aware of how I'm feeling. Somehow I just overlook all the tiny things that bother me. Could really use some love about now.

 Just acknowledge the Darkness. Ache in my shoulders. Thirst. The dehumidifier for the leak has taken all my saliva. More water. Even my nightmare involved being parched. Played with Japonesque watercolors tonight. The richness and flow is satisying. Very sensuous. The yellow-black is probably the most pleasing. Such saturation.

 The bathroom leak is being noisily sucked up. The noise is making me claustrophobic. Have a slight headache. I'm depressed. Is the Sertralene helping? So thirsty. My dry skin is flaking everywhere. If I feel this displaced from something this mild, can't even start to understand how refugees must feel. Writing seems to help.

 Numb again today. Lost, overwhelmed. Fine. Hungry, jittery, self-conscious. Upheaval. Can't use my restroom for days. This year, man. That Place, Manny, Violet, the Rat, the toilet. The estate, Christina.  

Saturday

 Eek. Blood pressure taking a hit. Emergency plumber had to be called. Water leaking all over my bathroom. K is fixing the toilet leak, and the handle broke off the water main? The one in the bathroom. I'm buggin.

Hunger

 I think about food a lot. Right now the fantasy is eggs, steak and hashbrowns. Possibly anemic again. Buccaneers is a captivating series. Was a little taken aback by the modernity of the attitudes vs the period costumes. But I'm invested in it. Reminds me of regency Harlequins. 

I'm lonely right now. Leg caused some grief earlier. Damp, hungry, horny. Cat asleep behind me atop chair. Has been there at least 3 hours. Remind me to hydrate. Blackberry cobbler also sounds amazing. Used oil pastels earlier. Finances. Graceland on Hulu. I want a beer. A bloody mary. Let me guess: my period?

 It's 4:30am. Sleep hours are reversed. Watching The Buccaneers on apple. Heat is on, as well as the chair's heat. Remembering those days on base when my brothers and I fought for the furnace. Dad's Big Bang poster hung up near it on the wall. The sounds of the metal vents. The dusty warm smell.

Graveyard Shift

 About to start my period? Don't know. Subdued and a little victimized. Not in a terrible way. Feel waifish. Dealt mentally with a micron of my issues. Still not fully embracing worries, but not actively shirking them. A bit too obsessed with X. I mean, he's hot, right? But a character in a show. If it weren't to the exclusion of other thoughts...

I am a Pinterest girl. X has 2 boards. 

Fff

 I'm not that Rebel. Not that fiery hellcat redhead. Not small and mighty. Not fearless. Not argumentative and fighting the status quo. Not brave. I'm moving tentatively, which is also not me. I'm a sparrow, but colorful. I have wings and will spread them. I may be all the weak, watery-eyed side characters. The dull masses. But I will always matter. (How many of us are "I"?) How many of you here on earth now are also me? Long past the age of seven, aware that existence doesn't center on me. But all this Energy is pinpointed in me, primed to be seen through Chloe's eyes. To slant the view to be from my perception. My facet. My acute speck of infinitesimal understanding. One compound segment of the Eye. These lone evening hours: 10 epiphanies per second. Ok, I've put off the dishes long enough...

Lemon soda

 Haven't had a lemon soda for about a month. Not disappointed. My Depression is real. I could fight it, but haven't been. But maybe it's Depression's heavy carpet. Without the sadness (or am I too numb to it) it feels like this is a facade. A lot of fear, covered by a flurry of manic inspiration, enrobed in a dull fondant of ennui. Toska, really. Not the benignity of Depression.

No se

 I like that being hidden and anonymous is possible even while journaling. X makes me want to have sex. Like actively need it. He's okay to look at, but it's his character's swagger that fills me with lust. 

Whoever makes women ashamed of their lust needs a nice kick in the groin. With ice skates.

Moth

 Lily was looking around for Violet again tonight. Sometimes I know Violet's skinny frame is elegantly, gingerly tiptoeing through the den on her way to Katherine's room. 

It's dark out. It's cold. I am reading an absorbing novel, so that when I watch the musical I will know what's going on.  I'd like hot coffee (the romance of pouring it into a mug) but it's already too late. Maybe decaf. Or maybe tea. 

I'm so thirsty. For beverage and warmth and physicality. What I've been doing, a depressed person would do. Sleeping all day, 12 hours at a time, binge-tving, binge-eating, not showering, and holing up in the house. Skipping days so I don't have to make phone calls. Because business hours are over. Also picking my scalp. Also using my wheelchair when I am perfectly capable of walking. Cocooning. Time to open wings. And flutter, if I am too afraid to fly just yet. 

An Evening

 I'm not sick. Achy, though. New stylus from Katherine. I feel a new way.  Pain. What a thing. Trace of my earlier cold. Did I take my ibupfofen. Time o' month, maybe. Why don't I love me enough. What is it to love. This night a continuation of the nighttimes in my childhood. That girl saw a bleak winter field. Stars bright from being in the cold. Alone. That never ended.Looking for that deep sorrow buried in a barn. What barn. But ive never stopped being conscious of the barn. At the same time it's beautiful. All alone, but the Universe knew me. I know aspects of It. What it is I look for in that abandoned warehouse. Those abandoned places.

50

 I inhabit a heavy and small body. My lungs work. The signals my brain sends to my leg are interrupted somehow. The problem doesn't seem to be my brain itself, maybe a sensitive nerve down the path. I have no faith in the neurologist I've seen. He has said my ankle reflexes aren't fully normal, and that I definitely did suffer rhabdolmyolysis. And my anxiety-induced stiffness did nothing to help. But he's dismissive and lacks passion.