Fantasies of sex with X helped oodles last night. Almost weary of my need for it today. Got to internalize anxiety SO MUCH LESS OMFG. Instead of it coming out in a gigantic clot. Do feel younger today than I have in ages. 

 Eaten, but fed? 

Nourished?

 A shift in thinking. I'm a grown-up. All adults of ever in one single room. Or out on that stormy island, exposed. We're all scared.

The doldrums must be the cost of the Lurid Energy.

 The sharp lighting in this hotel room, in this bathroom, is bringing me back to the red house. Maybe even the house in Ukaia. At nights I would be awake, and I would see the shadows. And I would see the geometric patterns in the wallpaper. It felt like I existed before I was meant to. Those lonely hours where I would picture a mouse in a brown room with lots of blocks. It was a neutral awakeness. It was hours between myself and the Seriousness. Godlessness. No one else awake; I would have to be aware for them.

Was it Mom's sorrow I felt? There was trepidation, not actual fear, not actual sadness.

It's the geometry I can't shake. That every night a certain light will bring back to me. It has to do with the void from which I came. A peopleless night.  With only dark forces out.

 In one of my pasts, I lived in a sunny Spanish village with a large monastery. It was around noon and abandoned. 

 Back and stomach jacked up again. Drama with the lockbox at the house. Need to let housekeeping into my room to vacuum and mop. I kinda want something vegetarian tonight. Collect dirty laundry. Scoop Lily's poop. This coffee is good out of a mug. Might lose weight taking less half and half, because it doesn't taste good with the hotel's coffee. Beds need to be changed. 

Is this rebuild gonna be finished?

 It's weird to feel alone and disconnected and claustrophobic in a building filled with people, isn't it. And, oh my God to be numb and untethered in a place awash with humans. 

 I was numb until I found religion. Now that it is lost to me again, I feel like the human I must have truly been all along.

 At Bard, lining up for something outside. Grace, whose arms had dark hair on them. I felt a little sorry for her, because the other girls would joke about it. I was jealous of her name, because I felt she must be elegant with that name.

And Allison and Elizabeth and Eileen at recess, climbing across yhe top of the long ladder monkeybars, so serious and adult and unknowable to me. With my skinned knees and apt but humble name and getting in trouble with the boys b3cause i forgot my comb on picture day. Hoarding the precious black comb they gave out to me. I don't remember happiness at that school. I would restlessly pace around at recess, waiting to be told to line up to go back inside. Daydreaming alone on the bleachers withmy book, praying to become smurfette with her raspy voice, longing for Dorothy's tornado to suck me up and set me down in a big green overcast field. The longing stronger than the loneliness.

 When you are alone you have less to protect

To nest

To close off

Your embrace can reach around more

It's not great for the ego

Although somehow I manage to get around that--it makes me aloof

I didn't have children. It came about organically. No, I would not have focused on them enough. Aunt Renee's family life may have contributed, I don't know. Her stillborns and miscarriages and live daughter who died. Dad's distant, uncaring parents. Their troubling experiences with parents who could not support them. Ironically, it must have roots. And Uncle V and Aunt A, unable to have children of their own, were generous to all their nieces and nephews and great nieces and nephews. So I've missed out, and maybe having that physical connection would have been kind to me. I had a sense I would be unable to give birth, but didn't really have any m3dical reason to support that...But it isn't selfish.

 Impressions from age 3 again. This interior lighting at night on granite tabletop. Or like age 7 Port Hueneme--the apartments, or the park or the barracks in the russet and pumpkin evening's start. The shadows (ghosts) thrown up blue-violet on the stone fences. I'm feeling sedate right now. Not good, not bad. Expectant? Lone. Feeling judged but not lonely. Don't know I'm being judged or anything...

 Fluorescent lighting is my enemy. Bleeding heavily as I am is tiring. Being solo is wearing. Worries find me. I'm thirsty; parched. Cold and thin. Not physically.

 Looking at some illustration of children and the starry skies reminded me of kc. I'll have to call her. And then I thought of Jeff, and looked up his obit. I wanted to post on it but it felt contrived, it felt manipulative, it felt attention-seeking, it felt intrusive--like it would make his family wary...These cannot be likely outcomes, I know it's my inner critic torturing me. The truth, Jeff, is that you were bossy. Not mean, not manipulative. Just bossy. I thought maybe you would be my significant other. Your book collection was as broad and random as my own. You were a child, crazy with the desire for knowledge. Myself, also. We'd have been two kids forever learning. We'd get together for romance, but we'd sllep in separate rooms. We'd go to musicals and plays and try every cuisine available. The truth, Jeff, is that no one else felt like my exact equal. I know we'd have gone on different literary tangents, maybe only meeting at some scifi fantasy. Or hanging out with Neil Gaiman. I guess I also just don't actually think you left us when you died. It's not denial. I just know your soul is in more spaces now. Wisps in random sections of night sky. So I am not sad. 

 In the lobby. Cold. Waiting. Drinking ginger lemon tea that's kind of gross. Sad that on my X board there are pins whose poster I cannot follow--it's private.

I resemble Aunt Renee down to a flowered dark shirt. Her last photo that I know of. It actually kind of comforts me a bit, encourages me to hold on. Started my period today. Last n8ght as I was drifting off, I thought maybe it's full-on menopause.

 Well, I'm fat and pasty. But clean. Legs bloated. Apple cranberry tea steeping in paper cup in front of me. Out the dining room window in this hotel is a 2-storey crane. Lowering. C would be tickled. This limbo is my natural state. Inbetweens. I am an obligate betweener. Always though of myself as a bridge-gapper, so here I go.

Fridays are the ultimate inbetween. Airports, hotels, repairs and rebuilds.

 The gloom might be good for my psyche. The plaintive evening sun might make me too claustrophobic. Yearn too much. Need color in my gray face. Watching Handmaids Tale--too maybe real and ugly. The female teacher or whatever--just brings too much 3rd reich to mind.

 Figured it out: sex is simply too intensely good to be "fun." Too intense.

 Chance: to be born a female

To be caucasian

Descended from vikings and celts

To have health, and food, and drink, and sanitation, and the sun on my skin

And the wind on my hair and skin

And the rain on my hair and body and skin

And could choose to leave my house and walk or roll or drive down the street

At night, even

And a shelter and soft drinks and garbage collection services

 The thing about depression is that it's ugly. It's clumsy. It's having little impetus. It's looking lazy. Physically, I do a lot of nothing. Mentally, have overwhelmed myself; have had many (mis)adventures. The depression ebbs and flows throughout the day. It's not feeling capable or strong enough. It also may be less extreme than depicted in ads and on television and in movies. Then again, I've been diagnosed with anxiety, not depression...