I can feel that the ibuprofen has kicked in. I still hurt, but the pain is coming from much further away.

 Not sure why, but when I catch a glimpse of one of those clear, vinyl, decorated bags from my childhood in the 70s, I get the shivers. My first instinct is joy: that's where Mom kept my toys when we went out. The emotion following is overwhelming. An intense wave of powerlessness. 

I've looked into myself as deeply as I could, and don't believe there was a specific harm that happened to me in those early years. I must be associating it with a wave of grief that was drowning my mother. The rawness of her sorrow--it was uncontainable. She had lost her sister, and, to this day, a handful of years since Mom passed, I don't think she recovered. 

What makes one person so much more harmed by sorrow than another person? I wish I had an answer.

 I feel guilty saying this, but I really don't understand love. As humans, everything we do is conditional, opportunistic. That's hw we survive, right? Am I a sociopath that I feel that love is a protective projection?

But I mean, sometimes I'll feel absolute warmth coming from no ulterior motives, and that is "love." 

And my best friend in the world is genuine in her compassion and feelings and love, and I feel that it is unconditional. 

So it's back to: my love is conditional.

 Eating an ice cream sandwich to stave off the hunger growls. Started suffering around 4ish. Stomach so irate. Epuise. Knives and stoppage and digestive tract as hard as clay. The breathing comes and goes. Lordie if I loved you a little.. Sophomore year barbaric. Hyperbaric. God you dont know The loneliness its own holiness. Tenderness of ink, tired stoic eyes A heart, a loaded heart. A muscle, thumping pumping muscle so full of life on its own One final heartbeat, who knows which number

My lungs seek gas exchange. They long to be full of air, not fluid. They plead, send out hopeful antennae. Sensitive as roaches'.

A heart. The coeur y corazon of things. Der Hertz.

The lonesomeness. The longingliness. The search for night. The search for the Dark. The moon coldly terrorizing me. How I am her.

 Revisiting depression. It's not wanting to be labeled as depressed, because maybe I'm laying it on too thick. Maybe I'm self-pitying, maybe I'm trying to get too much sympathy. Yeah, maybe I am. Because I'm down and lonely, and sympathy would feel fucking good. So should I be angry instead? Yes. A bit of righteous anger. Not rage or vengeance, just the beautifuk burn of purifying motivating anger. Sparkling like a gem. 

Ok, I do see why anxiety is my actual diagnosis. But when do i say enough, i gotta feel afraid and do what i need to do in spite of it. Or better, when do i not experience such absolute terror?  When do i not let the fear be my excuse for everything?

 Being charmed is such a small, wonderful sensation. The intricate metalwork of the Eiffel Tower, some March snowflakes drifting down on me from an upper storey. It was too crowded, the elevators congested and taking forever. The postcards with cats while I never spied a single feline in the 3 weeks I was there. But the Tower was enchanting. So glad I set up that tour before I arrived. I would not have been patient enough for those outrageous lines. 

The moment of being charmed is so intimate.  It cannot be expected.

 What am I on about?! Trixie is an absolutely miniature cat. Maybe she's a runt? Her eyes are saucers and the grey ticked parts of her short coat are exquisite. She's very curious. She absolutely adores Christopher. Lily is definitely on the defensive.

I'm angry because I'm hungry, but when I go to eat it's just so unpleasant on my tastebuds. My legs are ready to move. Like really move and walk. And dance?

I guess anger is what I must express in art. Or passion. Sometimes I don't feel the difference.

Hope. Literal dry throat thirst. Possibilities.

 New Year's Eve was great, although I had the runs. That supermoist chicken and green chile tamale was way too spicy for me. Yesterday was okay. Started poorly, but Willow came over and I cooked a hamburger for myself and did not have the runs. K made her squash gratin and later, apple butter. It's very sweet, but tasted exactly like the Holidays. Also watched a roast of 2024, which gave me my needed dose of snark. Think I got K hooked on Workin Moms...

 So many of my frustrations are because I need to know why.

 What does depression look like? Guilt and repeating poor choices. Letting imperfection reign victorious. Imperfection is the very truth; perfection is a longing only. Dirty feet. Not wanting to sweep though the floor is crumby again. Pissing K off because finishing stuff is anathema to me. The dregs.

 Dear Chloe:

The Truth. It's color in free form. Laughter. Always laughter. Cold carbonation. Songs, deep sorrowful and dreamy. La lune. Les chats. Italiano. Chocolate. Men with sleepy eyes.

 When night sneaks up on me and doesn't drag out the dusk's fading, that's merciful.

 Just one day as a child when you were conscious, and suddenly aware there were shows you liked, that you were an entity, that you had a history, a past. You had memories, thoughts and feelings you could retain; they wouldn't drift out of your reach any longer. You had permanence. It felt like eternity but you were only 3. Each 12 months of your existence actually millennia.

 Late start to day. Got heavy bag of household dirty linens out of room. Cat was out for a while, and I let her in. T talked to me last night about court matters. Wish I could explain my freeze responses better. Especially when I'm not even aware I'm doing it till afterwards. It's muzzy out. Front door open, 1 curtain drawn. Need to eat more, but my leftover carne asada fries just ain't doin' it.  Ignoring A is brutal, but for my psyche I've pulled it off. 

 K put a bunch of the broken down boxes outside. It's warm, but I have the front door open for my sanity. The strip is overgrown; the small barbecue is in front of it after the sea of oversized, wrecked boxes. The ice in my hibiscus tea is gone. What a delight, to have hibiscus tea, though.

I do not want to be alone/I have to. 

K's friend stopped by to pick up the boxes K had out. I startled her through the screen door saying hi.

 I remember the sheer beautiful escapism as I perused the grainy-covered quality paperbacks in the history and the microbiology sections of Borders when my shift was over. To my consumer's soul, it was paradise.

 Am fatigued. Lily is confused. Sniffing everything. Some company stopped by about solar today. Our trash bin must be picked up an additional day this week.

 Always on the cusp. Always. Almost done watching The Decameron. Ready to go outside and play. And walk and stand. Feel hale and hearty. Not be so overheated. Where did I run to? Haunted. The hotels were wearing. I can't be broken. I have Tasks. The Cusp this time could actually be the cusp.

 Have worn out looking for the old the established

 Look, I'm not trying to be ungrateful. And for it to be thrown in my face every time I let a concern slip just seems mechant. I'm maneuvering the shit thrown at me in the most truthful way I can. I'm not perfect. Quit expecting it of me. This loneliness is real. I'm not making it up. I'm sorry that I'm suffering so much. I know I ain't the only one. I know a lot of it's cerebral. I know that there are humans going through depths of sorrow that are unfathomable to me. You want me to let you know I'm in pain, but then you twist it so that I feel I must hide it again. I'm not comparing our pain. Mine is not superior or inferior or false. I'm expressing it, maybe even trying to set it free. I'm wallowing. I'm aware of that and attempting not to. I wasn't raised with coping mechanisms. I have to come up with them on my own. So quit fcking judging me for it. Quit telling me to be kind to myself and then coming after me with pitchforks. I'm tired of the whiplash.