The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Break Stuff

Current mood: 'break things' angry.

No real reason for it, though. I just feel like I could smash or punch anything that gets in my way at the moment. The sound of my dry feet on the carpet, little barbed slivers of skin plucking the fibres like a clawed cat does. The sensation of the 'almost sneeze' that is right there, right there, until it isn't. The tiny throbs of pain that come along when I imagine them in my side, the effects of a dissatisfied gall bladder. Even the words, gall and bladder, seem indecent and acerbic to me. I could only eat a sliver of the homemade pizza I made yesterday, the one she requested topped with black olives and chopped basil and a sauce of roasted tomatoes, garlic and fennel. It was delicious and I wanted more, but my body kept pulsing its warning sign 'Enter at your own risk'. I have stuff to do this weekend, I can't afford to be lying flat and wishing for a quick death. The tiny birthday cake was raspberry chocolate cheesecake, the richest and gooiest cake imaginable, and we were all struggling to finish our small slices. She had insisted on a birthday cake (It's my actual birthday, mom! I have to have candles, don't you know?), and we had rushed out to find something small and simple. Somehow we came across fudge spackle with a smattering of red berries. If I hadn't been concerned about my insides imploding, I might have enjoyed it.

I am angry at the carpet of gold leaves on the lawn because I just mowed and mulched them a few days ago in the hopes that we could see the actual grass this weekend. I am angry that I became incredibly nauseous yesterday before going out birthday shopping, thinking it was a food reaction, only to realize it was anxiety related. I'd had M. drive because I didn't think I could, and then we went out and I felt marginally better, and I knew it was my head that did it. Amazing how real all those feelings are, the oppressive nature of them which resemble a cold, a flu, and the liquidation of the innards. I couldn't shake the aftershocks all day and had to force myself to be jovial despite the fact that I felt like falling into bed in a fit of hysterics.

I am angry at everyone who, in the last forty-eight hours, has asked what I intend to do about a job. My stock answer has been 'I'm waiting to find something that suits me' or 'I've been applying to the local university but haven't a heard a thing yet'. Both answers are true, actually, but the thing I haven't been saying is that I'm terrified, I'm paralyzed at the mere notion of working. I am not lazy, I am just fearful. The last time I went back to work after a year off I went through months of emotional agony because the panic and anxiety had presented itself to me without warning. I have not been trying very hard to find employment because hiding feels better. I know it's a short-term thing, this temporary illusion of peace, but when you have spent the better part of eight years feeling helpless and weak, you'll take whatever strength you can from whatever brings it.

I am angry at myself. You need to get it together! You need to get a life! You need to be a better person!. I feel older now, like my body is refusing to indulge my bid for eternal youth. It used to be that I would watch people dancing and I'd think 'I could do that'. Last night, I watched a dance show on television and I thought 'There's no way in hell I could do that.' I found that depressing. I am not old, but I'm not as young as I used to be. Being angry about this makes no sense, but being angry at myself for wasting my younger years does. I didn't dance in front of people. I was often miserable in the corner. I let the best of my looks happen in a controlled environment, I let the sex happen only occasionally and mostly without imagination. I let my opportunities shrink under the weight of my fears, and I haven't found a way around it. I gave people the wrong impression of who I am, and now, I make no impression at all.

Tonight I speak with the therapist. I almost cancelled the other day, and then yesterday I realized that I need some encouragement. The people in my life never had the answers, and after so many years of hearing my woes, they're not interested in trying to find them. They have their own problems, and most of them can't understand what I'm feeling on a daily basis because they're burdened with their own issues. I don't know a perfect person. I'm hoping Jo will say something profound tonight, something which will make me sit up and shake off the invisible insects on my skin. I want the pressure to leave my gut, making me feel twenty pounds lighter. I want to enjoy the things that get me toward a goal, rather than hating them and fearing them. I sincerely want these things. I hate being in therapy because it feels indulgent, not to mention expensive, but I have made some progress over the years and for that I stay on. She gets it, she tells me how I feel and she's right. What frustrates her is that I am so resistant to change, like I unconsciously want to be this way. I'm not sure what I think about that.

I made a list of things to do before the birthday dinner this weekend. Seven of them coming, three of them wee people with destructive tendencies. I've been wanting to see them for so long that I forgot they come with a louring dustcloud of angst. Now, instead of looking forward to it, I am hurting from the fatigue that hasn't hit me yet. I know my sisters will be taking note of the cleanliness, the inventiveness of my decor, the effort put into the food. They say they don't care, but they do. We've known each other a long time.

And, without any surprise on my part, M. has all of his 'boat' stuff to accomplish in the next three days, which means that with his pinched nerve and his nautical obligations, he will be little or no help to me. This happens a lot, with him offering to help me but not being able to, or not being free to. I don't understand why he offers, or why he suddenly swoops in at the last minute willing to do anything I ask when it's all been done and my good humour has been spent. It used to be that I liked to do everything myself, but now that my body is reacting to a year of sedentary living, it is harder than it used to be. I used to be the kind of person who sort of went with the flow with these kinds of gatherings, but now the bar has been raised somehow, and I am scrambling to give a good jump. I haven't had any kind of sex in weeks (pinched nerve, going to bed too late, anger, disenchantment, too many pumpkin cookies, too busy, lack of interest...), and I'm feeling it. I'm not feeling the desire like I used to because all the big, black emotions have taken those hostage, but I am tense, and there's not rubber in these limbs.

'Break things' angry. Things could get messy.