I just splashed myself with very hot chocolate while I was stirring it. Ouch.
But it has vanilla and cinnamon and rum in it, so I am hoping to no longer care, soon. (In part because I would like to be asleep soon.)
So, I go out, or interact with people in any way, and I am fine. Well, fine on the outside, but that is a kind of fine. Sometimes, depending who I’m with, I think in advance it would be nice to say something — but I don’t. And that’s fine, because there’s something healthy about faking happy, in that for a bit I really am happy during these fakes. But it’s not fine, in another way, because it’s fake, sort of.
The real problem is how exhausted I am after. Or maybe that’s the best part, I’m not sure. I sleep a lot, but I don’t end up thinking. I hate thinking. Sleeping has been deep, heavy — I don’t wake up rested. It feels like falling into something dark and deep and soft and cold.
I want to post more substantively, but all I get stuck with in my brain is hearing me tell myself how terrible a person I am and I’m thinking, maybe not a good idea to record for all posterity.
But I cannot decide, is it worse saying it, again and again, or keeping it in, and trying (and failing) to act like it’s not a problem, like everything’s fine, great, just fucking ducky.
It is of course not fine or great or even the slightest bit ducky.
But I’m not sure what the it is, that is (or in this case isn’t) okay. Or maybe I am sure and don’t want to accept it, or acknowledge it, or something it.
I’m sick, sure, and it’s real, I have a temperature which is a real, verifiable symptom. But it’s not, I think, really caused by a virus or bacterium (or a lot of them). It’s caused by the huge fucking morass of self-hatred that I am mired in again, again and always and I can’t do anything, and I hate myself for not doing things, and because I hate myself I am even less able to do anything, and what is the point of writing or caring or anything at all?
No point. None.
On the one hand, I am enjoying what I am doing this week, and will be sorry when it is over. On the other hand, when it is over I can go to sleep (drug myself into it, if need be). Then again, I read all about these people who live on 5 hours of sleep a night — why couldn’t I be one of them, and have extra time to procrastinate without feeling draggy and exhausted?
Life is really rather unfair.
And I had one of my creme eggs last night. I couldn’t find the caramel ones, which were what I was craving, but close enough.
I set my alarm for [horribly early time] this morning. But I have been so sleep deprived that I didn’t even hear it for an hour, and didn’t drag myself up for another hour after that. Luckily, though I had stuff I really wanted to get done during those two hours, I had nothing that I had to get done then. Now I cannot find my socks. I hate mornings.
When I wake up to a really bad dream, and I remember that it was realistic (though everything seems realistic in dreams) but not what the dream was, so I am anxious all morning.
I’ve decided what I love doing — and miss doing — is falling asleep on the sofa, in front of a fire. It is now just barely cold enough for a fire. It smells lovely.
Wow. I’ve been napping on and off all afternoon. Each time I fall asleep I figure, well, next time I’ll wake up and not be tired, but I’m still tired when I wake up. In fact, I’m about to lie down and sleep again.
I sometimes wish I knew how to be less private. (One could say “obsessively secretive”, but private sounds classier.) I was so proud to have told friends when I was considering something — I then went ahead and did it, and despite these friends still asking how things were going, I have either lied or hinted strongly that nothing at all had happened, just look away!
I don’t really know how to say things about me. Good things, bad ones — doesn’t matter.
I know I’ve been like this my whole life. I’m not sure what it is, really, I think the feeling that I shouldn’t be bothering other people with the boring details of my life. Except that doesn’t quite sound right. That I don’t want to see their initial reactions? That I don’t want to presume to actually talk to people about myself? That I don’t like myself so figure that no one could like me or like anything I say? None of these sound right.
This isn’t a secret — everyone who knows me knows I’m reserved. That I don’t tell people things about myself. It mostly irritates people, except those people who are much like me, in which case we’re both relieved, except when I have something I want to say but can’t, in which case I am insane.
That’s the problem, really. I don’t mind being reserved, but it pushes from normal reserved to crazy unable to talk about myself sometimes reserved. And sure, you’d think this blogging idea has helped, what with it being all about me talking about myself. Only it hasn’t, really: I still don’t blog all these things I would like to, that I think maybe I used to before it became like any other type of interaction. That was my problem with the pre-blogs I used to have — opendiary, offhand — where eventually I’d be in this community of relatively sane people and I started to hide my relatively not-sane. (This is why I liked usenet, where I could be part of a community of relatively not-sane people, all not-sane in the sameish ways. Also mailing lists. But eventually they lost something, too. Blogging is something I like more.) Another problem is that I don’t know who that I know in real life might be reading this.
So now I’m almost meta-talking about things — and it’s frustrating, and I feel like my sentences are tying themselves up in knots. But I can’t seem to simply say, this, this is what I’m thinking about and I’d like to talk about it, and trust that people who care for me are interested, and trust that people who read this blog are also interested, for whatever reasons. But I don’t, and I don’t even know why.
Also, my sleep schedule is totally fucked again. I did sleep really really well last night, which was lovely, so I guess tonight it’s off.