I’m considering more and more that poets have a heart beat that sounds between the beats of the rest of us. I think those between-beats might hold the secret to happiness. Or iambic pentameter. Both of which could use improvement in my life. I’m trying to listen more.
Success was proclaimed on Saturday when I performed like a normal person. I worry that at my core, I’m pure trauma. That a combination of forced orgasm and disassociation before the age of five ruined me forever. Now that I’m seeing Kimberley again, I’m saying these thoughts sober, to a trained professional. (Thank the gods.) She’s pointed out that I’m depressed, and that at my core I’m a good person, and that I’m depressed. She keeps emphasising the depression. I think she does it so that I see depression as a temporary situation, as something within my realm of control. And so I start fighting back.
Last night I took something, or gave something, depending on your point of view. I’m conflicted and ate half a pint of ice cream about it. Answers have not yet been discovered. They may lie at the bottom of the container. I’ll do what I need to do. For science.
Lately I feel like I’m watching life happen before me, and I don’t understand why, or what is going on. Like it’s a movie in a language I took in high school. I keep thinking I’ve caught a word, but when I throw in, I get strange looks, and it’s apparent that I misunderstood the concept of the conversation. Thankfully I’m surrounded with kindness, and gentle people. That helps. I am good at finding kindness. I need to be better about thanking people for it. A girl I barely know was exceptionally wonderful to me on Saturday, and I need to write her a thank you note tomorrow.
Tomorrow is my last prep day before California. Zanny graduates college. I’m trying to network, see if I can’t do this business thing a bit. I’m hoping for good grandparent time, and to make new memories with my Ladybug. Plus, I might have to start my Maid of Honor duties, because Steph went and got engaged. I already warned her that I reserve the right to get all Kristen Wiig about it.
Against a red canvas, I did a new painting that I’m calling “Hoping for a Loose Planet”. Holding a brush makes me feel stronger. I’m so looking forward to Tina time, and JJ time, and Gary time in March.
I have to sleep, and I think Matt must’ve rolled over, because the snoring has ebbed. My arms are broken out from 24 hours in a house with two dogs, and I’m gonna turn into a giant reaction from all the dogs in my family’s homes in CA. I love my gerbil and her tiny dander. I need long sleeves so I don’t scratch in the night.
Even when it’s bad, and these days, it seems to feel that way a lot; but even when it’s bad, I’m happy. I’m safe. I’m loved. Like, really loved-more than I have earned, and more than I think in those low moments. I need nothing, and I want for damn little. The rest will shake out.