Shattered again
A lot of things happened last week… I can’t get into details, in case somebody actually reads it. I can’t talk about it to anyone, I can’t write about it, I have to carry the burden all by myself.
Bottom line is that it’s been too much for me to process. I’m shattered into tiny pieces again. The pain is sometimes unbearable. And this is better than feeling nothing at all, at least I feel a little bit alive… and sometimes I just don’t feel anything I play the most emotional music I know and then it kills me piece by piece. I don’t know how to go on.
Catching the sun and a ghost dream
I spent three hours walking and sitting in a park today, catching the sun, recharging my inner battery. I realized, that there are some things that I enjoy, after all. Pink, kitschy flowers, a sunny day, a long walk.
But the feeling isn’t right, like I should be enjoying it more. Like I’m telling myself to enjoy the stuff, making myself actually do it.
I spend more energy to feel something than usually.
I also haven’t been remembering my dreams for a very long while now. I remember only one, which I had a few days ago.
It was about my grandma’s flat. It is not there anymore, because it belongs to the company that used to employ my grandfather, so all the stuff isn’t there anymore, and someone else has likely moved in.
In the dream, I was supposed to stay in the flat overnight, alone, after my grandma was already dead, but I really, really didn’t want to. The flat was haunted. The piano played by itself randomly, and the cooker was split in halves.
So I went to sleep at my friend’s (who lives in another town in reality), and I came to a haunted house, which had weeping white ghosts, or half ghosts, everywhere except the living room. The problem was that I was supposed to get from the living room to another part of the house (or rather a pretty big mansion), and I couldn’t get past the ghosts without touching them. And they were so sad and wanted to be touched and hugged very badly. They were going through the halls, rooms and the yard, all covered with a silvery dusty substance. And when a living person touched them, he or she changed into one of them – half undead, and became covered with the same substance. There was only one solution to that: one had to jump through the floor in one certain place in the house, into the living room through it’s ceiling, and became living again, only covered with ash – a regular ash. So getting anywhere from the living room was really difficult.
Feeling nothing
I look at my love… and I feel nothing. None of that usual warm and comforting feeling inside me. I look at my cats… I should have missed them when I was away… and I feel nothing. I think about my family… and I feel nothing.
Just empty sadness. Or sad emptiness. Whatever.
I’ve kind of broken my own heart. I wanted to feel something. And I felt something for a little while, now it’s just nothing.
I wonder if it’s temporary. Is it just because I’ve returned to normal life after four weeks and I need to adjust again? Or have I shut all the emotions and I have to start all over again? Do I have to spend another few months (years?) regaining them?
It was nice to feel something, even if it hurt. It gave me energy. It made me creative. I loved. Now – I don’t know. Maybe it’s just today. Or this week. Maybe I’ll be better tomorrow.
Humpty Dumpty
I usually have a good intuition for people. There are people whom I like instantly we meet, and there are ones that I resent without any reasonable cause.
I usually stick to the impression.
Except that one time, when I met that sociopath about twelve years ago, told my intuition to fuck off because I knew better, fell in love, got my heart broken repeatedly and got my already weak self esteem shattered into tiny pieces, that I’ve been trying to glue back together since then.
I know he is a sociopath, I know he manipulates people to feel better, because he likes it when people are emotionally dependant on him. I know I shouldn’t worry about anything he had said, but anyway I can’t get it out of my system. And it’s been so many years. He made me feel worthless, so I feel worthless. Even though I have a partner who says otherwise. Even though I’ve got friends who make me feel otherwise. They all make the little shattered pieces glue themselves back a little bit. But not enough, apparently. How do I get rid of this feeling? How do I get to like myself again?
Liquid cotton
I had thought that when I get things done at home and finally go to Dublin to my husband, I’d be calm, happy, productive and everything would be fine.
It’s not.
Instead I’m showing more and more signs of depression. Not the silly one, that you can treat with a movie and a chocolate bar. It’s the one that’s made of liquid black cotton.
I’m still doing stuff and I want to create things, which means it’s not a major breakdown, and everything will probably go back to normal when I find a job, but most of the day I sit in front of my computer and do stuff online, chat to people or mostly wait for my friend T to appear online; also sending some resumes and seeking job. And I lost my appetite.
My job search is quite chaotic; I can’t get myself to start a proper search, I just send a CV to anything that has a “graphic designer” and “Dublin” in it, I don’t even check all the requirements.
I like Dublin, it’s a very beautiful place really. I wish I liked going out alone, I’d spend more time outdoors, photographing maybe or just walking, but I get bored without company way too soon.
And everyone I love and like but one person is so far away. I miss them very much.
Synesthesia: yearning
A quick photoshop manipulation. I wish I had paints and canvas.
Emotional painting
When I had depression, I had a constant feeling of swimming blindly in a black liquid, as thick as cotton.
Since I experience synesthetic feelings, every emotion on this black and thick background had shape, colour, size, texture and opacity.
When I tried to paint this, I synthesized all shapes to basic figures, squares and rectangles mostly, but the rest of the features stayed as I had seen them in my head. First I would start a composition. My subconsciousness was looking for some kind of symmetry and order, so after a while the whole composition would change into a set of squares.
I would paint with emotions, with my brain only controlling technical stuff, and without a major involvment of my will. Sometimes I would spend half a year on one picture because the colour or the texture weren’t right. The effect was never exactly as I’d anticipate it. It was the only way I could express emotions, and nobody knew this until now (I told a friend).
And when most people see my paintings, they usually say that they’d paint something like this in half an hour and it’s not real art because it doesn’t show people or objects.
I stopped painting a few years ago, because the feedback I was getting was depressing. I’d like to start again, I think.
Sanity
I suspect having negative sanity since about two weeks ago. Two things actually happened that caused that, and only my big sense of humour and finding funny stuff in everything keeps me from massive depression and going berserk.
I hadn’t spoken with my mother for more than a week before yesterday. It was one of the most quiet weeks ever. She had phoned me last week only to create more panic, and to inform me that my cats will die in a plane.
Since I’m panicked enough already and the relocation stuff has been occupying 100% of my time and thoughts, with my sanity already hanging on a thread, you can see how this wasn’t the kind of information I needed to hear right then, so I ended the call and cried for half an hour. At least I found out I can cry again. Sort of.
Anyway, she felt offended. Big time. And haven’t called me for over a week. Instead my father came over and went on how I treat my mother badly and now she’s unhappy and also that I won’t be able to do anything without help (sanity faded slightly).
The second thing was another phonecall from a so-called friend, who needed some sympathy, empathy or whatever, because he had a big unsolvable problem: his girlfriend had to go away. For two days. For two fucking days.
I quietly reminded him how long I’ve been forced to live away from my love and since when I hadn’t seen him. I found no understanding, or at least no real understanding.
After this incident I decided not to invite this person to my farewell party. Neither I need to hear pointless rantings of selfish people, nor take care of them and be their “good aunt” to cry their problems to.
I’m going to Dublin in less than two weeks. I’m afraid, panicked, tired of packing stuff and throwing stuff out, tired of living alone, having to listen to what my mother has to say.
Fortunately my love is coming over this Friday and the party is on Saturday, so it’s peace and fun and positive sanity again before me. But until then I have to be strong and finish everything that I have started.
Quick update
I haven’t written anything for a while, I know. I wish I have. I’ve been very busy, very tired and quite lonely too.
My relations with my parents have improved a little bit since I moved out about two months ago. My flat is still in mess, but the whole renovating is over, I just have to clean the mess, sort the stuff and pack the boxes that I’ll need when I finally move to my love: clothes, books, blankets, pillows, all the stuff we have gathered during all those years.
I also have to throw out a lot, which is somewhat difficult, but makes me a little bit happier every time I actually make a decision to throw something out. As I had written before – cleaning the physical mess makes it easier to make my emotions less chaotic. Maybe when this is over I’ll finally be able to concentrate on real work, reading etc. If only I wasn’t so lazy, it’d be over already.
Yesterday a friend told me that he envied my husband; he says he never knew a love could be so strong in a person, and he wishes his wife would love him as much as I love my husband. I don’t know how he knew it, I don’t talk about these things at all, but it made me cry. And I haven’t cried in a very long time. Maybe my eyes will finally stop hurting from keeping the tears inside.
My Mother III
Apparently I don’t communicate, because I don’t say much. Everything needs a comment. Or two. Or ten. Or at least five minutes of a monologue.
I made a mistake of admitting to having drunk two beers tonight, and I immediately was informed of how beer is fattening and how many calories it contains. Ok, whatever, what’s your point of saying that? No point at all. So why did you say that? And then there was the monologue of how I treat her badly and she’s afraid to say anything because I might get upset, and how she is a victim (oh, she can play the victim very professionally) and how she cares and how I don’t care and how I don’t communicate at all, and how she communicates with the whole world, and everyone tolerates her except me (“because they’re not assertive enough, mom”), and how I only think of my own needs and I don’t at all think about my family’s needs.
Mom, I only said that I didn’t like what you said and how I don’t like such comments, and you go on about how I am selfish. Look where your monologue is heading.
Silence.
Offended expression.
Every time I would like to say something important to her, I feel that if I tried, only a long scream would come out. I feel like screaming, very loudly and for quite a while. So I don’t say anything important. When I sometimes force myself to, She Feels Offended.
