identity

|1o281o|

I have expressed my anticipation and excitement for a certain upcoming event so many times in other places that I had completely and utterly spaced this humble little Tumblr blog.

Logan is coming to Colorado in November.
Logan is.  Coming to Colorado.  In November.

Truth be told,  I can hardly fathom it.  Wrapping my head around the epic times we’re bound to have is just not doable.  I know my daydreams of our encounter are paltry and dim in comparison to what reality will bring;  still,  I cannot help but allow my mind to wander to thinking of him.  (I don’t try to help it;  I just let my mind do what it wants,  now.  :P)

And,  since my mind has been doing so much wandering,  it’s seemingly at a great loss for actual words of expression.  I suppose I haven’t thesaurus’ed enough gladsome terms over the years to be able to have a vocabulary fit for describing impassioned and elated moods.  I’m at a loss when it comes to anything other than pure feeling.

But it is such a good feeling,  the confounding of the tongue, and pleasant warm fuzz in the mental regions  (if you read that too fast,  it almost seems like I typed “genital regions” … heh);  and of all the impatience that grips me,  too,  because I have only to remember WHY I am impatient for it to cease really mattering.  I know we’re both restless and antsy as fuck about these remaining days;  however,  I LOVE this feeling.  I really do.  It’s a dichotomous sensation,  yes (because there is some hate in there,  too),  but—do you know how LONG it has been since I have had ANYONE cause me this much joy and anticipation?

Years.

It’s been so long that those ancient but similar feelings aren’t exactly valid anymore.  They were the anticipatory yearnings of a child.  They have no solid place in my heart today.  I have many different reasons for feeling as I do now,  and they aren’t so child-like.

Anyway,  so the past few days have been spent in just … a whirlwind.  If I’m not thinking about the upcoming date,  I am writing about it,  or I am doing something in preparation of it.  For instance,  we’ve cleared out the master bedroom;  I don’t know if we’re going to be able to get the toilet/shower in there to work,  but there’s a sink at least.  And it’s roomy.

I also bought an Xbox 36o and Rock Band 2 (I had been meaning to do this anywhere for awhile,  but this was the catalyst to get going on that).  It’s set up in the basement now.  The products were previously used,  so that was my excuse to try them out before Logan arrived.  I missed my RB character so much.  Probably because I attach him to me;  I feel like he’s an avatar-extension of myself,  basically.  xD  A pixelized mini-me.
 
So,  yes,  that stuff works.  Now let’s see if I can stand to leave it alone until he gets here.  -__-;  (NO SELF-DISCIPLINE.)

The kitten will be arriving in a few days,  too—so we’re going to get to pretty much enjoy her together.  She might be ready to come home before the 7th of November,  though.  And because I don’t want to go over to Mel’s and get stuck in any more rooms~ (long story),  I’m not going to put it off and live on kitten-visits alone.  Haha. 

I am a bit scared,  too,  in the back of my head.  I wonder if he’ll still enjoy me when we’re actually directly in front of each other.  I wonder if my habits or oddities will be too … habitual or odd.  And I just hope that we’ll get on well.  I am pretty certain we will,  though;  there’s no reason why we shouldn’t.  But still.  I wouldn’t be ME if I didn’t worry.

I’ll get over it.  

The car-ride might be a bit lengthy.  And it’s not too scenic coming back from Colo. Springs in comparison to some other drives,  but I am sure things will liven up once we actually get back to the house and have the chance to stretch our legs, set up,  tour the residence,  see the (still messy … ) gaming den,  see the garden (if there is still anything left of it by that time) eat something nom-able,  et cetera.

I guess I just have to realize that it is going to go FINE.  We both want to see one another.  We BOTH want this to happen.  We BOTH care about each other.

… And no matter how much I write,  I always feel like there is something more to say.  I could muse on scenarios involving us for quite some time.  I could describe how I feel about him and never really get anywhere.  I could try describing what my future might hold,  but even that is kept from me.

I’m living moment to moment,  because that’s essentially all my head will allow. I cannot look too far ahead of myself,  because I’m trapped in the very delicious and satisfying NOW.

And I’m not going to make progress by lengthening this.  I’ll try to refine my thoughts over the next few days.  I need to make a better blog about this whole thing.  About all of my thoughts and feelings (even though I did just get done writing that it’s futile);  I at least want them to be put down SOMEWHERE.  And this little niche blog seems to be the best location for that kind of content.

|1o211o|

I should really stop having expectations for anything in life.  Everything my over-active mind imagines ends up being so far from the truth that it’s not even worth it to analyze my fears in the first place,  practically.

The appointment went … all right.  I will not say that it was devoid of all difficulty.  I felt my voice catch in my throat so many times;  I am unused to speaking to another individual about that which causes me immense problems.  But I had to be candid.  At least it was short and sweet,  and I got out of that building,  walked a couple of blocks,  and sucked down a cigarette of self-grounding-goodness.

I have no one to whom I can really open up to about the ills of my disorders without them jumping to some hasty conclusion that I’m going to fling myself off of a bridge,  or something.  I’m certainly not.

I feel (and have felt) hopeless,  not precisely like doing myself in,  you know?  It is not quite the same,  although perhaps the execution seems remarkably similar.  But what is one to do when they know naught what else to do with themselves?

I just want to get all of that stuff over and done with.  I don’t want to see any more ~therapists~.

For now,  I hang on to various hopes that have made themselves apparent in my world:  reasons to be and to go forward that have surpassed the reasons that were sustaining me before;  reasons that might actually have some merit to them.  They aren’t flimsy like that with which I previously placated myself.

In other news,  I also feel the approach of something monumental.  I do not know if it is just my heart’s sick need to yearn,  or if I am really enveloped in something blindingly real.  How unfathomable it would be to have him here with me in Colorado,  even for a short while.  Or,  for a LONG while.

Because I don’t want to think about him disappearing like a wisp back to the other side of the country.  »

I don’t want to smother him with how (FUCKING EPICALLY) excited that would make me,  though;  that is,  to find out that he was actually heading out here.  But there is a part of me that just flutters at the very notion.  My chest thrums,  and I’m sure I’m dreaming. 

But I am not.  I am wide,  wide,  wide awake.  As awake as I have ever been.

I know we’ll probably discuss this between ourselves eventually,  but if he did make the final decision to come,  there would be some assistance available on this end,  to make the transition a bit easier.  I mean,  I couldn’t very well let him come out here and leave him hanging.  :3

The way things have escalated between us … I just … I don’t even.  If someone had told me that this was going to happen after the exchange of our first comment,  I would have told them they were kidding themselves.
But here we are.
And I am glad we are where we are.

I keep myself human for him.  And I am going to have no concrete expectations or fears.  Because they are always misguiding.
Can I do this on emotion alone?  Can I revive the aspect of me that used to do that?  Just feel?


Just feel. 

|1o191o|

That’s right,  Tumblr.  I am utilizing your site to complain about how Xanga is down.  I cannot check my inbox.  Or,  do surveys.
I suppose I could go over to Bzoink in the meanwhile.  But-but-but.  IT IS NOT THE SAME.

I am fretting about my appointment,  which is tomorrow.  I am more concerned about what comes after,  although the length of the thing itself is no laughing matter either.  (I know,  I am consistently vague about it,  but I really do not want to publicize the issues.  It is just not comfortable for me.  And I do not think the internet-world really needs to know what exactly is going on.)

I dislike when “big events” approach.  I feel oppressed before their arrival,  especially when they are seated at the verge of the horizon,  just waiting to descend upon me.  I feel like a rabbit under the gaze of a hawk.  I am unable to startle and bolt.  I can only sit with a sort of crazed insipidity;  a look of comical hopelessness and naivety upon my visage. 

I feel as though I cannot do anything until I get some things out of the way. They draw all of my energy and focus;  they make it practically impossible for anything else to completely captivate my pensive thinking sessions.  I am forever drawn back to that which is presently inescapable.

These dour moods,  though—I wish they would not blanket me the very moment when I awaken,  and swaddle me in their influences.  I do make valiant attempts at ~positivity~,  but,  sometimes,  even a specific and precise validation of myself makes me more glum than gladsome.

|1o181o|

The pressure of NaNo is encroaching upon me like an inscrutable darkness.  I am feeling my anticipation mounting;  routinely,  I am struck by a pang of nerves and self-doubt.  I know naught as to how my determination and perseverance will hold up against this monumental torture of a challenge.  Perhaps it is not as fell as I am construing it to be.  Maybe the routine of forced writing output will be something more to be appreciated than detested;  I might even begin to look forward to it,  or keep up the habit beyond the expiration of November.

It will essentially disgorge me in the midst of the holiday season.  I will meet with one fray after another.  Chaos.  It is a good thing I do virtually nothing to celebrate,  or that might be a bit problematic.

In some ways,  I feel that my life is rushing at me;  that I might be blindsided by something while I am trying to pay sufficient attention to some other passion or responsibility.  I am forever fearful of overlooking that which is unimaginably significant.  Kind of like what Logan and I were saying about subtitles on movies and such:  it is inconvenient to have to look away while they are scrolling,  especially because one missed line could mean the difference between grasping and losing the thread of the plot. 

I am concerned that I will miss something which will cause my fragile enclosure to unravel.

Everything is still so up-and-down.  My mind is seldom my own to utilize and flex as I please.  There are “entities” that comprise it that burden and blockade me;  they compartmentalize that which I would want out in the open,  and they air that which is supposed to stay private.

I still do not know what to say for myself.  Impulses overcome me.  I have no self control.

I stepped on the scale for the first time in almost a year,  and discovered that I weigh 91 pounds.
This is five pounds less than I weighed in the sixth grade. 
But my assumptions regarding where it sat were basically correct.  It has not budged. 

Even though I resist it,  I do find myself prone to desiring the emotional novocaine strict rationing of intake provides.  My form is ravaged as it is,  however.  I feel that I cannot take another round of abuse,  and I do not want to let it get to the point where my delusions are leading me,  as opposed to the other way around.

I am stable where I am at.  Tilting that precarious homeostasis is not what I want to do.  But,  often,  I am inclined to do that which is the least helpful.  Really,  I am my own worst enemy.  If only I would not be a drawback to myself.  I am constantly getting in the way of where my better sense wants to go.

Why better sense has not yet won out is a mystery.
But,  I am going to repeat my insanity (in action and in words) until I find a way out of its rather … convincing and persuasive … loop.

I do so hate that I feel I haven’t full control over myself.  It bothers me.  So much.  I want to be this certain way,  and I am unable to achieve it.  It would be less frustrating if it was a skill I wanted to acquire—like singing or photography.  With practice,  those abilities will progress.  But changing that which is intangible and unpredictable seems so difficult that I do not even know how to go about initiating the process. 

Anyway,  mom and I looked at some more photographs today.  I do not understand the typical aversion to having one’s childhood photos displayed.  I think I was an absolutely adorable little thing,  if I do say so myself.  I was in to making faces.  And my parents were good at catching me during exceptionally spastic and expressive moments.

I will admit that it causes dissonance within me to view my younger sibling in those images.  We were so close,  then.  Nigh inseparable.  And now it is as though he does not exist whatsoever in my reality.  He is a figment of my imagination.  He feels as though he is someone I made up in childhood;  an illusion of a playmate to fill the void.  But he was real.  And he is still real,  and still exists.  Our worlds do not touch,  though.  For when they do it is explosive.

I know everything changes,  eventually.  But there are some things that I wish would have stayed the same.

Making this scrapbook will probably stir up a lot of old pensive thoughts.  Like the shots from Warren,  PA.  With Marta and I,  and all of our hilarity.  Oh,  I should scan some of those photos if I think about it.  They make me smile,  even though I will likely never see her again.

Fleeting people in my life tend to touch me profoundly.  I do not know why I remember those I do,  and forget others,  or at least apply to them less significance.  It feels so random.  I never know how I am going to feel,  or what is going to stick long-term.

… And,  I’ve spent more money than usual,  lately.  I do not know what has gotten into me.  I think I am having a quarter-life crisis.  Or,  perhaps I am only going to live until I am 4o,  and this is the big MIDLIFE CRISIS.

Or,  I am just a bit harebrained.  I do feel that way—scattered all over the place,  as though my thoughts will not hold still.  I feel focused on this and that,  and everything in between,  so nothing quite keeps my attention unless it is merely a stream-of-consciousness leaving me.

I need another breath of the wild to quiet me.

At least the autumn transformation is brilliant.  I am loving the look of the neighborhood.  I wish that it could be as it is now the whole year ‘round,  aesthetics-wise.  The weather can change.  But let the leaves stay this radiant and glowing.

It makes my heart ache,  and while it may seem contradictory,  that is one of the best feelings I am able to feel.  Hurt from magnificence.  I love it.

And this is far too long. 

|1o151o|

I do not know if I neglect to journal because I feel as though I have nothing worth saying,  or if it is just genuinely due to the fact that,  sometimes,  I feel too weary to bother.  Or,  because other things are on my mind.  Or,  because of some other half-hearted excuse I could formulate that would probably be the furthest thing from the truth—which is nestled deep down at the core of my aversion to this task which I have set before myself,  this need I have imposed upon my being to catalog the unfolding of my day-to-day rituals and progresses (or regressions,  depending on the entry).

My life is not exciting or eventful.  I will be the first to declare this.  I find intricacy and infinity by drawing ever inward.  I find comfort and security in words,  music,  daydreams,  and minuscule details.  I find space where there is little room to move my limbs,  and I find air in pockets where there seems to be naught left to inhale.  Somehow,  I eke out an existence.

However,  there are days when I fear I shall choke;  that this place will smother my will to claw out.  I will be assimilated,  and made impotent in my apathy.  The primary hope I have presently is that I am stubbornly seeking a more permanent and realistic solace,  a workable solution to the variety of predicaments which assail me.  But misfortune can break even the strongest morale.  I just have to wonder how much more perseverance I have left.  It is a depleted reserve,  so I am working with minimal supplies.  I am starting with a tank that is already virtually exhausted.

I am finding that it is difficult to be kinder toward myself,  too—in spite of what I first assumed.  The demands of life,  and my familiarity in coping with those demands,  makes it uncomfortable to do otherwise.  I am used to suffering the brutal slip of my tongue,  and the restrictions of my delusions and obsessions.  I do not think the words I sling at myself are as injurious as one might want to make them out to be,  however.  And,  in other instances,  I am even known to coddle and flatter myself;  it must all even out or nullify in the end.  If my base qualities could merge with my unified qualities,  it would be like a spasmodic negation of my numerous inconveniences.  Or that is my theory.  And I am sticking to it.

Well,  perhaps not.  But a fellow can dream.  

Anyway.
I do not know what possessed me to do what I did,  yesterday.  If there is one thing I am,  it is impulsive.  It can be both beneficial and detrimental,  depending upon the aim of the desire. 
This time,  at least,  it should have a positive outcome.  Provided the package arrives and none of the food is beyond spoiled or melted from shipping cross-country.
I am kind of a fool,  I know.  But I am a fool who cannot help but be moved to TRY to aid one of the beings for whom I am fond.  I cannot do everything,  but there are some things I can do.  Perhaps there are more effective ways to channel that spastic energy,  but I am learning and well-intended.  
Plus, I cannot make everyone happy.
And,  I am noticing this brick is a muse on two separate topics,  kind of;  they are merging together in my head,  but they are not blending so seamlessly in this entry box.  My declarations seem almost bitter when they really should not seem that way at all.
I think what I am trying to say is that,  even though there might have been something more helpful I could have done,  I did what first came to mind,  and the end result was not devastating.   And,  that I should not doubt myself so much if I am acting in a manner which is caring—because there is nothing to feel guilty about for genuinely wanting to do something good for someone who has every right to have good things done for him.

I did have a more specific gift idea in mind,  but in light of this event,  I think I will hold off on that for a little while.  

I still do not know where we are going,  or how we are going to get there.  I do know that,  if he ever wound up in Colorado by some miraculous and felicitous occurrence of immense unlikeliness,  I … well,  actually,  I think I would be so dumbfounded that I would not quite know WHAT to do.

Bah.
It had to be at least 8o degrees today.  Good weather for camping,  although I doubt that I am going to want to put that much effort into entertaining myself.  Knowing my motivation levels right now,  I am not likely to do much beyond reading and online meandering.  

I have been better about getting myself out of the house,  anyway.  I do not want to overload myself with activities and have some huge burn-out where I want to be a recluse for weeks.  It’s happened,  and it is not attractive,  amusing,  or helpful.  It’s actually quite pathetic,  to put it bluntly.  I wallow around in my own self-pity and indulge the worst and most negative parts of my personality.

I need a life rife with the right kind of distractions;  that way,  I do not have to think so hard.  I cannot force my mind to turn off of its own accord,  but I know there are things that make it more bearable to exist in this body,  and this head;  I just have to find a way to make those things more prevalent in my life. 

|1o131o|

I read something today that declared:  emotional pain lasts a total of twelve minutes—anything after that is merely self-inflicted.  I do not know how accurate that may be (the human mind/body is a miraculous thing,  after all),  or the degree of agony of which they are speaking,  but it does cause me to consider how much time I spend bringing myself down,  or tending to the emphasis of negative feelings.  I can be a real glutton for punishment,  and I am certainly no stranger to exacerbating situations when they are already unpleasant.  I think it’s my masochistic streak.  But,  perhaps I should think about lightening up,  and being a bit more polite to myself.  A dash of cordiality could go a long way.

Instead of the constant self-deprecating nagging,  perhaps I should do the unthinkable,  and give myself,  and my perfectionist need to be meticulous about everything,  a BREAK.  

It’s obviously much easier said than done.  I am my own harshest critic.  I am unforgiving toward my failures,  in such a way that causes me to forget them sooner than acknowledge them.  It is as though even their memory alone is toxic;  harboring it means that I am afflicted with its mark,  and that the ineptitudes stemming from it are visible like tangible garments upon my form.

My life speaks as testament to that which I never achieved.  To my apathy.  To my pride,  lack of will,  instability,  and slothfulness.  But if I feign ignorance concerning those incidents,  if I accept that I am starting from today—and that yesterday is nullified—perhaps I can wrest myself from this cycle of needless agonizing.

It feels like ancient pain,  anyway.  Impertinent.  Useless.  It is just holding me back and keeping me sleepless,  void of ambition,  impotent,  lethargic,  and doubtful.

I do not think that I will ever achieve a state of sanguine jubilance,  with a lust for life so radiant that it is distinguished and undeniable.  But,  I want very badly to—at the minimum—know contentment,  and to be acquainted with its nuances and varieties.  I may never experience a keen joy of living,  but I deserve to be unrestrained,  not choked by an emotional haze that leaves me worthless not only to those around me,  but to myself as well.

Really,  if I could force myself to function mechanically,  I would almost be better off.  If I could shut down in a way that was still,  paradoxically,  operational,  that would be—while not ideal—some measure better than flailing around in my own incompetency.

I cannot help but feel like a confused Pokemon.  In my struggle,  I harm myself.
I need firm guidance,  wry humor,  tough love,  and long talks.  I need revelations and realizations that get me somewhere.  I need a destination so that I can at least begin a journey of some sort.  I need to live,  because I’m spending an awful lot of time paining myself without a purpose.

The excuse is fear.  Fear of relinquishing this layer of protection only to figure out that bald emotional drive is a rather precarious way to conquer the world.  Still,  I want to be ruddy and sunny and rife with a desire to exist.  It would be sweeter to me than this displeasure with life;  I feel that it and I are at a stalemate,  each equally unwilling to give even an inch.

And,  in my unwilling refusal to give up my “way”,  I am bashed by my choices.  I bring difficulties upon myself because on some subconscious level I think defiance is synonymous with power,  and that denial is synonymous with control.  And,  if I embrace those two behaviors as though my contentment depended upon them,  I swiftly find myself far removed and remote.  I am more isolated yet less satisfied than ever.

My mind does not know how to give itself what it wants.  
Some of my distress is indeed self-inflicted.  I can see when I hype up circumstances and blow things out of proportion.  The unfortunate thing is that I cannot always stop myself.  I am witnessing my explosion,  and,  later,  my implosion and descent into grave dolor,   as a bystander might.  I am not in control of that which is being verbalized.  I am not in control of my shaking limbs and nauseated stomach.  I am not in control of the urge to wretch and heave and cry and shake.  Panic and animal fury rob me of sane articulation and interaction.

But,  at what point does it become more than just a reaction to stimuli?  When does it go beyond Hektor’s Histrionics,  into the realm of something more self-serving,  manipulative,  and lazy?  I mean,  I know I can work myself up just because it is familiar,  and,  because,  sometimes,  when I am at my maximum,  a little blow-up feels refreshing.  But is it,  really?  Are those feelings worth anything?

Do they serve a purpose?  I do think that feelings should,  ideally,  serve some sort of function.  If they do not,  then why must I be subjected to them?  I should unravel each one,  right down to the center,  and figure out what it prompts me to do.  Then I could eliminate all the extra ones.

I do not know whether that is the most healthy or unhealthy thought I have had in awhile … *Shrug*