Ghost in the graveyard,
now run and hide.
Or join her
at the Devil’s side.
Light strikes at a slant. The air is heavy with the familiar. Deja vu, like a seizure, rocks my brain and then I feel it. The old feeling that I thought had been long forgotten in some dark nook of my past.
The sad sickness over my chest. I clutch at it. All those times I thought I was okay unravel and there at my feet, in a rats nest heap, is my spirit. I feel so empty, abandoned, alone.
I need to work on myself and not feel sorry for myself. Whose fault is it I am where I am? After eighteen, my destiny became my own and while I can point out the myriad of, say, confounding variables, at the end of the day I am responsible for my behavior. If we tend to hold psychotic, retarded, and other compromised people to this idea, for what reason should I receive an exception? Do I dare hope for anything other than an opportunity to sweep up the pieces and start again elsewhere?
When midnight comes, it’s not too late.
I have been working on myself instead of sinking into self-pity. I’ve done what my therapist tells me to do. I’ve accepted the fact that maybe I need medication, at least for awhile. So I’ll probably be on some sort of SSRI here in the next few weeks. It was something I was hoping to avoid, but I suppose when you’re sick and haven’t recovered on your own, then you just have to bear it.
It makes me nervous to go on those meds. What if they completely block me off from the spiritual? Oh well, I guess. I need to get better. I need to take responsibility for myself. Not everyone is meant to be. . . to have . . . well, you know what I mean?
I can’t be an agoraphobe forever. I can’t count things repeatedly forever. Some people do — and I have for almost twenty years now — but that’s all she wrote for me. I can’t take it anymore. If nothing else it would be nice to not feel like the world is caving in every time something remotely bad happens.
If I take care of my anxiety, I can move on with my life, one way or another.
Do you remember
(it’s just a game)
the flowers for the dead?
And don’t you forget
(it’s not too late)
flowers on the grave.
I had another dream.
Oh, thank you brain for fucking me up this morning. Just . . . fantastic. I’m going to blame the dextromethorphan–I’m recovering from the dregs of a flu/bronchitis combo. And yes, that is exactly as brutal as it sounds.
In this one, I was looking for Bast. I couldn’t find her and broke down in front of my locker. I wasn’t in a school or anything. There was just this random locker of stuff that I don’t recall. Some person was right beside me, too, but I don’t know who. All I’m even a bit certain of is that it was a dude.
Anyway, so I broke down in front of my locker and then, suddenly, Bast stepped out of the locker. Or the middle of nowhere. Hard to remember.
She said something and I unfortunately cannot remember what it was. Something comforting. Something like I didn’t need to find her or whatever. Maybe. I don’t know. Hope it wasn’t important.
So, thanks for that, brain. Kind of messed me up this morning, but now that I’m sitting here, thinking about it, it kind of makes me smile, too. When these sorts of things happen, I suppose it’s better to enjoy it as much as you can and, when the moment passes, let it fondly go.