I fell out of bed this morning trying to get up. I'm fine, no bleeding or headaches or anything - but I succumbed to a sudden gravity attack that left me reeling at the time and still sad now, hours later.
More below the dooblydoo.
Now, I'm not exactly coordinated, aside from all the meds I take. Pills for the schizophrenia, pills for the autism, pills for my allergies, pills for everything. Some days I feel like I rattle when I walk. But I don't fall out of bed normally. I don't end up so disoriented that I just hang there like a broken marionette until Mum comes to see if I'm ok - but I did this morning.
There is a pile of clean laundry at the end of the bed that has been there for three days and counting. I washed it - I just never bothered to fold it or put it away - which is not like me. Usually it's folded and put away before it's even cooled from the dryer. The very first thing I do when I get out of bed is make the bed. The bed is made - first thing I did after I got myself back upright. Things have a place and need to be in them. But the clothing sits there and I just pick through it each day to get what I need.
I shower pretty much every day of my own volition rather than nagging, I brush my teeth because $500+ of dental work convinced me that I should keep up with that - it kind of sucked spending every Monday for a month being stabbed in the mouth. But the clothes mock me.
My mind whirls. Not so much with phantasmic voices or music, but with too many thoughts. Projects I need to finish but don't think will sell - so why bother? Ideas that I'm not artistic enough to get down, much less create. Frustration I can't go home yet. Worry about the upcoming rescheduled SSDI mental evaluation for benefits. A sense of unease about the future at home - how I will manage after becoming soft here, used to running water and close bathrooms and so much food it rots in the fridge. Wishing for a nice fat sack of weed - which I use as a medicine to control the self loathing and frustration levels - none of that here I can find, since I have zero social life. A sense of horror at the genealogy work I've been doing. Not because I descend from "bad" people so much as the stark stories of poverty and sad lives of the women.
One of my great grandmothers was an "old maid" at 23 - her father made a deal with a local widower to become his wife - to take care of the kids he had from the woman he actually loved. She was just help he slept with. She wasn't asked, she was told - and given to a mean much older asshole down the road by her father. When her husband died he was buried with his first wife the one he constantly referred to as "my true love," - when my great grandmother died (I'm a descendant of the kids with her, not the first wife) she was buried with her parents - as if she had only ever been an old maid.
Again and again and again I find these women who are second and third wives to men who have lost wives in childbirth or to sickness and I wonder - did they have the same sort of second hand life as my great grandmother? Were they just help to sleep with too? How horrible a fate.
And anger. Deep, horrible anger. I don't do anything with it, I don't know how to do anything about it - and it's nebulous - it has no specific cause I can pin down. Just a constant fire of angry that licks at my brain and mocks. No amount of food will sooth it. No amount of games or sleep will silence it. It just burns bright and hot and feeds itself on my broken dreams and hopes - I have plenty of those to keep it going.
I wonder what will be the next roadblock to my leaving here. Will I even see my boat before next year? The way the days drag on - there is almost no chance at all I will sail anywhere this year, not even as far as Mexico for a warmer winter. Every time I make a plan, pick a date - I am sabotaged by my parents. And now - I wonder if I am even strong enough to remember how to manage like I did before - do I remember how to be clever and resourceful? Do I have the strength to be that poor again? Am I trapped now - a basket case doomed to live with my parents because I can't manage on my own anymore?
My beloved fandom is going through an unsettled time now that Matt Smith is moving on - who will be our Doctor? The shallowness of the new fans sickens me. They need the Doctor to be male and sexy (white) and Mary Sue-able or there is nothing worth loving - and I loathe them for it. What happened to the love of the character for being something other than human? For being unapproachable? What about the adventure and the wonder of remembering what it's like to be 10 and sitting on the edge of your seat? I don't want to hear about how your ovaries will be unhappy with anything less than a smexy white man. I just don't. And I don't want to write porn for them either, the way I used to do in other fandoms for attention and a sense of community. My porn days are over.
I can write diaries, but not stories. Those blank screens dare me to fill them up with words and I flail - the words drying up even as they swirl in my head and my dreams. Mum paints and paints and everything she does is going in a gallery, her new book just came out and she has readings and signings - and I go back to games because it's humiliating that my creativity won't come out - it just swirls in my head. My hands are too clumsy. My ideas too big for my abilities.
I have a sad today. Perhaps it's time to go back to sleep.