PJs

I think as a crazy person I spend in inordinate amount of time in pajamas. I'm endlessly depressed, or sleeping, or suicidal - in pajamas. No one is too depressed to move in jeans. No way. They would never get them on in the first place. But pajamas. Now those are for depression. It just screams moving the hospital into your living room when you don't get out of your pajamas for three days.

This, I believe, will be the start of my next book. It's going to be the funny side of depression. Yes, I'm sure I'm not the only one to have thought of this, but I'm the one who really needs to dig myself out of my own hell. Yes, I know, I have one to finish first, but it's kind of motivating thinking there might just be something undepressing in the future. You, know. Maybe.

I've out of love. You think there would be an endless supply, but there isn't. Odd.

I'm worried about a drug overdose. The weight of this worry is crushing me.

-

The weekend has broken me. It has taken my weak, brittle bones and broken them. It doesn't matter why. Just life. Just the things that happen because they are the things that happen.

I was, of course, working on the book. And working on the book is extremely difficult. It's difficult for so many reasons, but one of them is that the person who was supposed to hold my hand got sick, and could barely hold his own hand, let alone mine.

Not his fault, obviously. But disappointing and crushing for me. Again, reasons. Again, they don't matter.

And I wasn't very stable when I got here. I haven't been having a really stable month. But that's the book. The book is so hard. My life is so hard. Reliving my life is so hard. There are spots of light tucked away in there too, but it isn't nearly enough to make up for the rest. It isn't nearly enough to buoy the spirit.

People write depression books all the time, although now I must even more vehemently ask why. Why spend so long picking out words that serve to depress not only others but also you, as the writer, even more profoundly. I know why I'm doing it. I'm doing it because it's my life. I'm doing it because I feel like I have to. But do other people have to write depressing books? I don't think so.

And so I've been alone too much here, without even my cats to keep me company. Trying in vain to get as much work done as possible. But. But. It all caught up with me last night. The demons found me. The evil found me. Something that's trying to kill me, found me.

Yesterday morning I worked with my very sick friend on the book, and knew I wasn't doing well. But I couldn't really tell him. He needed to focus. He had so little to give that it had to go on the book. And so I play-acted. Yes. Fine. Yes. Normal tears. Yes. Fine. Actually trying to life him up, and make him feel better, because he was so sick, and he was trying anyway.

But when he went his way, and I went mine, it all fell apart. I had become so dissociative, I could only see the pain, waiting for me to fall into it. I couldn't get any part of my brain to work. I couldn't get any part of my mind to enter the room. I only knew that it was really, really bad and that it was all around me. The tears wouldn't flow, because there were too many.

And then another friend arrive, beautiful and glowing. She's an impossibly beautiful creature with kindness in spades. I know her. She knows me. And so I break. I break into pieces in front of her. Humpty-Dumpty fell off a wall. And she doesn't speak. There's nothing to say. There's nothing to say to the pain. There's nothing to say to the tears. There's nothing to say to the thing that's trying to kill me.

And she let's me cry. And cry. And cry. She lets my tears fall on her face. Without complaining. Without moving. And then she curls up into me, and hugs me. As the tears continue, even as I try to stop them.

Eventually she has to go. She was somewhere to be. Most people do. I ask her to stay. But I don't do with resolve or with meaning. I just ask her to stay. She says that she can't. Which is understandable, she can't. And then I let her leave. I let her leave without really telling her what she needed to know.

She needed to know how bad it was. She needed to know what I might do if she left. She needed to know what I couldn't stop thinking about doing. She needed to know that I really needed her to stay.

It would have been nice if she had known. If she had understood what was really happening. If she knew the difference between sad and dangerously sad. But she didn't. How could she? How could anyone? No one seems to know. No one seems to hear the difference in the words. No one seems to see the difference in the tears.

But of course it's not her job to read my mind. It's not anyone's job to read my mind. It's my job to tell her. I know. It's my job to tell someone. I know. But the words are so hard to say. The words are too hard to say. Please help me. Please don't leave me here by myself. I'm scared of what I might do. Please. Please stay.

And even if I could say this, the other person wouldn't know what to do with it. It's too much pressure for someone to know you're that sick. It's soo much pressure for someone to know that you're scared of your own actions. It's too much pressure for them to try to stop you. It's too much pressure for them to stay.

I know.

It's too much pressure for me too. It's too much pressure trying to keep me alive. It's too much pressure not to take the pills. It's too much pressure not to cut the skin. It's too much pressure not to die.

I really wish I could get better. It would be such a better ending for the book.

And it's French!

Word of the Day for Wednesday, April 15, 2009

outré \oo-TRAY\, adjective:
Unconventional; eccentric; bizarre.

This seven-year-old house of outré culture is the kind of place you can shop for a sculpture made out of working flamethrowers, videocassettes of underground movies, computer-generated art or a cute robot
-- David Sturm, "Berlin's Green Man, Running for Life", Washington Post, June 14, 1998

The area is tamer than in its bohemian heyday, but the outré spirit survives.
-- Brian C. Mooney and Rosemary Lappin, "Galleries of the Gods", Boston Globe, August 25, 1996

McCarthy cast herself as the rule breaker, the outré intellectual woman who emerged from an eccentric and rebellious past.
-- Ann Hulbert, "Keeping Score", New York Times, October 26, 1997

Unless you head for Harajuku, the heart of hip, where being outré is a requirement. Harajuku is home to Raggedy Ann wannabes, Elvis impersonators and Japanese punks, all turned out to attract attention.
-- Stephanie Strom, "Tokyo", New York Times, September 26, 1999

Outré comes from French, from the past participle of outer, "to exaggerate, to go beyond," from Latin ultra, "beyond."

Oh my god, that is just the best. When you can throw French into a conversation you sound snobby and brilliant. My favorite.

And in the future

I'm imagining this moment where I announce that I've written a book to everyone and they all congratulate me and are impressed. Everyone thinks it's remarkable, and I'm brilliant. Which is a feat, considering where I work everyone they're the only brilliant people alive.

It's such a good moment. So good, that probably will never exist, the best things never do. But I can feel the smile that it would bring on my face. I would be impressed at being so impressive. I would love to be that impressed with myself.

Word of the Day

fal-duh-ral

1.	mere nonsense; foolish talk or ideas.

2.	a trifle; gimcrack; gew-gaw.

---

Origin:
1695–1705; orig. as a nonsense refrain in songs; of obscure orig.

Good word. Describes existence.

I'm working on my book, and thus really can't put any effort into writing here. Sorry.

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life is in between the plot points

I write about my life. I write about my life a lot, in fact. Thousands of pages about my life. All these thoughts that pop up into my head about me, and what's going on around me. Pop, pop, pop. And then they make their way onto a blog where, let's face it, only a few people read it. It's like talking to a diary more than it is like talking to another person. And that's why it works really. A diary doesn't judge you for your crazy like people do. People are judgy little creatures.

But seeing a plot line of my life, seeing the plot line of my writing scares the pants off of me. It's harsh to see it all condensed before me.

A happily married man pursues and eventually captures a cute young thing only to start a long term affair, feel guilty about it, and jeopardize his marriage. He is left conflicted, if more sexually fulfilled.

See, that seems so black a white. That seems so harsh. In person things are shaded and nuanced, but a story line is so short that everything just comes out as pointed. She is raped several times. Ew. Oh my god. Ew.

It's not like I don't know my life. It's not like I'm not aware of all the details. It's just distilling them down into a spine is so brutal it's scary. Life is in between the plot points, not during them. An outline will never tell you that.

oh dear god keep the osculation away from me

Word of the Day for Sunday, March 29, 2009

osculation \os-kyuh-LAY-shuhn\, noun:

The act of kissing; also: a kiss.

He had engaged in nervous osculation with all three of Lord Flamborough's daughters.
-- Thomas Sutcliffe, "The art of seduction, the skill of the tackle", Independent, June 13, 1994

Their incessant onstage osculations during her last concert tour seemed to offer public proof of their passion.
-- "The Big Boom in Breakups", People, November 13, 1995

Osculation comes from osculatio, "a kissing," from osculari, "to kiss," from osculum, "a little mouth, a kiss," diminutive of os, "mouth."

What an awful way of describing a kiss. It sounds like a disease. As in 'we have recently found a vaccine to prevent osculations in our children'. Bleh.

For a moment there was only silence after the crack of taught skin hitting flesh, until she said, 'thank you'.

Do People Know About That?

I have a guest coming in to town tonight. I don't feel like running around and cleaning like a mad woman like I normally would. Don't get me wrong, the place is clean, but as always, it could be cleaner.

And as I was making my bed, and picking up a few items off the floor, a thought occurred to me, I don't have to impress her, she already loves me.

Really, kind of a shocking thought. She already loves me. I actually don't have to do anything. I could show up wearing a paper bag, or bring her pack to a pile of cat hair, or serve her terrible food and it would all be OK.

It's very rare in my life that I actually feel like love isn't entangled in a mass of strings. But I think I feel that. Right now. It's like a small warm smile inside.