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bookofmirrorsWell, here I am, all awake and shit. My poor body doesn't understand when it gets anything more than 4-5 hours of sleep, so it took my nap earlier as real sleep. Plus, I'm restless, with a lot on my mind. Doesn't make for sweet slumber.
On a brighter note, my charge nurse called later in the evening, and said that she had enough staff on tomorrow (er, today) for me to just stay home. I told her I was worried about that, 'cause I wasn't getting paid for the time off. She said that I *did* get sick days, and that she'd already put one in for me, so I didn't need to worry about that. She said to just stay home and recover. She reiterated that I looked horrible when she saw me, and she'd rather I just stay home. In addition, not feeling much better, I called off with my client. They are going to the cabin this weekend, so that means I've ended up with 2 days in a row off. Possibly 3, if the ice storm hits and Sona closes on Saturday. We'll see. I'm not sure what to do about all this time.dai_syn hasn't gotten back to me about dinner, so I don't know if we're supposed to be going out tomorrow or not (assuming I feel well enough to begin with). If that were to fall through, I'd like to sit down with another friend, but said friend is unavailable.
Did I mention I'm feeling restless?
Fear is what I'm feeling. Right now, it pervades me, and it's coming from several different angles, each powerful and poignant in its own way. Some of the sources of fear I can identify, some I can't. It's the ones I can't that bother me the most. What is it about this situation, this person, that bothers me so much? Mirrors. It's always about mirrors for me. Well, for everyone, I truly think, but I certainly know that when something eats at me like this does, it's about seeing my own face somehow. And I'm desperate to figure out the reflection there, and I'm terrified to look. I can feel myself resisting it. I can feel anger and jealousy and fear rising up, and I hate those feelings. I hate admitting I have them to begin with, and I know perfectly well there's no good reason for them.
Not, of course, that there has to be. Intellectually, of course, I know that all those feelings are "good" and sacred valid, and that there's nothing wrong with having them. But I feel so.... so.... so much less when I have them. Like I should be above such things. I know better - intellectually. I know that those feelings are the gateway to my Self, and that trying to deny/surpress them does me more harm than good. I can feel them welling up. And I can feel the wall I have to hold them back. I can feel the tension between the two, the constant war I have within myself that's usually on a low hum, but tonight is vivid, troubling, and painful. Pam, of course, would hand me a tennis racket, or have me kick, but I feel almost paralyzed to do so. Of course, this is only because doing so might actually work, right? I know perfectly well that analyzing what I'm feeling, figuring it out, placing it in the intellectual and psychological terms I can understand is only part of the story, and not even the best or most accurate part. Yet, I cling to that. I want to understand it. I sure as hell don't want to feel it.
I'm trying to embrace you.
But how do I do that when all I can see in my mind's eye is razor-sharp skin, wicked fangs dripping blood red emotion, and eyes as black as my soul?
Melodrama? Hell, yes. And accurate as hell. DANGER!!! is all I hear, all I feel. The devil I don't know. The devil I've tried to cast out, to deny. The devil that is me. The devil I hate, I fear... and must learn to love.
Interesting that, in that meditation so long ago, it was the child I pummelled, not the beast. I was the beast in that scenario. And yet I felt no emotion as I watched the bruises form, the blood flow. Even my regret afterwards was detached. The casual healing offhand, like one of those gray pads we had as children, where you could just lift the film, and the writing would disappear. Of course, the imprint remained in the soft black underneath. I wonder what's written in my blackness? The film on those pads inevitably gave way, tore off. It was fragile, and never lasted. A metaphor there, I think.
*sigh* I'm just writing nothingness here, letting my mind and fingers wander. I can see what I've written, I can see my desire to face myself in the page, even in my own memory. But the desire to shut it out is stronger right now. Already, sometime while writing this, I can no longer feel the tension between the wall and my feelings. I can still feel the restlessness, the vague unease... but I've got numbing myself down to an art.
I wonder ifkeiracaitlyn has any time available this weekend? Maybe that would help dislodge something... I don't want to wait until my next therapy appointment...
Anyway, I'm going to stop making sense very soon, so I'll just end it here.
On a brighter note, my charge nurse called later in the evening, and said that she had enough staff on tomorrow (er, today) for me to just stay home. I told her I was worried about that, 'cause I wasn't getting paid for the time off. She said that I *did* get sick days, and that she'd already put one in for me, so I didn't need to worry about that. She said to just stay home and recover. She reiterated that I looked horrible when she saw me, and she'd rather I just stay home. In addition, not feeling much better, I called off with my client. They are going to the cabin this weekend, so that means I've ended up with 2 days in a row off. Possibly 3, if the ice storm hits and Sona closes on Saturday. We'll see. I'm not sure what to do about all this time.
dai_syn hasn't gotten back to me about dinner, so I don't know if we're supposed to be going out tomorrow or not (assuming I feel well enough to begin with). If that were to fall through, I'd like to sit down with another friend, but said friend is unavailable. Did I mention I'm feeling restless?
Fear is what I'm feeling. Right now, it pervades me, and it's coming from several different angles, each powerful and poignant in its own way. Some of the sources of fear I can identify, some I can't. It's the ones I can't that bother me the most. What is it about this situation, this person, that bothers me so much? Mirrors. It's always about mirrors for me. Well, for everyone, I truly think, but I certainly know that when something eats at me like this does, it's about seeing my own face somehow. And I'm desperate to figure out the reflection there, and I'm terrified to look. I can feel myself resisting it. I can feel anger and jealousy and fear rising up, and I hate those feelings. I hate admitting I have them to begin with, and I know perfectly well there's no good reason for them.
Not, of course, that there has to be. Intellectually, of course, I know that all those feelings are "good" and sacred valid, and that there's nothing wrong with having them. But I feel so.... so.... so much less when I have them. Like I should be above such things. I know better - intellectually. I know that those feelings are the gateway to my Self, and that trying to deny/surpress them does me more harm than good. I can feel them welling up. And I can feel the wall I have to hold them back. I can feel the tension between the two, the constant war I have within myself that's usually on a low hum, but tonight is vivid, troubling, and painful. Pam, of course, would hand me a tennis racket, or have me kick, but I feel almost paralyzed to do so. Of course, this is only because doing so might actually work, right? I know perfectly well that analyzing what I'm feeling, figuring it out, placing it in the intellectual and psychological terms I can understand is only part of the story, and not even the best or most accurate part. Yet, I cling to that. I want to understand it. I sure as hell don't want to feel it.
I'm trying to embrace you.
But how do I do that when all I can see in my mind's eye is razor-sharp skin, wicked fangs dripping blood red emotion, and eyes as black as my soul?
Melodrama? Hell, yes. And accurate as hell. DANGER!!! is all I hear, all I feel. The devil I don't know. The devil I've tried to cast out, to deny. The devil that is me. The devil I hate, I fear... and must learn to love.
Interesting that, in that meditation so long ago, it was the child I pummelled, not the beast. I was the beast in that scenario. And yet I felt no emotion as I watched the bruises form, the blood flow. Even my regret afterwards was detached. The casual healing offhand, like one of those gray pads we had as children, where you could just lift the film, and the writing would disappear. Of course, the imprint remained in the soft black underneath. I wonder what's written in my blackness? The film on those pads inevitably gave way, tore off. It was fragile, and never lasted. A metaphor there, I think.
*sigh* I'm just writing nothingness here, letting my mind and fingers wander. I can see what I've written, I can see my desire to face myself in the page, even in my own memory. But the desire to shut it out is stronger right now. Already, sometime while writing this, I can no longer feel the tension between the wall and my feelings. I can still feel the restlessness, the vague unease... but I've got numbing myself down to an art.
I wonder if
keiracaitlyn has any time available this weekend? Maybe that would help dislodge something... I don't want to wait until my next therapy appointment...Anyway, I'm going to stop making sense very soon, so I'll just end it here.
