Mission Status: Completed successfully.
Personal Status: Seriously asleep.
One of these days, I will manage to effectively communicate to my body that the solution to narcolepsy is not insomnia, and the solution to insomnia - you guessed it - is not narcolepsy. I'm on the insomniac end of it now, after several sleep-filled days while sick. (I'm still not entirely up to snuff, but I'm definitely nowhere so near the agony of Thursday and before.) And actually, I'm not having trouble sleeping; I'm just not having at all restful sleep. If they were not so personalized, I would send the plot-lines of my nightmares to filmmakers specializing in horror, and make enough money to buy relaxation. Is that possible? I know you supposedly can't buy happiness, and I certainly know I can't - (I can't even buy chewing gum) - but I wonder if you can buy relaxation. I took my rarely-taken anxiety meds today, and I felt like I was made of clouds. Mmm. In some ways, I'm so easy. I don't need any great effort made on my behalf; just give me normalcy for a few minutes and I'll feel like I took a soma vacation. Relaxed muscles. Peaceful breathing. That can't be right; I must be dreaming. But no, the mandatory paralyzed limbs, blood, snakes, papa, music teachers, and classmates are missing. I'm awake, and with no thanks to the evil flu virus, I'm alive. Squee to that.
So speaking of things that can and cannot be bought, I went shopping. Me. Girl whose current real-world accomplishment involves a trek of a few blocks, to the mailbox, and back. I went into the actual city, in the actual dark, to an actual (massive, brightly lit, filled with people and merchandise and merchandise and people) store, and I picked out actual clothes that are fuzzy and warm and do not look like something I wore when I was fourteen for the very good reason that, I did not have these clothes when I was fourteen. Ha. I actually bought less than I intended; I'm low on winter clothes and was pushing myself to see past the "splurge" shame and recognize this as necessity. But I also realized (choir of angels for this revelation, please) that I need not buy things I don't like. So I probably need to buy some more at some point, which I can do with the money I budgeted for this and didn't spend, at such a moment as something (more likely than not a fuzzy hoodie or a kickass social statement posing as fashion) strikes the chord. Also, I came 'home' only to stumble, with slight surprise, across the same amount of money I'd just spent, which I had once again misplaced and assumed was spent. So squee to that as well. Sometimes, I think my inability to stay organized and keep track of absolutely everything may qualify as my main source of income. Clutter and confusion have their benefits.
That said, I totally need the energy to clean my room before I move out on the deck with the squirrels. Their twig-and-leaf abode is currently cleaner than mine. Not cool.
So, what of the actual challenge of shopping? It went surprisingly well. I did not fly in like a superheroine, temporarily morph into one of those people with almost athletic shopping skills, I did not find myself suddenly cured, and I did not pay for my purchases. (I mean, I paid for them, but I didn't interact with the cashier and pay for them.) However, my speech to myself based on the doctor's "the goal is maintenance: don't expect to enjoy it; just hold yourself against being beaten down by it," and my meds, (and my tremendous wizard-of-oz-lion-challenging courage, of course) seriously did the trick. I could really focus on what I was doing as something necessary - both in terms of the end result and the anti-agoraphobic-lifestyle practice, and like on my walks, I could grab my keys - which the doc says are the symbol of my ability to interrupt the action and return to the apartment at any time - and feel a breath of safety. It helped connect the task to the walks, helped me understand the parallel. Challenge not recreation. Understanding that makes it quite a bit easier to not beat myself up when I find it more stressful than enjoyable to do such things. Not to mention the fact that I have this massive Abominable Snowman keychain (the Rudolph animation) on my keys for the moment, and he's rather sturdy to my squeeze, which I appreciate. I survived! I rock. Now, it's back to walks and talks and probably, somewhere in the near future, an outing with my dad. I could maybe dread that last part a little less if I stopped having nightmares where I scream myself hoarse in my fury at him. I kicked one theme away, but now I'm back to yelling, with a new topic, and I can't solve the symbolism, so it's sure to continue. I'm going to construct a dream catcher the size of, say, a Great Lake if this keeps up much longer. Why can't I just have the good parts? Why can't I just fly around, be loved by people I don't see nearly often enough, and get the free insight into my mind's inner workings? Why must this good be tainted with such dreadful spectres?
Actually, the nightmares lately have been incredibly tame. I don't know what about my choir director or the random, actually rather decent classmates represented makes my heart pound like some very stupid person just forced me to watch The Silence of the Lambs... but then, it's really all about the reaction. So long as I wake up feeling like I've run a marathon, with some rather grisly folk chasing me the entire way, it's a nightmare, and it sucks.
My brother just called to say he and my mom are renting videos and coming back here. (I pulled out my symbolic keys and came back directly after the shopping spree. And we never did get my mom to the Catholic Supply Store, which she so amusingly tried to hide her desire to patronize. I think she decided to go later in the week, to pick up some medals having to do with my grandmother's religious practices, which are rather dear. So, it's not entirely random that my pagan-chanting, celtic-spirited, goddess-worshipping mother asked Mapquest to direct her to a Catholic Supply store. It remains -almost- entirely amusing, however. At least she's admitting it; I hear that's the only way to progress.) I'm trying to decide what I have time to type before they enter. It's only ten to eight, but I'm seriously exhausted from the lack of restful sleep, the fact that I'm still a little flu-sick, and the draining nature of a challenge to anxiety. I'm just glad the last one didn't set me back. I've been fighting my desire to go out and do things recently because it's actually counterproductive; I'm not ready, and I end up sabotaging myself and, for instance, not leaving the house for a month. Needing to practice going outside. Shit like that. So I'm glad I am, at first glance anyway, no worse for wear. I'll check more thoroughly in the morning.
Yesterday's session with the doctor went well-in-a-very-painful sense. I had on "blue glasses" which were turning everything hopelessly lonely. I cried every tear that I stored up over the past few days, as I approached a personal record for days-without-crying. And then I came home and cried more and wrote random things and thought about leaving him a rambling message and fell asleep with a headache either from too much crying, too much thinking, or too much of the two in combination. I had nightmares, woke up exhausted, but feel better today. He's right about that; I always do feel better. We talked about home, so it's no wonder I cried. If I get the chance to be more detailed before I have new stories to share and pains to process, I'll do so then.
...I had actual mail when I got back, too, which always excites me. Of course, I now have post-traumatic-stress with letters (and phone calls) and am always a little terrified to find out what's in them. But when I finally opened the second letter (the first, from my dad, was funny and not at all creepy like the last from my dad) - a card from Katia, who's been silent far too long - I discovered only good news. Oh, the relieved heart I have. It has me thinking about the different paths of recovery, the way her "doing well" looks different than mine as mine looks different from Sara's and so forth. And it has the gratitude rising; I'm starting to think, my goodness, Sara and Katia and Dixie and Silje and Rosie and Stacy and Brea and...wow. Would I ever have believed that not long back?
And Jenna. Maybe someday Jenna. That's still a trying thing. I'm trying, desperately, and the experience is trying. I believe, honestly, that Jenna is trying, too. For herself, if not for us. I very much believe, mainly because it makes me ill to think otherwise, that whether or not she's fighting for this relationship, she's fighting for her life, and well, if I had to choose between the two (not that I plan on leaving her corner anytime soon, or anytime ever) ...you know which one I'd pick.
Finally, since tales of fashion have so supported this entry, I must inform you that before long there will be items actually available at this site, and the majority of you are going to want them very, very badly. Miss Mary Mac is RMM's set/ costume designer and her clothes and accessories are the epitome of rockingness. If I had money, I'd commission her to create a wardrobe, and I'd never have to go on challenging missions for inferior products ever again. So, support the superheroic designer who's actually doing good in the fashion world, ok? She deserves it more than you're aware and probably even more than I am...
~me