I can't find my mind or my brain, and I miss them both a good deal. My appointment is in three and a half hours and I feel all nervous as if I can't prepare enough for something that can just as easily be spontaneous. Damn anxiety. I don't know whether to be more frightened for my brother now that his struggles are out in the open - because I no longer wonder if I'm just hypersensitive about his "normal" habits - or less, because he's getting the help he needs. He's done with alcohol, for at least a year, and damn that's a good, good, good thing. But today the doctor gave him back one caffeinated bevarage, and that scares the shit out of me, too. One of my sly informants gave me reason to believe that the doc might prod John off the caffeine as well, and even though the boy looked happy this morning for the first time in two weeks (partly because the boy - who is not happy - looked happy today as a result of that stupid, socially acceptable drug) I hope in my well-intentioned-younger-sister way that he makes the decision to seek peace elsewhere. He consumed way more caffeine than the doctor intended him to, and he knows it...so, if he's honest about that, maybe it will be easier for the doctor to say, "And yeah, if this isn't a problem, how come the first time you can have it again, you go way overboard? How come it makes your day, and then you celebrate by having more, and as I'm saying these unhappy things you're wanting some?" I really do not mean to be judgmental; I've just had a lot of quiet fears confirmed over the past week or two, and I'm concerned about the others that have not yet been addressed. Also, the boy eats very, very poorly. As in, he never has any food at his house ever, and he can't afford to eat out as often as he would have to eat out to make up for the lack of food in his house and...argh. I want him to be ok, healthy, you know? And I know that caffeine can give him the fake energy he needs so that he doesn't feel hungry, and then when he doesn't eat and doesn't get the nutrition he needs, he doesn't feel it so much, and so it gets worse...and well...I have a Rogers-girl who did espresso shots in the morning to keep up her energy and happy facade without proper nourishment. I think if John goes off the caffeine, not only will his anxiety improve, but he'll have to eat. Rather, he'll have physical awareness that he *has* to eat; everyone has to eat. And I am not the doctor in this situation; I'm the crazy, frazzled sister who has reason to bite her nails clean off (interestingly enough, one of the few not-so-good habits I've never had) when people don't eat properly. I don't think John has an eating disorder; it's not like I have a bunch of ED labels in a backpack and I'm trying to find people onto whom I can stick them... I just love him. And I know about hunger and food and nutrition; I know some things at least. John almost died for the third time in 21 years. Enough of that. I wanted to quit at two close calls. Blah.
So, me. If I'm going to talk about this, I at least need to focus on me; otherwise I'm not even putting up a fight against the caretaking, codependent bullshit I so abhorr. Not to mention the fact that I'm in charge of meeting my own needs and if I'm completely obsessed with my brother - who already has two supervisors to help him look over his needs, and who I'm damn sure doesn't want me as a third (though he'll take me as a sister, I'm certain, and that's good) - my needs won't be met, I'll suffer, blechness will ensue. So. Where the hell am I at that I can't find my brain or my head? I can't find my mind or my feet.
My feet are here. The toes still have traces of wite-out. Wite-out does not want to die. Or maybe I just don't want to let it. I keep hoping that I'll hear from Jenna, that she'll pull through in the eleventh hour, like she did the last time (although the last letter was less than helpful)...that just as I'm thinking I need to reach out again, that she's never going to reach back based on my efforts up until this point, there a letter will be. My name, the compromise of names she coined - that only she uses, in her handwriting. Handwriting like waves and spray and here and there a bubble. Soon, soon. I have letters to write as is, and I'll throw another in the mail to her if I don't hear. I'll call her if I don't hear. I'll stick my neck out, if it increases my possibility of reaching her.
The other letters... I need to write one to Katie, my love from my freshman/ her senior year, who I don't keep in proper touch with, but can always pick back up with by way of a simple note or call. I sent her a Christmas card and got a note in response. She's behind enough to ask about my surname, and I haven't a clue what to tell her. I keep thinking I'll say - in terms of these letters, a few e-mails, and a couple phone calls - that things aren't bad, are ok (honestly)...and then I remember the craziness of December, the inability to secure a lasting calm in January, the interrupted flow of everything, including therapy (which is difficult when interrupted), and this recent tragedy with John. I'm so focused on what it wasn't, on what didn't happen, that I haven't really approached the tragedy itself. I can hear friends - Sara, for instance - responding to simply what did happen, and I know that it is a big deal, just as it is, and the miracle of not losing him doesn't cancel it all out. ...But there's an 8x10 on the desk next to me, a portrait of me still bald-headed, tiny eyes in darling baby face, and him - miniature and content, his familiar expressions still recognizable within his child's face. Maybe that's as much a cure-all as it is a key. I love him, which is why it hurts so much, and I stay safe in how much it hurts because I love him (and I love me, too. That's no small part. Speaking of loving me, when the hell am I going to call Rogers? I constantly think of it after first shift has ended... Soon! Maybe when I can speak without viral punishment.)
There's also a letter to Katia, darling Katia!, who's doing so well. I need to call or write my dad; he doesn't know about this most recent viral relapse, and so is probably feeling a little injured by neglect. I need to call Sara and tell her I haven't called her because I can't talk - the same with Shandi. I have a letter from Brea in my inbox (for love's sake! Brea!) that I haven't responded to yet, and it's making me crazy. But what do I want to say to her? I don't think I know where I am well enough to communicate it to anyone, and though it's perfectly legitimate in my world at this point to simply state that reality, some supporting anecdotes, and a term or twelve of endearment, I still hesitate. I don't know if I'm waiting to tell how things are in the hope that they'll be better soon, or if I'm just overwhelmed and unsure how to communicate about my life on top of living it. I mean, even my journaling has been (relatively) rare lately, and right now, I'm far more compelled to my new endeavor in the formerly-blank-book than I am to write here. Let me sift through some memories, rather than venture through the present confusion, anyday.
That's not so bad...though if I'm avoiding something, I'd like the advantage of knowing what, so that I don't accidentally stumble across the switch in therapy today. (Or anywhere else for that matter.)
I think I'm not saying anything (in all these words) because I don't really want to go into what I feel around John alone at a computer, and I don't want to articulate my thoughts prior to seeing the doc; I'd prefer (for once) to just take his hand and see what I can bring into focus if I squint into the snow. Another point-transcending entry then. Whee. No wonder my hits have dropped so dramatically... but I don't care about numbers. At least I won't. When I can do things like communicate again, and don't have to substitute statistics for connection. Blah. In the meantime, visit often. Sign the guestbook. Write a note. Send imaginary, healing, vegetarian soup vibes my way.
Or just love me. That always works, too.
~me