at the tone, I will be disproportionately contented by the time. beep.
12/12/04|11:11 a.m.

it's 11:11 on 12/12... doesn't that just make you all fuzzy inside? I have to take what I can get right now - which is not to say that all of the actually good non-time-related things in my life have somehow exploded and left only dust behind them... but at the moment, I'm tired enough that this little black keyboard looks fluffy as a feather pillow, and convincing my head not to slam face-first against it has become an actual task.

which is not to imply that I haven't slept in awhile. oh, no. in many ways, by many definitions, I've done nothing *but* sleep for the past, say, thirty-six hours. indeed. yesterday I was unhappily, fantastically ill-feeling (to the point that I began to wonder if I do indeed have the weakest constitution in the world, to the point that I considered using the word "constitution" in terms of my health not at all strange) and decided to bed down on the couch and watch a Christmas movie or two to keep the day from feeling entirely wasted. unfortunately, it seems my dad has all the Christmas movies because when I looked through the stash here, I found: 1) A Christmas Memory (with Patty Duke, based on the Capote story, based on the Capote experience); 2) Prancer (which you will not mock, under penalty of suffering a beat-down from the aforementioned reindeer); and 3) the Touched By An Angel Christmas Special. oh, yeah. we rock. who needs It's A Wonderful Life, White Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, or Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown? Honestly. Sigh. The only thing I can say in defense of this meager offering is that it does *not* include "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town" which my dad's portion of the collection does... and let's just say that Mickey Rooney as Santa Claus was about as brilliant a casting choice as Jason Alexander as Jacob Marley. gyuh. anyway. I hit the television up for alternative offers and received the usual cranked-out holiday shlock. Amnesia-Patient Santa Becomes Plumber, The Ghost of John Wilkes Booth Saves Christmas, Elf Revenge II: Jingle Bell Bullets, etc. Deciding that, in my weakened state, I really couldn't take much more of this, I put in A Christmas Memory and proceeded to watch the first half of it before falling into a sick, unpleasant sleep. Ah, A Christmas Memory. Truly fantastic, let me tell you. The phrase "made-for-tv" really fails to apply when it's followed with "starring Patty Duke." However... "Based on the Truman Capote story" does still retain meaning. Imagine It's A Wonderful Life going in the opposite direction, i.e. people are swell, cars hit trees, businesses fail, brothers drown, parents scream at kids for playing piano, fiends refuse to give girls-in-prickly-bushes back clothes. To make things even better, I've read the story, which ends even less happily. It has an epilogue to ensure that even people who take the patented Zoloft/ Effexor/ Prozac combo every morning will not come out intact. Hurrah. I ended up watching the movie in full with my mom later in the evening, and we were both like, "she's so good... damnit! damnit, damnit, damnit!" Mom made cocoa and I mourned the absence of Frosty. What else can a girl do?

And I missed phone calls. Talk about your triple damnit. Lindsey called me and I missed it because I was feeling shitty, and it just seems like it cannot be a coincidence that I so often miss phone calls because I feel sick. Meaning, people cannot just be that adept at calling me on the rare occasion when I feel like crap. I must feel, physically, like crap quite often. And that just makes me unhappy. Because I want to talk to Lindsey! And I want to go to my mom's family's Christmas shindig today, but I feel like microwaved snot... and I just don't know if it's going to happen. I have had the two crappiest nights' sleeps. Oy. The night before last there was the tossing-and-turning prelude to nightmares, which is always exciting, and last night, I nearly went insane. Indeed. And it is a bit more of a journey, these days; I do take my meds and all. (Oh, that's another glorious bit of yesterday. I forgot to take my meds. They work so poorly when I leave them in the containers. Damn pharmaceutical kinks.) But seriously. Last night? Nothing but nightmares. It was like a horror-marathon, I swear, and what's really impressive is how completely safe the set-ups can look. I remember a Julian entry not-too-far-back which described an Angel-inspired dream with disembodied heads and similar shit - which was not, apparently, a nightmare. This I find stunning. I can dream the most innocent, sedate scenarios, and end up sweating in wrinkly pajamas ready to cry. I mean, honestly. There is no justice in my dream world. Last night, I even dreamed that I magically ran into Roo... and then bam! someone says, "Wow, you have green hair now!" and the whole dream slides downhill. Now, really. I'm kidding. Whether or not that was a turning point remains to be deciphered. And someone telling me my hair is green instead of blue is not what I call nightmarish. But I honestly spent I-don't-know-how-many-hours (the entirety of the time I was in bed last night, minus about an hour following some alprazolam) having nightmares, waking up, falling asleep into more nightmares. I reached a point where I was physically not allowing myself to fall asleep, which is when I took the alprazolam, and I honestly did figure that at some point - *at some point* - the bad dreams would have to give out and just leave me to sleep. But no. Apparently, they don't have to. So I come to you after a good ten (?) hours of nightmares, not at all rested, and downright pissy. I'm a fan of sleep. I've spoken in favor of sleep. I am definitively pro- on this subject, and the nightmare conspiracy will not change that. Sigh. I need to tell the doctor, which I will undoubtedly forget. (If I could think to leave him a message, that'd be good. But there's so little time in an hour, I hate to waste it on anything that isn't bothering me in the moment, and generally speaking, the fact that I don't go a night without a nightmare, usually, doesn't bother me while I'm awake.) What that will lead to - manifest/latent content discussion, med changes, or - most likely - absofricking nothing... I can only guess and roll my eyes at... But I need to do something. My mom gave me a very good argument against the "my heart is going to give out because I dream every night that it's stressed, and I wake up and it doesn't normalize right away, and that means it's not normal during the dream, and that's always part of the dream, and I cannot, cannot, cannot have a heart attack, ok?" ... but I guess I'd still like to be done with the nightmares that worry me that way (not to mention the rest of them.) The heart attack thing is only one of my most overwhelming phobias. Sleeping and waking up all night with my heartbeat erratic and the muscle overworked really isn't necessary. But try telling that to the Sandman. I swear my dreams are a Stephen King brainchild, most likely a miniseries fighting against sweeps. And the scariest thing I've ever watched is quite possibly "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." Not to downplay the freakishness of that 'holiday classic' (don't be fooled! don't be fooled!) but... come on now. I do not watch horror, unless it is incredibly outdated, ridiculous horror that I can laught at... I do not need it in my dreams. Trying to fight off angry, violent mobs while coughing up shrapnel and paralyzed with the exception of my torso and head... not to mention trying to keep whoever happens to be on my side (if anyone) on my side by explaining that it's not my fault that I'm coughing up shrapnel, paralyzed, or flying... well, it all sounds fun and ridiculous when I'm awake, but anything that makes my heart pound that way is not fun and is not ridiculous. I am not going to have a heart attack at this age. However, you'd think, that the writers behind this hit I take every night would show *some* compassion around the fact that strokes and heart attacks and all that shit "at my age" are not unheard of in my world. Seen it, felt it, lost people to it, a'ight? So let's go back to Hogwarts, or the one where Mr. Rogers holds me, or even the way, way old one where I live with (Disney's) Gargoyles, and have to keep quiet about the fact that I (supposedly) don't like comic books because they all live for the stuff. Anything. I took the quiz. My life is G-rated. My dream life needs to shape up, officially.

That's an order from a very, very tired, less-than-optimistic girl.

to/be/continued when I have the energy to talk about a phone call had, a phone call missed, and a (helpful, somewhat - cathartic) Friday session...

~me

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