Come to close the day now, and I realize I haven't wasted it. My days seem so uneventful usually (despite my trying to keep in perspective that the work I do is very time- and energy-consuming) that I've sort of grown accustomed to feeling like every day matters regardless of what's gone on. (Not the worst possible outcome certainly.) But I did a lot today, in some ways without even realizing it. I responded to one e-mail and one letter, both of which I'd put off answering far too long, probably because they matter so much to me. (Now if I could just scribble-type something to my cousin - who must have e-mailed me *months* ago, I'd really have bragging rights.) I did some writing and felt weirdly returned to something that fits so obviously into my life and still manages to fall out of it rather often. (A little less so with this journaling, 'though I'm having to push myself to do it tonight, when it's pretty much just a recitation of the facts. I want to point out to myself all the cool things I did, no matter how boring they seem.) I did some reading, which I've done a lot of lately, and I have yet another book to pick up from the library... (did I mention that I went to the library for the first time since that horrible "let's pretend I'm not agoraphobic" day? did I mention that our library kicks ass, in so far as it's geared entirely toward introverts? I can check myself out! and kind people descend out of nowhere to solve problems for which I haven't even considered seeking help. like: oh, try this barcode on the inside, and whoosh! they've vanished again. I love it.) I'm going to end up renewing them all, though, because now that I've gotten something from the library, I've fallen into books that I own. (I was reading books that I owned before I went to the library, but when I went, I'd gotten pretty desperate. I don't know where all this newly enticing lit came from...) So, I need to get over caring whether the library people (notice that I renew a few books) and jump to the conclusion that I can't read fast enough or well enough to finish some quick reads in a few weeks. Because, you know, people spend their entire lives mulling over my incapacities; it's really their only form of recreation. Bah.
I'm also pushing myself to make sure and read for the sake of reading - or as it says on my newest blank book, the cover of which looks like an old-school due-date card (maybe you've seen them; they're everywhere here), to "read in order to live"^ - and not in order to sound smart. A few ordeals back, I was struggling with my need to feel smart; I'd had a conversation with my mom that went really sour: I'd just finished reading or rereading (I can't remember which of these books I've actually read) the second Wizard of Oz book, and I was talking about an arithmetic error in a scene where they need to count to seventeen by twos. I was proud of myself because I realized right away that all you had to do was start at -1 (or 1, or 3, or any odd number under 17) and you could count to seventeen by twos easily. When I posed the riddle to my mom, she came up with more poetic ways, figurative ways that had nothing to do with math. So then I told her that in the book, the saw-horse (who, by the way, gets treated less than decently throughout the entire book, despite being one of the best and most helpful characters) finally "solves" it by saying, "Start with 1/2." They then multiply 1/2 by 2, which may lead you to think they're going to multiply by twos throughout. But no! After starting this way, they switch to adding twos. So: 1/2, 1, 3, 5 etc. It's completely illogical, more illogical than any of the Digitopolis errors, and it made me growl.
However, as Mom and I discussed it, she developed this passion which led her into a state that, to me, feels like arguing. To her, it's like sharing or something; it's an intellectual exchange. She feels we're building on each other's information, and I feel like someone always has to one-up me or prove me wrong. I'm feeling like I want so badly to tell someone something *new* in a world where everyone has long since learned all that I know. (Not at all connected to my being the youngest member in a family of seven rather bright, intelligent people, I'm sure.) From my perspective, Mom kept challenging me, saying I wasn't right, and I kept saying I was right, and I spelled it out for her, and she said something like, "We're saying the same thing; we're saying the same thing," which bugged me because I felt we'd gone from "No, Mary" to "It's this, Mary" to "Yes, Mary, that's just what I was saying; it's this"... I sort of blew up at her, and she went away for awhile, which made me cry guiltily. I think I'm feeling the lack of school somewhat. Mostly, that's a good thing in my life, but the cheap affirmation of it has gone away, and I think I have a hard time with the fact that I don't feel I've shown I'm smart to anyone for a long time. So, then, I start to think of books I want to read, and I start to think of what other people have read, and it turns into this massive "Let's become more educated than anyone in the world" struggle, which really I don't need right now. Really, I just want to check books out at my introvert-friendly library and read them in order to live.
(Not to deny the presence of geekish pride in what I read. Dorkish pride as well. As I've tried to think up books I've missed along the way, a few silly things have occurred to me...For instance, I would like to have read something by every author mentioned in the Moxy Fruvous song "My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors." Because that would be cool. To me. Because I am a dork, and therefore dorkishness is cool to me.)
For the record, Mom and I made up almost right away. She was sweet, understanding, and Mom-ish. Not so vulnerable as she has been and not about guilt-tripping.
And for anyone who was wondering, this second Oz book (they didn't have the first...so I haven't reread that) - but this second one confirms my very sad theory that I don't much like L. Frank Baum. His worlds are interesting enough, but his writing style really doesn't appeal to me, and I really don't think it's just because they're kids' books. I like kids' books, and a good many of them hold up when read in later years. But with the exception of a mystically transsexual princess in a book written in 1904 (even if they did sort of skim right past the gender issues) which definitely gives the book some merit, there wasn't a lot of it worth the time. Although I do have to say, so much as the army of vain girls pilfering the Emerald City annoyed me, I dug that they attacked with knitting needles. Crochet hooks, of course, are only used in peacetime.
What the hell was I talking about? (Just the facts, ha!...) Things I did today. Oh, I finally wrote questions for Beth and Shannon, per the lj interview meme, another small thing that I was putting off and therefore is nice to have finished. I didn't take a walk, but I did go out - for the first time in several days. I went to see "The Triplets of Belleville" which is seriously brilliant, but was probably not the best idea for my first outing since the weekend. I haven't even taken a walk, what with the whole crisis these past few days, and I went into a busy part of the city, around five, to see a movie. Basically it was too high-profile (everyone was looking at me and judging me; I had to keep my eyes averted so as not to confirm this...::rolls said eyes::), involved too many people-interactions (though the concessions stand girl was new and really nice), and unnecessarily scary things like eating in front of people - strangers, no less. Just last week I was eating meals out, but it's a consistency issue, and I think I dove too far in this time. In fact, when Mom asked me, just as we got to the theater, if I was ok, and didn't believe me when I said yes, I almost asked to go home. I knew the doctor would be proud of that, and the difficulty of everything kind of makes me think it would have been best. But then, this was the last night ToB was playing (I was comforted knowing I sat in a theater "filled" with procrastinators), and I didn't want to miss it. I'm glad I didn't miss it. So, I think all in all, it wasn't so much a bad decision to go - because my desire not to was getting to me; I'm not supposed to do things when I don't want to, but there's a point of not wanting to that's motivated by anxiety, and in that state, staying home frustrates me. So, I don't know. I have something to tell the doctor tomorrow. (Our decision Monday, before Sara called and things changed accordingly, was that I plan an outing in addition to my walk for Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Apparently, he doesn't like my "Go out one day, rest for three" method. Barnacles. Tuesday and Wednesday were spent recouperating, and I know he's ok with that because he laughed when I even bothered to mention on the phone that I hadn't gotten out Tuesday. He also laughed, with a touch of sympathetic rage, when I told him John's so intent on spending time with me - cool - that he's overlooking the reality of my anxiety - uncool. He's developed this attitude that's sort of like, "I know you don't like to go places, but you should at least suck it up and learn to sit around *somewhere else*" - i.e. his apartment. The doctor said, "That's it! That's what we've forgotten in your treatment! We never told you to suck it up!" ...Sometimes I like the doctor bunches.)
Anyway, that was, of course, the big thing. And the movie seriously was worth it, especially teamed with the short "Destino"... Plus, I came home thinking I'd crash; I'm exhausted from not sleeping well, (and likely a few other things) lay down to read (after eating dinner, thank you very much), and ended up taking a phone call. I had no idea I wanted to talk on the phone. I actually thought I probably did not want to talk on the phone. And I ended up babbling on and on and on, and that's really quite wonderful because it's not something I'm comfortable doing. It meant a lot that Beth cared enough to just let me ramble about the whole messed-up situation, as if nothing else was happening in the world. And she sincerely listened, you know? I have a really hard time letting a conversation be about me or my need to vent, and I sort of fell into that before I even realized it. And then she made it so I didn't feel like an apology was necessary (although I could feel one forming just the same.) Afterward, my mom asked me, "Who is Beth?" and I was like, "Umm...Beth is..." How do I answer that, you know? I eventually realized that none of my Beth-memories reached Mom's radar, including the bear-custody, and she simplified it to, "She's someone you know from Rogers?" which made it easy. Not Rogers, diaryland. Thank goodness my parents have now met enough of my diaryland friends to not freak out when I say that. Or at least, to keep their freakouts to themselves.
That seems to empty me for the night; I suppose I poured a good deal out in talking. Friends are underrated. Good friends. Beth said something about not even knowing Sara and still feeling for her, and after I hung up, I was like, "Well, that makes sense; you're sisters." They're two of the only people who've actually adopted the name Brave on occasion, so it seemed especially apparent. And it made me smile. Some day we'll have a family "reunion" where everyone can get to know each other, which will be less awkward than my extended family gatherings, where everyone pretends to know each other instead of just throwing up their hands and saying, "So, right. Um. Who are you?"
I'm an agoraphobic planning a transgenetic family gathering. Oh the amusement.
~me
^Gustave Flaubert