Saturday, September 24, 2016

Walked dog around little Wedgewood park. Did an errand. Was feeling tired, but okay, when I started to feel shaky again. It's exhausting, this trying to pretend to be functional, and, even, cheerful.

Friday, September 23, 2016

Mouth breathing. All of the time. I don't understand why because it's cool and rainy outside, cool inside. I shouldn't be mouth breathing. But I am.


I tweeted something tonight I thought was funny. I was responding to a hashtag meme. No one has liked it, much less retweeted. I guess it wasn't funny.


I worry constantly about going bald. My mother didn't go bald. I know of no woman in my family who went bald. On the contrary, we have great hair. I have great hair. That's how it's supposed to be. But there's all this hair on my hairbrush. And so much hair on the bathroom floor. I thought it was Buddha's, and some of it is. But a lot isn't Buddha's. 


I tried to tell Karen about my fears of going bald. She's very dismissive of anything I say.  Everyone's hair thins in old age, she says. I'm 51 - does it start now, I ask? Well, get a wig, she says instead of answering. So you're saying I need a wig? I ask. She's very dismissive. 


If I go bald, I have nothing left that is attractive about me. I will have nothing of what I used to be. 


Karen's never been afraid of anything. I have to be careful of what I say, or I will be shouted at. It's all in my head, evidently. Feelings aren't real. Worries aren't real. I  should just tell myself my feelings are nothing but a chemical imbalance. Other people have it much worse. I should think of people who have family members who are mean to them: I'm lucky not to have any family because they could be like that. Think of other people who are worse off and you'll feel better. 


It doesn't work. I just can't think like her. I guess I'm an inferior model of person. The himan race needs more Karens and fewer of me.


I brought home my work laptop and all these folders. I was hoping to have time to work on the novel outline - the novel itself is languishing. 2 months now since I've written a chapter. But I've had such a hard time concentrating at work lately that I'm way behind on this project they've stuck me with. It's really a job for an analyst, not a writer/editor. I don't understand it and I don't know how to do it, but I don't dare ask for help. Not there. Not me. I just try to keep my head down. 


I'm thinking of experimenting with some of the meds I've been keeping in a box in the closet as the years go by. I have some Dubonnet. lf I took a Vicodin and a glasss of Dubonnet maybe I could sleep through the night? I just wish I could get a few nights of sleep. Maybe I could think more clearly about things.


I've been trying to play solitaire at the dining room table and listen to some music. But I just can't relax, although Imm very tired.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Struggled all evening with the pointlessness of it all. Tried playing solitaire and listening to old radio shows. But even Vincent Price as The Saint didn't cut through. Made several mistakes at work and did a really stupid thing and totally preventable thing that could lose me my job if they found out. Decided to try to go to bed earlier from now on, but sleep has been hard to come by lately.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

Yawning and feelings of tiredness continue. I got very little done today at work. My concentration is just shot. I must, must get it back. 

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

I'm very sorry about the ending to the Jacob Wetterling case. In 1989 I was in college. As the years passed, it became obvious he wouldn't be found alive. But I still hoped for a Hollywood miracle ending. I hate the plea agreement, but I understand that it was the way to get Heinrich to confess and tell where he had buried Jacob's body. At least that monster will be put away for 20 years on the child porn charges, and I can't imagine he'll ever be granted parole. I can't imagine he'll leave prison ever. It's not much, but it's all the justice we're going to get in a mostly civilized country. And, anyway, there's no punishment that we could mete out that would be harsh enough. Even if we had the death penalty back, it still wouldn't be enough to pay for the rape and murder of an 11-year-old boy and the God knows how many other children that he's stalked and damaged.

-- And my neighbor is the aunt of Cassie Hanson who was kidnapped and murdered in 1981. Her body was thrown into a dumpster. -- I can't think about all of this too much. 
Have been trying to speak cheerfully and put on a brave front. It is exhausting. But I feel threatened and attacked and cornered if I don't speak cheerfully and pretend things are okay, so I am trying. It's exhausting.

It's an effort to do anything. I did listen to some good music by the river this weekend. It was lonely being on my own when the rest of the crowd was in twos or clumps, but the music was good and the river was beautiful and clean to look at. The boats were very bright, lots of yellow sails. Flocks of starlings on the bank and in the trees, for some reason.

I've been driving around aimlessly. Hundreds of miles. I was in Menomonie this morning at about 1 a.m. for no reason. I should have been in bed. When I finally got home, I realized that I didn't have any clean work clothes to wear to work today. I was up for another 2 hours doing laundry. The 5 a.m. alarm clock came so soon.

Apart from renaming my novel Liam In My Head and correcting a typo, I haven't been able to write anything more. I'm stuck near the beginning, and have been for weeks now. Just can't concentrate.

I'm having the worst time focusing at work. I am so behind on my to do list, and I'm forgetting to do routine things like update the website when one webinar is finished and another one is coming up. I shouldn't need to be reminded of things like that.

It's humid again. Such a weird beginning to September. I hate humidity. I don't understand how we can have a thunderstorm and driving rain, and yet the humidity doesn't get blown away.



Tuesday, August 30, 2016

I took the dog to the vet on Saturday. She said he's in amazing shape. She said it twice. She said, if his muzzle weren't graying, she would think he was 6, not 10. He, as usual, dragged me into the vet's office (he likes going in places) and dragged me to the counter so he could plant his paws on the counter and demand a treat. Which he got, of course.

She said that I seemed tired and asked if I was feeling well.

I have mixed feelings about the dog being in amazing shape. She assured me bigger dogs are living to 17 these days. 17. That's 7 more years. 7 more years of this. She misunderstood my expression, I think, because she assured me that she thinks Buddha will be one of those dogs who lives that long. What I couldn't tell her is that I don't want him to live that long - because I'll have to live that long.

On the other hand, I can't shorten his life by not doing the basics. That would be cheating. So I'm having his teeth cleaned in September for the last time. She said he could use another cleaning and the chances of anesthesia problems increase after 10 years old, so I made the appointment for September. And I'll continue to switch between buying him Canidae or Taste of the Wild grain-free dog food, giving him his anti-heartworm once a month, and checking him for ticks, and all the other things a good dog owner is supposed to do.

It's funny how things go on when you don't want them to. Life goes on.

It's like I'm on autopilot. I looked at the begonia by my door last night and wondered how long it's been since I watered it. I really do not know how long it's been. So I watered the plants.

I looked at the calendar for the first time in I don't know how long and noticed that I'm supposed to host book club on 9/12. The first question asked by tradition is "Why did you choose this book?" I not only have forgot why I chose the book, I have forgot which book I chose.

Sunday, August 14, 2016

Every day is a struggle to stay alive. Every morning on the way to work I think I could just turn the wheel and all on the oncoming cars on 494 would crash into me. Every evening on the way home I think This one? as I drive over the bridges. One sharp turn as I step on the gas and I'd end up in the Minnesota River or the Mississippi. All day long I think what the hell is the point. There's nothing I really enjoy anymore.

I have reached a point in this life of mine when I say loudly and clearly that I am struggling with despair and suicidal ideation and people who have my phone number don't call. Not a one. 

I know I'm not loved. I know I'm only acceptable when I'm amusing. I know there is no possibility of love for me in this world. I get it.

The only reason I make it home every day is that the dog is at home. I promised him, when I gave away the little black dog, I said to him in the backseat as I drove out of Stockholm I am not going to give you away. Don't worry. I will find a way to feed you. I will keep you until you die. 

I am trying to keep that promise. But it is so hard. I find myself hoping he doesn't love much longer. I wish I could be free. But I made a promise, even though he's only a dog, it was a promise. I wish I hadn't. I don't want to live like this anymore.

I am so scared. All of the time. And so tired.