But these are personal daemons that I share with my therapist. They hurt.
The night before last, my still husband dropped in to cheer me up. He wafted his happiness all over me, and I was only in tears about twice. All that I prayed for came true for him. How the ugly envy reared. (and how galling that I would feel so - husband even mentioning payback upon exit.)
When he had left, it had made a total of two people within the previous four hours who had inveighed me that I must do something - do something - do SOMETHING. I think too much. I'm in my head and pondering doom and lonliness.
Ah familiar. The "do something" mantra. The "you're so much better than this life you've carved."
This instills panic in me. Brain freezes. Brain thinks "you are soooooooo fucked up." (about me).
Alone. I sit and quell the panic. Alone always.
I look at LA and think - as mark suggested - "what am I doing here?". Where to go and what to do? What would make me happy?
And I have no thought - no hope - but to fucking write. And this - I think - what will this writing do? My soon to be growing stack of words?
My allies are off doing. I bitch and complain.
I have done this. Is there hope? I can think of no alternative but death, and as an alternative I sit in my chair and I panic and I go to work and I communicate with the sporadic friends via sporadic emails and I think how I have everyone scattered and how any move I make would entail more effort and I think how I still want to have support and comrades and yokemates and I wait and I think I'm in a foxhole and I think all of that effort and turmoil in order to get myself to this place and I think why can't I be like the others and just suck it up and try and I think how I'm avoiding my work to write this silly invective which can only be labeled a self-pitying cry for solace.