...

goddammit so hard.

...

GBU

The Good:

There is sunshine.
Our Dogwood tree is pre-blooming.
There was a purring, warm, fuzzy cat perched on my hip.
I've got a lovely home and someone to love & care for/with me.
The garden plants haven't started peeping up yet, but they're trying.

I was lucky enough to see my bff and his wonderful, fantastic kids this past weekend.

The Bad:

I slept on the couch again last night due to poor planning. (fyi: putting a printer on a wheelchair seat and forgetting to put it back when finished = no way to get to bed for me)
My insomnia gerbils were almost gone - alas, they are back.
I am depressed and PMDD'ing and so tired.
Did I mention the PMDD?
Everywhere hurts.
Even there.

The Ugly:

In recent weeks, I became slowly aware of an apparently repressed memory. There were no fuzzy lights, or streaming camera effects to go along with this memory. There are, however, varying degrees of anger, shame, guilt (for nothing, as I did no wrong) and sadness. It is one thing to be assaulted. It is another if that assault is sexual in nature. It becomes a horrid thing when the perpetrator of said trauma is a relative. Who was so drunk they don't remember anything.

Thing, thing. THING. The more one uses a word, the less that word retains its meaning.

I was a thing. More times than I care to number. I still am a thing, in the minds of many.

A disabled thing, a thing with a hole, a useless and worthless thing, a thing to be used, a thing to abuse. A thing to kick, a thing to throw, a thing to beat. Thing, thing, THING.

I am curious if my lifelong guilt complex is related to my thingness. If, by treating every other human (and many inanimate objects) as better than myself, I encouraged the behaviour. I devalued myself, which inadvertently gave silent permission to the world to devalue me too.

If I am to blame for all of this, then...I don't even know how to end that sentence.

Just Keep Swimming

If I can make it through until tomorrow, the past 96+ hours of pain will have been worthwhile.

In other news, the hub says no to my idea of cutting my legs off above the knee.

Melty

I can't get out of bed. My muscles are all - ALL rebelling against me in an attempt to turn me into mattress. It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to p, and of the dang mailman was on a set schedule (I have to mail my therapy check!). He kind of breezes by when the mood strikes, it seems.

But the bigger issue I'm having is how to get up so I don't piss myself.

See that? That's the glamorous side of being disabled. I know you're jealous; it's okay.

Not so Bitchy, Mostly.

I am very, very stressed out, my dot is crazy-heavy, and my insomnia gerbils are just fucking with me lately.

So what do I do when I am this tightly wound? I look at things like this:

(via greenleaf dollhouses )

Tiny things that I can manipulate and control and design and hold in my hands. Probably doesn't hurt that my favourite book to read in grade school was "Five Dolls and Their Friends"  which, thanks to my dearheart friend Greg, I have a copy of to reread. 

Also, Dawn of the Dead is pretty good for watchin' too. 

Fnurgleshlermp

My brain, she won't turn off.
She won't go to sleep, either, and is presently sending hunger pangs southward. Hungry-hungry-headache is next, so evasive action is required...but not easy.

HolycrapIamtired.

Dad dad dad dad dad dad (me) dad dad

That title is pretty much where my head has been.

Because otters.