kuangning: (wonder photosphere)
So there's this boy. (No, it's not that kind of entry. Or maybe it is, I dunno. Wait and find out with me.) And really, he's not a boy anymore. I've been reading his journal, what, three years now? A few emails back and forth, a couple of text messages on a few days when I was bored sitting in empty buildings. Giving into a fascination.

He's living my life. And your life. We're being dependable, honoring commitments, taking care of business. Stuck. And this boy who isn't really a boy anymore goes to Hawaii on a promise and NY on a whim, no cares for where he's gonna land or who'll feed him. And someone always does. Other people like us, stuck and dreaming of getting our wings back.

He makes me grin. And cry, sometimes, and shake my head. He terrifies me with his recklessness and makes me worry for myself and the people close to him. And I wonder what his mother makes of him, this precocious assertive feckless human she gave birth to and tried to keep safe and somehow raised without ever breaking his spirit. Sometimes I think the world needs more like him. Those are the days when I want to take my life out of his hands and into my own and live my own fantasies. And then sometimes I think he can only exist the way he does because there are sensible dependable people like the rest of us who don't mind catching him and being his safety net because he's living our fantasies for us. That if we all took our fantasies back into our own hands, who would there be to catch us?

Then again, maybe that's just what I tell myself because I'm afraid. The most reckless thing I've ever done was getting on a Greyhound bound for Toledo.
kuangning: (wistful)
Two-thirty AM, and sleep is very far away from me. I'm watching the sky again, lost in half-thoughts that come and go like the moonlight.

This is what I know.

I know that clouds scatter, blow into wisps... but that they gather, too. I know that the winds die down, dart away, change direction, even blow in circles at times... but I have felt the force of a hurricane, huddled nervous overwarm in my bed while winds regrouped and concentrated bent stout trees double outside my window. I have held a kite string in my hands and felt a steady tug. I know the winds and the clouds return.

I have stood on sand, my feet rapidly drying, and watched while coquinas scuttled to bury themselves, saw the waves fail to turn them up again. And yet I know that the tides turn.

All of those things I know, how weather runs in cycles, how Nature loves patterns, and yet.

I never wondered before if coquinas feel naked and unanchored when the tide abandons them, or whether they face it with equanimity. But I know that tonight has been a night of waiting for the tides to turn again. I feel rather like those clouds -- ragged, worn thin, pieces being teased away.

I'm on my way back to bed now, though. And overnight, there should be time enough for Cairstens, clouds, winds, and coquinas to regroup.

See you tomorrow, LJ world.
kuangning: (Default)
I looked out the window a little while ago, and almost fell into a night sky full of stars. The moon, bright and round, toyed with a tattered blanket of clouds before tossing it away on the wind.

It has been a beautiful day. There were momentary aggravations, but much laughter, much warmth, and a great deal of wonderful company. I would name names, but I'd be sure to leave someone out. So thank you, everyone. I haven't felt this dreamy content in quite some time.
kuangning: (thoughtful)
Now, Patty used to live with a two-way door
In a little white house quite near us.
But she had too much fun in school all day
And made the grown-ups nervous.
She talked in the library and sang in class,
Went four times to the toilet.
She ran through the halls and wouldn't play with dolls,
And when we pledged to the flag, she'd spoil it.

So the teachers who loved her had a meeting one day
To try to find a cure.
They thought and talked and thought some more
Till finally they were sure.
"Oh, Patty," they said, "you're an awfully sweet girl,
With a lot of potential inside you.
But you have to know how far to go
So the grown-up world can abide you.
Now, the rules are listed on the walls,
So there's no need to repeat them.
We all agree, your parents and we,
That you just can't handle your freedom."

Patty sat still and, to avoid their eyes,
She lowered her little-girl head.
But she heard their words and she felt their eyes,
And this is what she said:
"I fold my socks and I eat my beets
And on Saturday morning I change my sheets.
I lace my shoes and wash my neck.
And under my nails there's not a speck.

Even sparrows scream
And rabbits hop
And beavers chew trees when they need 'em.
I don't mean to be rude; I want to be nice,
But I'd like to hang on to my freedom.
I know you are smart and I know that you think
You are doing what is best for me.
But if freedom is handled just your way,
Then it's not my freedom or free."

So they gave little Patty an understanding smile,
And put her in a big brown box.
It has carpets and curtains and bean bag chairs,
But the door has three big locks.
kuangning: (Default)
Your personality type is ISFJ.

Introverted (I) 79% Extraverted (E) 21%
Sensing (S) 59% Intuitive (N) 41%
Feeling (F) 60% Thinking (T) 40%
Judging (J) 77% Perceiving (P) 23%

I can't escape it, it seems, even with the weasel room. *wrysmile.*

Test here.
Type description here.

I like the fact that the percentages are given. I don't like my particular percentages. Such is life, I suppose. ;)
kuangning: (wonder photosphere)
I'd almost forgotten how good it feels to plant things. Wrist-deep in soil, thinking about nothing more complicated than what these seeds need to grow best.

Planting is a prayer and the answer to that prayer all in one. Let there be life. And I know, from the second the tiny things leave my hand, that there is life, and will be life. Given time, and warmth, and space to grow, those little brown specks will become green specks, and then first leaves, and then there will be so many that I will have to make room for them again in less-cozy pots. There will be the scent of damp soil and growing things in my room for the next months. In a few weeks, that will be joined by the scents of lavender and vanilla grass. Sometime after the vanilla grass springs up, but before I can expect the lavender to bloom, my bulbs will. They're a foot tall already, having kept me company though the last few freezes without complaint. They got their own larger pot today, and seem happy to be able to stretch.

So am I happy to be able to stretch. The world still has room in it for growing things.
kuangning: (Default)

Falling floating acquiescent, waiting for something that exerts a pull. Hands in pockets, head down, shuffling, picking over stones just because, and not bothering to keep the ones that sparkle.

I remember what it was to create. My hands recall putting together things I hoped would last, pounding out words that seemed to bypass my head and flow straight from some hidden corner where someone hid who was me, and not me.

Justify your existence.
I create.

I used to believe I would cease to exist on the day I ceased to create. In a way, I have. With the future of my most personal and human accomplishment still undecided, I ceased to create at all. I've written nothing of my own worth penning, these months. I've not found a single fractal worth rendering. And I don't recognise myself in this dull, listless woman wearing my face and thinking with my voice.

I wonder if I still have the willpower to find my way back.
kuangning: (angry)
So, here's the thing.

There's a rift growing between a couple of people on my friends list. Frankly, I'm not at all conflicted about where my loyalties lie; I'm growing more and more irritated with the lack of concern one of them is showing for the other's obvious pain. Promises sidestepped, outright criticism for daring to feel pain, word games and mind games -- and, to boot, I'm really pretty damned tired of seeing someone else's comments in their LJ. I cut the person in question off awhile ago when it became plain they were dishonest and callous, and seeing their comments elicits a response of "god, why am I even bothering to read these lies anymore?"

So I've been considering dropping this person for quite some time. My problem is, the person in question hasn't given me any reason to dislike him. We're not close and never have been, but he was an interesting read. I'm not sure I'm justified in dropping him. (yes, I know, I don't really need justification for dropping someone, and if it wasn't personal I wouldn't think twice, but it is personal. There's no way around that.)

So... what do you lot think? What would you think if you were the person in question, and I dropped you for the above-stated reasons? And if you think it is you, would you even care?


Thanks, everyone. You know what I decided, no doubt -- you all made sense. And, really, I knew what I would hear from you (and what I wanted to hear from you) before I asked the question. He's been dropped. I'm still around, should he wish to discuss this with me, but I doubt that. Like I said, we were never close. And there's no reason he should cut off someone who obviously matters to him just so some woman will keep reading his LJ. There is also, however, no reason why I should keep experiencing aggravation and outright annoyance through reading his LJ and seeing that person's comments.
kuangning: (carefree)
If I told you I'd decided to stay on at the Sheraton because of the people, would you laugh at me?

Only two or three of us decided to go. Steve B., the rooms division manager, is going. I didn't get to know him very well, but I would have liked to have more time to do so. He gave the impression of being very intelligent, with the kind of mind that never misses the details, and he's very dexterous as well. His office is filled with tiny carvings and even stuffed birds. I know he didn't really want to leave us, but Innkeeper balked at meeting his salary at the beginning, and when they capitulated, it was too late. He could have changed his mind, he said, but then that opened the door for salary struggles all the way down the line. If you have to threaten to leave to get a raise, leave. It isn't worth the stress.

Tammy, our comptroller, is also leaving us. This saddens me; Tammy is the one person on the job who seems to understand the way I think. The others like me, but don't understand me. Tammy gets me, and is also the only person I know irl who heard me humming October Project and not only knew the name of the group, but knew the lyrics. I'll miss her a lot...

Joe, Carl, Daima, Shannon, Michelle... all are staying. But, oddly, they're not the ones who made up my mind for me.

A Southwest flight attendant did that.

A week or so ago, with the YMCA group still in house, her flight was delayed at the airport. They came in at 3 AM, tired and hungry, and the bar was closed. I handed out milk and cereal, and sent them to their rooms. Ten minutes later, I got a call. Toni, it turns out, has allergies. She couldn't stay in the smoking room she'd been assigned, or she'd have been sick. All the other rooms were taken, so I wound up putting a rollaway cot into the concierge lounge and leaving her with her room key so she could go downstairs in the morning to shower.

The concierge lounge was never intended to be a room. It's huge, cold, echoey, and more than a bit eerie. I wouldn't have enjoyed it a bit. But she took it very cheerfully, and didn't even complain. I went home, she left the next morning, and I didn't think much of it.

Tonight, right about the time I'd decided I was sick of the Sheraton and couldn't wait to see the last of it, at least for the night, her crew came in. She brought a letter to my supervisor, and a thank you note and a box of chocolates for me.

In case that doesn't mean much to you, let me just say that I do far more difficult things for guests on quite a few nights. We all do. And we consider ourselves lucky to get a thank you then. It's our job to serve, and people think nothing of running us ragged and then complaining that there's not more we can do for them. Even the polite ones generally go away and never give us a second thought.

She reminded me of the one thing I love most about the Sheraton. The flight crews come in every week. They know our names, ask after us and our families, stand around and hold conversations, and really appreciate the things we do for them. They're a good lot, for the most part, and Southwest are the best of them. They're more than just friends; we see them so often that we're almost extended family to more than a few of them. On a night when I was beginning to feel that I could very easily start to hate the guests, Toni reminded me that they're not all like that. And she's not atypical of the group. I doubt I'd find that elsewhere. And I can't imagine giving it up lightly.
kuangning: (thoughtful)
If you are obviously drunk, the rate you will be quoted on one of our rooms will be higher than it would have been if you were sober.

If you are obnoxious, I will look you in the eye and quote you the highest possible rate and not look for a discounted one for you.

If you are unpleasant to me or to my coworkers, and we have no reason to want you to stay, or, rather, have reason to want you to not stay, these are the options open to us. We do not have to reopen a closed discount rate for you. We do not have to go out of our way to accomodate you. Our duties require that we be polite, even when you are not. But I guarantee that if you are not, you will pay more than you would have otherwise. And we will even feel good about that.
kuangning: (magic photosphere)
Funny how some things hit harder than you think they will.

Every weekday afternoon from the time I was old enough to know how to tell time, I spent a couple of pleasant hours in front of the television with my afternoon snack in hand. Homework waited, and everything else faded into the background. Sesame Street. Reading Rainbow. Mr Rogers' Neighborhood. They were imports from the awesome USA, touched with splendour, and I made my science teacher explain more than once how it was possible that we in our tiny island could be watching the same thing at the same time as who-knew-how-many boys and girls so far away.

When we emigrated, I was twelve, and really too old for those shows. But America's almost-but-not-quite sameness left me feeling as if I'd stepped into some skewed mirror world, and I searched the Tampa stations until I found a familiar voice. And I watched every weekday afternoon until I was steadier and found other things to take up my time and pull me into my new world and my new home.

When he retired, I was sad because my children wouldn't get to experience his warmth and solidarity except in reruns. But now he's gone, and I really thought we'd have him around longer than this.

G'bye, Mr Rogers. I'll miss you. I hope you knew what a difference you made.
kuangning: (Default)
one word: fear

two words: no more

three words: it is here

five words: I will fear no evil

twelve words: dreams slip through my fingers like smoke, and yet are not gone.

twenty five words: Here, in this place, the music curls softly around me. Time has no meaning. Sunlight and shadow surround me; I have begun again to dream.

fifty words: Return to the places you have left empty too long. We are all Demeter's daughters, straying from the paths we know. Come again, comes the call... there is sunlight above, and life to be taken up again. The silent spaces wait for you. The sleeping voices sound again for you.

seventy five words: Closed doors. Locked windows. Earth piled high... and yet. And yet. In dreams, we are always free. Choose the path that suits you; I will travel the one I have seen, in quiet midnights, behind the closed shutters to my windows on the world. In the end, we arrive together. In truth, we are never apart.

Truth is truth, he told me. It does not care whether you believe. Today, I know what he means.

one hundred words: Drowning. Struggling. Pushing against the flow. Cool water mingled with frantic tears. Coughing, choking, biting back words. Speak, or breathe? No choice; the words unspoken poison. Silence kills, tears fail. Trust falters, lacks for words. Secrets; we drown in secrets, and wait for the hand that can bring us back to ourselves again. (Yours is that hand,) comes the whisper. (Yours, and your own alone.) Unheeded, unheard, it falls silent. Implacable eternity passes by uncounted, is gone. In darkness and silence, we wait.

Return, child, return. You have stayed away too long. Demeter's daughters, awaken... Life waits still for thee.

one thousand words:

picture by Susan Lyons.
kuangning: (Default)
For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
-- Rainer Maria Rilke

I don't say it often enough, I know. I lose sight of it sometimes; getting caught up in my own fears and troubles is all too easy. But that doesn't make it less true: I am blessed. That's not a word I use often, and it's always in this context for me. The people who share my life, in whatever degree of closeness, bestow on me their time, their attention, and, sometimes, their love. In this, and in them, I am blessed.

I am not an easy person to love. I have a great many sharp edges, I'm demanding and rigid and sometimes childish. Those who manage to put up with all of that, however, still have to contend with mood swings and insecurities, self-doubt and self-centeredness. All of that, and still there are people who stand by me, who never have deserted me, who never have been too busy or hurting too badly themselves to be there when I needed them.

Some of those, poor darlings, make it to the ultimate in inconsistency: they wind up being loved by me. That particular experience, I'm sure, has to be a roller-coaster ride equal to none. I am warm and happy one moment, on the verge of tears the next; my disposition is sunny long enough to let them relax, and then the thunderclouds roll in without warning. Worse, I lie. I'm fine, I say when I'm bleeding. It's my problem, I declare with a shrug. What I mean is it hurts and I don't know where to begin to tell you, but that is not what I say. I'm all right. It's not important. There's nothing anyone can do. Shorthand for I'm dealing with something that scares me and I don't trust it out of my head.

Today's been one of those roller-coaster days. I've told so many lies that they're all I can taste. And anyone who made it through today with me is entitled to a medal.

I will try again tomorrow. And perhaps tomorrow, I will get it right.

For you.

Feb. 4th, 2003 10:18 am
kuangning: (Ami)
You know who you are.

When they take from you the names by which you have known yourself, and you think they have left you alone, bereft... they have given you back into your own keeping, returned you to the care and the grace of the only irrevocable relationship you will ever find. When you reach out for a label, some connection to grasp, some role into which you can slip like a child putting on a snowsuit... you are forgetting the relief it was, to come inside and shed the restriction, peeling away the weight with impatience.

There's a space we can never step into, while we're holding some other hand but our own. There are things we never know, while someone else's wants echo around us. We never face a true reflection if we only see ourselves through another's eyes. Mourn your losses, but don't forget to make use of the gift. You are much more than you know.
kuangning: (exposed - Franssen)
Oh we never know where life will take us;
I know it's just a ride on the wheel...
And we never know when death will shake us,
And we wonder how it will feel...

-- Goodbye, My Friend
by Karla Bonoff

In the midst of yesterday's loss, I noticed again something that I noticed first more than a year ago -- a divergence in the reactions people had to the news. Some were unaffected entirely, others shaken to the core. Among both groups, there is another marked division. One camp avers that mourning is the natural, the most proper action in this time. The other holds that these deaths mean no more than any other deaths, and should be treated similarly. I watched someone argue that unless we grieve equally for all, it is somehow a shameful thing, to grieve for any. After all, death comes every day, and not just to the gifted or the celebrity.

Why do we mourn the ones we mourn? What sets some apart in our minds, singles them out for special notice and attention? I don't have a definitive answer to that, nor do I have an inclusive one.

What I can say of myself, though, is that I need a focus for my grief. I need a human touch, a face, a personality quirk that makes someone real to me and brings the situation into my home and my heart and my space where I sit. I can weep for a planet, if I know that planet's curvatures, its rhythms, if I have tasted of it and have, perhaps, some secret spot upon it that I think of as my own. I can weep for humanity as a race, because I am human and I know, as we all know, of what things humanity is capable, and how far short of that we've fallen. I could have wept for yesterday's seven simply because they were humans also. I did not. I guess that makes me less than the ideal myself, and I can accept that judgment.

But it's not that these seven were celebrities. I had never seen their faces before yesterday, had seen their names in text twice. Until yesterday morning, they were part of the nameless, faceless entity of Other People. Bright, brave Other People exist, I know, and I'm glad of them, and proud of what they accomplish, but they're not very immediate to me. They're amorphous, nothing there to hold onto. So were the seven astronauts, until I came across David Brown and his "do we really have to come back?" He changed it, in my mind. He became the peg upon which I could hang my sadness and my fear and my pity and my hope, became the reason I was sad -- and brought the others with him.

I think that's the way the majority of us grieve. And I believe we're wired that way for a good reason. If we wept every time a child died, each time someone was murdered or starved or suicided, we would never see an end to grieving. There would never be closure, unless we went the other direction and grieved none of the losses at all. I have known a few people who grieved for no-one. None of them were pleasant or compassionate or sane. It's impossible to grieve everyone equally and stay sane. Some of them have to matter more than others, have to stand out in our minds and be the reasons we can grieve. Who should those people be, but the ones who have qualities we admire, who do the things we dream of, who accomplish the remarkable?

With as much tragedy as the media serves up to us every day, and as constantly surrounded as we are by the horrifying, the saddening, the gruesome, the unfair... is it surprising if we become too jaded to weep at all? If we can grieve at all, for anyone, no matter whom or why, well, I believe that's a step in the right direction. And I believe that anyone who attempts to dissuade another from grieving any loss, for any reason, is at best misguided. One of the things about us is that sometimes things come out of a clear blue sky that shake us deeply, that make us look around and take notice. Whenever something like that does, it's not something that's going to be made better or somehow alleviated if we're too ashamed of showing special favour and attention to let ourselves feel what we feel.

And that's what I believe.
kuangning: (exposed - Franssen)
It's almost healed over, but still, I get twinges every now and again. Knowing where they come from helps.
I no longer tell myself I've been forgotten.
I don't say "I'm not enough." Instead, I say "I feel like I'm not enough," and that sounds like a small difference but isn't. It is a mood, a feeling, and it will pass -- and it does.

Sometimes I still do feel like I'm a convenience and nothing more. Sometimes I still do get hung up on feeling invisible and unremarkable and lacking in whatever it takes to capture and hold attention and affection. Unlovely and ungentle, ungracious and expendable. I still hear the lectures on family life from my parents. I still get chivvied into makeup and nail polish every now and again, ignoring the fact that it's more likely that I'll feel even more awkward in them than that the extra fuss will make me feel better.

Hrm. Why shouldn't makeup and the like, knowing I look nice, make me feel better, anyway?
- because they're not directly providing what I need or think I need right then. (love/approval/affection, or close enough.)
- because even if they're indirectly providing what I need, I'd resent having to change myself so drastically to get it. (wasn't I worth anything before you covered up the real me with Stuff? Because if not, then I'm really still worthless, it's just that now I'm a carrier for the Stuff, which is what you really like/love/want/approve of.)
- because I feel like the fuss (time/money/attention) is wasted on me, usually.

That's a bigger one that it sounds like. I still feel guilty about doing things for myself, sometimes. The usual reasoning is it's not a necessity. There are fifty other ways you could use that resource. What that boils down to, sometimes, is a nicer way of telling myself I don't deserve this. It's generally a plausible reason in my mind for denying myself something, and sometimes it's an accurate and necessary tool and helps me to keep my own priorities straight. But sometimes I use it to prioritise my own happiness right out of the picture. I know better, in my head. But on a gut level, sometimes I'm still not satisfied unless I'm sacrificing my own wants to someone else's, in the hope that the universe will be "fair" and I will be "repaid" with love and loyalty. And while I do not usually say out loud, see? I gave up ___ for you, and what do I get in return? I sometimes still feel that way. I know I learned that behaviour from my father, whom I love dearly, but I don't want to keep it, thankyouanywayDaddy. The urge to play the martyr is one of my worst qualities, not one of my best.

- if I have to give up something before you like/love/want/approve of me, then it still isn't really me you like/love/want/approve of, it's either the thing I gave up or the fact that I'll give in/submit/fulfill the expectations you have of me. And on some level, I will know that (how could I not?) and I will resent you, and myself for giving in. But mostly with me, because I gave up something that mattered to me to buy something I apparently don't merit just by virtue of being me, even though I should.
- if you accept my sacrifice and don't "value" it, (love/affection/approval again,) then I will be angry with you and with myself for giving in. But mostly with you, because, well, I gave up something that mattered to me because your love/approval/affection mattered more, and you used me. Meaning, you disappointed me by not giving me what I felt was fair return for the coin I used.

Core problem, then, is not being happy/satisfied with who I am. And I can fix that. But not by giving up more of me. I can fix it by being the kind of person I admire most, and building the kind of life I'd like to have. And anything I do in the pursuit of that, so long as it doesn't hurt someone else, even if it benefits no-one except me, is okay and worth it.
I can also fix it by appreciating what I already am, and what I already have. That costs nothing, hurts no-one, and is also worth it. So long as I don't focus so exclusively on that that I forget to let myself change and grow.

This feels like enough for now.
kuangning: (exposed - Franssen)
You know, it really is this simple.

I can do badly all by my damned self. I don't need a partner for that.

I can be happy all by myself, too. I can be content, I can laugh, love, and truly live, all without a partner.

If I can't find a measure of joy and love with you that I cannot achieve by myself... why do I need you? Give me a reason why I should commit to making the effort to sustain any sort of relationship with you -- and every relationship takes effort to sustain -- when I don't gain anything from it I couldn't have without interlacing my life with someone else's, complicating every facet of my days.

Every single person in my life right now has more than justified their presence in whatever relationship we enjoy. Some of you amuse me, some make me think, some remind me of who I am and where I'm headed. Some simply love me and are loved in return. All of you have helped me raise the bar this last year or so. You, collectively, and I, independently -- we are enough. More than enough. I only know one person of whom I could say for certain "he's more than enough, all by himself," and, oddly enough, I'm happy just to have him be around as one of you.

It's a tough thing these days, finding more joy and love than I already have in my life.
kuangning: (thoughtful)
Right. I was supposed to talk about letting go at some point.

I just saw my ex, the younger children's father, for the second time in as many weeks. We talked, quietly and mostly openly, about a lot of things. The question's come up of setting up a household again -- I want to move out, so does he, and it would probably be in the children's best interests, the list of pros runs. Still, I've put off making the decision.

*He's lost weight, is back to the way he was when I met him.
*He seems more brittle than before.
*He hasn't really changed otherwise. And that's comfortable, but disquieting.
*Gods, I have changed.

Those were my thoughts.

His cellphone rang during our couple of hours together. His roommate/sex partner keeps him on a short leash.
She sounded angry, suspicious. I sat there quietly, looking out the window of her car. And when he finished making excuses to her, never quite lying but not being forthcoming, either... I told him in as many words that I've enough baggage of my own that I don't want to deal with his.

I feel a little numbed, but a lot grateful. He's a comfortable past in some ways, the easy out of my parents' house. A year or two ago, I'd have jumped at it, and counted it fair that I was rescuing him from his own unpleasant reality. Today, I'm just relieved that he isn't my responsibility to take on. I love him, and wish him well -- but that "well" is *growth.* And he's very determined to not change, right now. He tells the same jokes. He wears his hair the same way, makes the same deliberate gestures, talks about the same people -- none of whom he's seen lately because that would mean coping with their changes. He's very invested in keeping his world static. And that makes me sad.

I also see a bit of the same thing in my perception of Richard, and it makes me glad he never picked up that card. If his world is the same tiny one it was ten years ago, I don't want to know it. I know that he, too, tells the same jokes -- that's enough. I don't really want to go backward. I want -- not need -- someone who will, at the very least, grow with me. If I can't have that, well, then I'm much better off by myself.
kuangning: (cheerful)
In three days? I will have made my 90 days as an Interstate employee.
As of the 1st, I will have medical coverage.
Because I've had no treatment and no meds for six months, (and I haven't needed them!) depression is not a pre-existing condition, and will be covered. I can, if I need to, get back on Wellbutrin. I can (and I do need/want to) go back into therapy.
I do enjoy my job.
I do feel like a necessary and valuable part of the team.
I do feel secure enough to consider seriously the possibility/necessity of going back to school, without feeling that I'm lacking the basics because I haven't.
I'm mostly comfortable with my finances right now, and feel up to facing the difficulties I've yet to clear off my plate.

I'm not completely satisfied. And that's a good thing -- there are still things I want to do and be, goals to reach for. But I'm so much better off than I was this time last year. In a lot of important areas. And sometimes I forget that. I will remember today.
kuangning: (Default)
Is it all right or even sane to be sad over losses not yet incurred? Over things still, as yet, securely in my grasp -- is it strange to be mourning the future, like a child sobbing over the far-off day of her peaceful death?

I want.

That's my trouble right now.

The sun is shining, but I've caught the scent of the storm, and I want more time! The reservoir is full, but I can taste the dust, the grit of drought ahead, I can feel the way I will be: aching, empty, too parched to even shed tears... perhaps that's why I feel I have to shed them now, because someone should. Perhaps it's nothing more than the fact that there's a price that will have to be paid and I may as well begin.

My skin is too tight, today. I'd like to slip out of it for awhile, to put my arms around the world and absorb it, just the way it is in this instant. So that I can hope to find my way back, when it changes.

September 2015

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