Crash

So, you know how you hit a stretch of good luck, and at first you're kind of suspicious of it because it looks too perfect? And then you stop being suspicious and just enjoy it for awhile, but in the back of your head maybe you wonder when the other shoe will drop? And then you hit that end of the good luck, abrupt or tapered and part of your brain goes "Damn, why did I fall for that? I knew it was too good to last long"? But of course, by the time that hits you, you've settled into a new routine that doesn't include the old defensive posture....

I suppose in the scheme of things I'm not that bad off. I've still got a new car. I'm still moving into a new house. But I've been feeling something looming, pressing down on me the last two weeks, making me want to bite everything in sight in spite of my good fortune, and I suppose I should have taken that as a warning.

I mean, I knew that things were going to be tight. However well you budget anything, little things are going to bite you in the behind with glee and force. There are bills mounting up in my brain, some of which we didn't need to incur, that will need paying soon, but we in all likely hood are not going to be able to pay them off in a timely fashion. I learned last night a number of banks have crashed and there was a closed session in the government the other day where they discussed the imminent threat of an economic crash of the U.S. I am disabled and a student and depend on a stable government for money, which will go away in the event of such a colossal disaster. Raymond wants to pull all but the money necessary out of our bank accounts so that we don't run the risk of losing it, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I am dead-level certain that not only will cash not collect interest, it is more likely to be spent than if it is sitting in a savings account. And besides all of that....if such a thing happens then we won't be able to depend on the infrastructure of the city, various utilities, the availability of food or gas or a thousand other things. In an economic crash, programmers are not in high demand, so it's possible Raymond might lose his lovely new job as well. That means we'll have NO money coming into the house....and we simply cannot afford that now. The only good things I can think of out of this (and they are lighter gray patches in a sea of black) is that I might not have to pay back those debts I owe if we have an economic reset.

Of course I feel like a complete wacko considering the collapse of our economy. That's a conspiracy theorist topic, isn't it? Except that one of the nation's biggest banks went under the other day, and there have been something like thirty smaller that have folded recently as well. The FDIC can't take care of them all. But in the event that such craziness doesn't happen for whatever reason, then I'm going to be left feeling like an idiot with a bunch of survival supplies on my hands and not the money I spent on them.

Even without economic disaster things are still going to be tight. I'm fairly certain we aren't going to be able to pay off either credit card or computers before they begin accruing interest, although we may manage the washer and dryer at least. Those bills are going to eat us alive, and the only thing we can hope for is a bonus to Raymond's paycheck, or at least to have his expenses come in.

Let's add to all this one best friend who is ill and in economic travail, whom I would like to rescue but can't because all of my assets are tied up in other things. I'm not as bad off as she is, so I feel guilty not only for not rescuing her, but for not being able to do it even though I can afford food more readily. Another best friend is heading for Japan tomorrow, and I wasn't able to see her one last time. I just hope she answers her phone today. Still another friend is leaving for Washington State in December, a woman who has been a steady rock in my life for almost the last year or so. I'm headed into a rough period of my life and I'm losing the two calmest people in my life, the people who have acted like harbors in a storm for me. I'm not sure how badly I'll scare off anyone else, and I know for a fact that too many of my friends depend on me for a similar service, or at least have too much drama in their own lives to cope with mine too. It is not in me to wish them anything but the greatest possible joy in their futures, but I seriously resent the circumstances that have led me here. Or something. I need to resent something.

And then there are the little things. I HAVE to get the litmag done. School ends in a week and I HAVE to get that work done. Moving has snuck up on me and I'm not ready for it yet, my house isn't ready for it yet.... Will I or won't I get a chance to see my grandparents in a couple of weeks? It depends on whether I can get a ride. Whether I can get a ride depends on how successful another of my friends is with his new business venture. If he is VERY successful, he won't be able to take me, but I can't possibly hope he WON'T succeed. I have too much to do, and not enough time to do it in. There are too many circumstances I don't have any control over, and the ones I do I don't really see anyway not to mess them up. Moreover, I'm back to wanting to hide in the back or my closet or under my bed and tell everyone and everything to go to hell. I don't even necessarily have my health. I desperately need to visit a dentist, but don't have the time for that. Of course, if things crash magnificently in the next few months, I might never get a chance to go see one, so I should probably MAKE time to have my jaw drilled into painfully. I'm solid knots from the base of my skull to the tips of my toes and can't seem to get anything to relax. All of my ligaments have tightened down to screaming levels over the last few months. My hip aches almost every day now no matter what I do, I might just have to start living on painkillers -- if they'll work.

I resent practically everyone and everything right now for various reasons, and want desperately to have a target on which to settle the blame for all of this.

And in the midst of this I am aware that my situation is still pretty good, comparatively, so I have that little annoying voice in the back of my head telling me that I'm whining, I don't really have anything to complain about, and I should just get over myself and do the things I need to do. Thanks so very much, little voice.

I'd better go take some vitamin B. And eat something. At least that will give me something legitimate to bite.

New Job, New Car, New House, New Stratum of Society

So I mentioned we were going to go looking at a house to rent in my last entry. Here it is, and yes, we go to sign the paperwork tomorrow for moving. Our lease with our current apartment runs through August, and we have given them their outrageous sixty days notice. SIXTY days? Seriously? It's the new management. We're probably not going to get our security deposit back, having been here for four years of wear and tear. But we'll still be more than fine, I think.

So, nice house right? It's right across the street from grocery store, so I can get food while Raymond is away. The whole area is fenced in and densely vegetated, with a natural pond nearby full of fish. The backyard has a deck with a retaining wall, and it is very, very private. It has three bedrooms and two bathrooms, with a decently sized laundry room and a walk-in closet almsot the size of our guestroom. It will, quite simply, fit us perfectly.

But wait, what is that parked in front of the two car garage? That, my friends, is Eve, our very own 2007 Mustang convertible. She's lovely and a sheer joy to drive, and still has most of her manufacturer's warranty. The buying of this car has apparently increased our credit substantially. Eve has only two drawbacks for me: she can only take two passenger's in the backseat, and the front passenger seat was never designed for passengers my shape and size. I don't know who it was designed for, but I'm going to have to figure out some sort of cushion system that works or cripple myself riding in it. The driver's seat has all manner of bells and whistles for adjustment, and so does not have that problem.

For the first time in my adult life I am above the poverty line, and it feels wonderful. The simple fact that I can buy a book (a new book!) when I want one feels jawdroppingly amazing to me after so long hating to window-shop because I could never afford anything I looked at. It's like stretching after spending a lot of time inside a very small box. And who is responsible for this wonderful change of events in my life? That would be Raymond, pictured on the right, hard at work at his new job after earning his well-deserved degree in a subject he loves. In January we began not only a new year, but a new life. I'm very excited to see what comes next, and quite determined not to make a hash of it. Wish me luck!

Amazing New Things

There have been some amazing things happening lately. I went to Raleigh to compete in the NCSBDC, and my schoolmates looked out for me. I said I wanted to go on the architecture trip to DC, and the money magically appeared. My classmates invited me to go to Virgina Beach with them afterwards, and I went. I received a scholarship that made a lot of things possible for me. Raymond's new job made it possible for me to go to Animazement this year, my first Con ever. Raymond himself graduated, and he alternates between working at home and going to Raleigh for a week at a time, where the company puts him up in a nice hotel and he is vastly appreciated by his coworkers. We've actually begun to be able to pay off our accumulated debts to family and cards, and set aside money for rainy days. I can buy a book now, and not have to agonize over every penny. (I still try to buy them used though. *shrugs*)

Much of that extra money has been sucked up, of course, by all the things we needed but were doing without, or by the things that suddenly broke into a million pieces as soon as we could afford to replace or fix them. The fish of gobbled down a great deal of it. Nevertheless, there was enough to spare, provided we are thoughtful about our expenditures large and small, that when the van began to die at stoplights and on the highway, we were able to decide that we had had enough. That's right, as of today, you are reading the blog of a person who has sold her soul for a 2007 Mustang convertible. Yes, it has a leather interior. Her name is Eve, and she is one sweet ride, with less than 8,000 miles on her. Payments are steep, but not as steep as they could have been. We crunched the numbers and even with our debts we can afford her, especially since we can expect Raymond to begin accruing raises after a year at least.

But wait, there's more! Raymond got a good chunk of change back from his company expense account. Not all of it, but enough to be happy making. And then yesterday, right down the road from us, a three bedroom house in a forested, fenced in lot directly next to a supermarket came up. It is adorable, very nearly perfect. We are looking at it today, because our lease is up in August at the apartments, and we really want a house. This one happens to be in our price range.

I tend not to believe in coincidences. Thank you, Universe, for the helping hand up the ladder. I surely do appreciate it.

Flowering of the Rose (or the Thistle)

It is raining outside. But I am okay with that, because it's a lovely, gentle, spring rain. It is officially spring-like outside, with the light, intermittent little droplets wetting the ground just enough to mingle the smell of warm damp pavement with the powdery scent of ornamental pear trees in full bloom. There is a brisk little breeze, gusting in a game attempt to become a full-blown wind, but though the blossom laden branches jitter and bounce, the tiny white petals still cling to tightly to their centers to be snatched away. It is an absolutely lovely day outside, and the feeling of real, honest to-goodness SPRING in the air fills me with delight. Even better, I have come home to an apartment empty of people, where I can relax and unwind for a few hours all by myself. Furthermore, although I am alone, I have walked through the door to the sound of one of my favorite music tracks playing from Raymond's computer. I know he must have done it to welcome me home, all the way from Raleigh, and I am still smiling for it.

My moods of late have been rather volatile and mixed. I love being here by myself, I really do. I feel so much...freer, I guess, to do and be and feel whatever I like. I'm far more relaxed. Oddly, I find myself wanting to share this feeling of relaxation and release with Raymond....but since it arises out of being ALONE, I'm not really sure how I can do that.

Strange how we can both cherish and resent those things in our lives which we hold the most dear. My solitude. My husband. My sight. My dear friend Relaeh. Writing Club. Even reading. People and things I have agreed to and WANT to have and be with and do. There are not enough hours in the day, in the week, in the MONTH to do it all justice and not feel depleted. And I am constantly reminded, when I get the urge to DO something, that I am held hostage by my sight. Sometimes all I want to do is hop in a car and drive MYSELF downtown to buy a cup of tea, or a book, or an ice cream cone. But I can't. There are always people attached to my travel, husband/friends/busdriver.... I cannot simply walk out the door and go. Oh sure, I can WALK some places. But that takes far more effort than suppressing the desire to go somewhere. And no matter how accommodating the people in my life profess to be, I still feel guilty about asking them to interrupt their own life-streams to take me this place or that. I want to do things on my own, and not inconvenience anyone. Especially not myself.

What would it be like, really, to be completely my own person? The master of my own destiny, queen of my abode and captain of my own ship? What would it be like to be completely in charge of my own person, my own life, and absolutely no one else's?

Don't get me wrong, I'm very happy to be married. I'm very happy to be of such help to my very dear friend and to share her conversation and her company. I'm ecstatic to have the people of the Writing Club shower me twice a week with their prose and poetry. But I simply can't seem to shake this subtle, pervasive feeling of being tied, trapped, held hostage against my good behavior. I want to live and be and do the things that I want. I want to be like this lady in "Eat, Pray, Love", and drop everything not fullfilling in favor of a wild adventure into the core of my own being and drive.

Is this a faze? Do I need to fix it? Am I broken? I used to feel as if I were here almost solely for the benefit of other people. I was here to serve them, to give everyone every part of me I possibly could. I believed I was here purely to HELP everyone.

But I don't want to help everyone now. I feel rather like I've done my time and been burnt to a crisp in the process. I need some tender-loving care dammit, and I DON'T need those closest to me saying silly, self-centered things like "You haven't stopped for a single moment to spend time with me today", or "Why don't you want to stay over at my house?". Really now people, I've spent the last CHUNK of my life giving you everything I had. Please, can't you do me the courtesy of backing off? My answer is simply "I was doing something else that I wanted to do" and "Because I just don't want to be there." Take it or leave it folks, I'm about done with being guilty and diplomatic. I NEED my space. I NEED to do my own thing, and sometimes that includes you, and sometimes it doesn't. And sometimes it includes other people NOT you. I've given as many people as I could all the understanding and compassion, time and energy, love and life-force I could possibly manage for years. I don't think it's really unreasonable that I get just a little of that reflected back on me in return.

I love you. I really, really do. I promise that this is a phase, and I will get over it. It might take a year or two, but I WILL balance out. That's not really a very long time in the scheme of things. So as you love me back, do us all a favor and just LET ME GO. Share your life with me sure, I want to know. But support me in my exploration and experimentations. Let me learn what it is to be a strong individual.

I want to learn to be myself. LET ME.

The Day After The Day After

The last two days have been fantastic, more or less. The workshop I went to was worth ever penny of its 25 dollars a session, and more (if I could afford more). It's too bad, in a way, that I shall miss my next one. I managed three poems in a single day on Tuesday, counting the one I wrote before going. And on Wednesday I got to hang out at one of my very favorite places, the Golden Flower tea shop downtown. It was nice, and Julie recognized me. I found a piece of writing I had forgotten about in my notebook. I drew a little, and played around with the poems I had written the day before. Then I had Writing Club at Chelsee's, and that, too, was fantastic. For the first time ever I have a circle of adults with common interests and regular meeting times. It is like Anime club, but not. The feeling of meeting outside of school was heady and potent, and I adored everyone there. Eliza bought us all drinks, a most welcome and appreciated gesture. And while the roleplay on the message board (you can find there here: http://z11.invisionfree.com/FTCC_Writing_Club/index.php?showtopic=17) Has slowed down quite a bit, I've been really enjoying myself.

So why do I feel icky and sluggish? My censor had been very, very active this morning. Thinking about how I should finish editing what Chris has passed around, finish making the tenses match and all my bazillion readability suggestions, and the little voice goes "Like you have so very much more experience than he does. Who do you think you are? He's the one with the publisher and the contract, what could you possibly have to offer against that?". And the melancholia hits me like a sledgehammer.

I have not, in quite some time, had anyone tell me they DISLIKED what I had written. When someone finishes something of mine I receive comments like: "That was cool" or "That was good" or "I liked such-and-such". And I get minor suggestions and criticisms too, which I thrive upon in a way, cause I think "I can make it better. It's already good, but if those are the only objections I can just polish it up, and it will be good. Someone will want it."

And today I feel like no one will ever want it. That everything I write is pleasantly mediocre, it never stays with anyone longer than a few minutes. That I do not write poetry that lingers and flames in the air, like Blake, like Shakespeare, like Tennyson.... That my prose has no meaning to anyone but me. That the characters that are so vivid and real and important to me will never crawl into the heads of other people and set up house in the way of Goodkind, Jordan, McCafferey, Moon, Weber, Card and a hundred others. I think in many ways I have attractive craftsmanship. My sentences are intricate, intelligent, and descriptive. But are they interesting? Are they inspired? I fear that what I lack is not something I can grow into. It's not something I can get better at with practice: the fundamental flame of vivid imagination and inspiration that lights an answering fire in other human beings. What else can it be, when someone expresses interest in what I have written, and once they have read a piece of it, they do not ask for more?

And I have to wonder if all my creative works are doomed to pleasant mediocrity. That everything I do will be met with "That's very nice. But I was thinking about this other thing over here....". I will be doomed to the realm of mild, short-lived interest and appreciation , where everyone likes what I've done in a general sort of way, but no one wants to live in my universe, buy the house I've made, use my animations.... My structures, in word or image, will forever be too confining and restrictive, and never, never tempt anyone to exist within them.

I feel as though no matter what I do, my worlds and buildings will never contain anyone but me, and the people in my head. I am not bad enough to make better. I am not good enough to succeed.

This is, of course, the nasty censor and inner saboteur talking. I don't even have an Associate's Degree in architecture yet, I still have plenty of room to practice and improve there, and my ideas are always getting freer in that realm. I do not play with my 3D animation software, or even my paint programs, enough to be even thoroughly versed in them, let alone a fantastic artist. And my writing....I have very little finished, besides poetry. And what I do have, one novel, one short story, needs serious editing. The short story is my best bet, it's new and I haven't despaired of it yet and it needs relatively little work. But who will take it? Who would want something so cliche? The outcome is predictable. The characters are stereotypes. Certainly everyone who has read it has gotten a different idea about what it is really about but...is that enough?

I have sent out my poetry twice, and been rejected both times. No one asks me "What wonderful thing have you created or worked on today?" But I don't really know what I want from other people. I thought I just wanted a balanced critique, a gentle understanding of what is good, and what could be better and how. But it isn't enough. But it isn't enough. At the end of the day, what I want, crave, is for SOMEONE to be interested, to be excited by my creative process. To be blown away the way I am by Eliza's poetry, Scribe's exquisite worlds, Adryn's fascinating characters, Jen's delightful narrative, Chris's vivid imagery, Raymond's mystic concepts, or Relaeh's evocation of emotion. In the end I want someone (no, let's be honest here, I want EVERYONE) to ask when they see me, hear from me, "So what have you worked on lately? Oh really? That's awesome! When can I see it? This is fantastic!".

That, I think, is what I want. Thorough and constant validation that my creative struggle is worthwhile. And I do not want to hear it in response to my begging here. I want to hear it because my work is genuinely interesting, engaging, exciting. And while I feel like this, I don't know if I could accept that response as genuine and valid even if I did receive it.

The day before yesterday I could do everything. Today, I can do nothing. That's Scorpio extremism for you. Do I look as absolutely pathetic and ridiculous as I think I do? Don't answer that, this is merely a poor me rant with no basis. It deserves no response. I am putting off my homework.

The Gloom Fades

Today I begin a workshop for gently unblocking creative writers. I've been a lot better lately about writing, probably more consistent than I've ever been outside of poetry class, and a heck of a lot less forced. But I still consistently block myself, and I'm writing new things rather than finishing the old, which I desperately want to do. So today I shall take a bus downtown (at eight in the morning, no less) and hopefully transfer to a second bus so that I won't have to walk the half an hour (read as 3/4 of a mile) and anger my knees again. I went and found the building yesterday all on my own. It took two hours round trip because I got lost and couldn't find it (mainly because I was looking for the wrong number), and I got hit on by a rather attractive Mexican. Not even I can misconstrue a steady series of increasingly personal questions leading up to "Can I have your phone number, and Are you married?". He followed me down the block a ways. I'm still not sure whether I'm more flattered by the attention, or want Raymond there to protect me. Is this what happens when a young woman goes walking alone? I don't know, I've never really done it before. It's a giddy feeling, like riding a roller coaster. Scary even though you're quite safe. Probably good that I'm a little frightened, as it will keep me out of trouble.

In any case, in honor of my writing class today, I shall start the day with some free verse.

The Gloom Fades

The gloom fades, the fog lifts
I can see my fingers and toes
Through the haze of my mental storm

The clouds lift, the night fades
Heart pain has been replaced
By the physical pangs of knee and neck

Take some Aleve, rub in some balm
I laugh at these physical ills
They have easements that the heart knows not.

Beg to differ, some say there are
Such easy ungents for the soul
To soothe the insubstantial tide of emotion.

Alcohol (degenerative mask), drugs (deadly dangerous)
Religion (of which I have over-imbibed)
But I think I shall try the cure of friendship

The gloom fades, the fog lifts,
The cure may be temporary,
But the balm of friends is no longer anathma.

Petty Musings of a Self-Depressive

The last couple of weeks I've been all kinds of stressed out. The kind of stressed out I did most of the summer when things were bad between me and my nearest friend, when I was working for her for six days a week without being paid, on top of doing eight solid hours of school on my one day off, and money was tight, off time was never in advance enough to plan vacations, and one of my best friends was leaving the country but I could not go to see her. Life was hellish in many ways this last summer, and I started manifesting that physically. My stomach hurt almost constantly like it did for months in highschool when my very best friend abruptly declared she didn't care if I lived or died. Several times a day my heart would suddenly begin racing and adrenaline would shoot through my body as if someone had just jumped out and yelled "Boo!" in my face. My throat clenched up, my posture went back to being hunched, and I started clenching my teeth.

At first, I didn't know what was going on. I told myself and everyone else that I was fine, that I didn't know why I was feeling these silly things. It wasn't until near the (was it the end of the summer? I can't remember now, really. Time is such a blur), that I figured it out, that I started to melt down on everyone and I realized that I had burnt out, utterly and completely burnt out. That I was carrying around such a huge load of anger and resentment against those I interacted with on a daily basis that I wasn't sure whether I wanted to jump off a cliff or push someone else more. I felt so beaten and abused and exhausted on every level that I imagined I almost wasn't fit for human company; something of my black outlook would surely rub off on those I loved and wanted to be close to, and how was that fair? I think this summer I actually taught myself how to really lie, with face and tone and eye contact. That doesn't do you a heck of a lot of good around empaths who know you though. Still, I tried in order to protect everyone around me from the radioactive emotions filling my up, and that, of course, made it worse.

But the good thing that came of it was that I learned joy and love and peace given undemandingly can heal such wounds, at least if the wounded is willing to be healed. A little over a week in Boone was not really enough, I wish I had had more time, but it helped. God it helped. And the rest period later, when I didn't have to work, when I had time alone to get on top of my life, and it looked like we would have money and all I had to worry about was school...that helped too. I remembered that my creativity springs from a busy joy, that anger (an emotion I have never been very good with and have had way too much experience with lately) only pinches off the flow.

And for the last two weeks I have been carrying anger in my belly. I have been hunching up, clenching my jaw, crying at random with my heart racing. PMS? Very possible. But we are low on money, and my preferences and joys don't really seem to be coming first, and what I really want is to be left alone, alone, alone with a good novel for days and days on end. Every time I start to feel a little better, something happens, some little word is said or body movement made, and I am ready to scream again, to curse and break things, to say the unforgiveable and drag my own fingernails over my flesh.

What is wrong with me? Is there something wrong with me? Do I simply fail to cope appropriately with an emotional event that happens to everyone? Is this what drives others to drink, to smoke, to do drugs or seek physical pain as a refuge? Am I so weak that I cannot deal with an emotion any normal, functioning adult would shrug at? Is this merely a reaction to having bills and no money, to having best friends angry with one another, to having a messy house and no energy to clean....? Or is it a chemical imbalance, a mild form of the depression that has plagued the women of my family for generations? Mild form? Is it mild? Am I manic depressive? I was a good girl today. I took my vitamin B, with the iron tablet to help it absorb. I took three of them. I made myself fix a piece of chicken and eat it. I don't want to eat, don't want to go through the mechanics of preparing food and putting the food in my mouth, the process of chewing and swallowing and digesting and cleaning up afterwards. There is no underlying worry about weight, or dislike of the food we have, or anything of the sort. I simply do not want to put food in my stomach, though I know that I am hungry, that my brain is fuzzy and my limbs feel heavy from lack of nutrients, that possibly this intense feeling of rage and depression is related to my not eating.

What is wrong with me? Why am I doing this to myself? Surely I am the one doing this to myself, despite the fact that I have been using all my energetic tools to lift the fog, that I attempt to act bright and cheerful, that I go through the dreary mechanics of feeding my body when I would rather do anything but. What truth am I hiding, what thing am I blaming on myself to protect other people? What things am I blaming other people for to protect myself? Why, why, WHY am I so unstable? Why can't I just hold down the job, the schooling, the marriage, the housekeeping like rest of the world does without going bananas?

I know what I need to do, really. I need to cut back babysitting from two nights to one night a week. I need to get out of the house more, not worry about that extra dollar and linger blissfully in my tea shop for hours on end. I need to guard my free time. I need to go back to Boone and absorb the feeling of being a free woman, an independent, competent individual laughing with others of the same. I need the hugs and the laughter of those I am not so close to.

Perhaps I am merely an emotional coward. Perhaps I cannot handle the stage between blood family and loving but distant friends. I am a social hermit, I want to see and be seen by other people, but only on my own terms. I can be there when a friend is going through crisis, be the supportive one, but only on occasion. When the emotional field becomes too rough I want to leave, to hide away in my one room cabin on my tiny island three hundred yards from shore. I do not do unreasoning conflict well, especially not from those I think should treat me the most gently, with the most understanding. I do not, do not, do not do that well. Give me close friends and family that I talk to maybe once a week, that I see every two weeks or more. I heard a saying once, that guests are like fish, they are wonderful when fresh, but after three days they begin to stink. But I really need to spend a week or more in Boone.

The major lure? That I could be one of the bright, independent, competent girls in that lovely apartment. That I could work on that horse farm, learning quickly and earning my pay with my own sweat. That I could write in the quiet peace of the window seats, be the house elf that makes their lives easier and earns my keep and receive the laughter, the love and support and gentle teasing that I crave more than anything else in the world. And from there, move on to be even more independent, perhaps in my own little apartment one day, on a bus route or with a scooter....

But none of that would last. I would be come too close to them. There would be fighting, there always is eventually, over some petty annoyance. I would not always want to be the house elf. I would become a common fixture instead of a treasured visitor, all of my best would come to be expected as theirs would even as we all relaxed and let some of the warts show. And it is silly of me to dream of being alone an unfettered, completely independent. Unless my eyes heal completely I will never really have that, or at least not feel as if I have that. And if they were healed, then I would have that no matter what my living arrangements.

I feel trapped again. Trapped, trapped, trapped in the web of life, by the expectations and needs of those around me. Tied down by my stupid, uneducated, self-inflicted helplessness and dependence on others. And the sad thing is that probably most people feel like that to one degree or another, tied down and trapped by their circumstances, by the need to make money, the need to make others happy, the need to simply coexist with other creatures in an approximation of peace and mutual respect. I want to cry out that I do not care, I do not care about any of the stupid rules, the responsibilities. But these are surely the sentiments of a child, a mere adolescent, and I am supposed to be an adult. Work is the responsibility traded for the freedom of self-guidance. I am in a bed of my own making, with no real intention of leaving it. But I would like to get up periodically and shake the dust of the daily grind from the sheets, wash the sweat of labor and tears of contention away and walk out into the sun.

Hang in there. You're going to Boone soon, to see those bright lovely faces that have their own cares but are more precious because they are unfamiliar. Hang in there, the moon face will pass, the time of the month will be over soon. Hang in there, your emotions will level, your energy will increase, the money will come in.... Hang in there, the contending individuals will work it out, or not, but you do not need to be ground to dust in the middle.

Write, work, love, learn, that's all anyone's really asking of you. All else is self-delusion.