Thursday 21 June 2001

I'm finding this whole journalling thing horribly difficult. Like trying to walk through a vatful of particularly thick gloopy tasteless porridge. No doubt that's how it reads too. The thing I really have trouble with, or plain can't do, is starting the goddamn entry. I keep thinking I need an exciting tag-line, some kind of springboard, or a deeply scintillating comment on something I observed, and it just doesn't happen that way. How does everyone else out there do it?  Maybe because I still feel self conscious, here, censoring and editing rather than simply offloading. Ih. 

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Quite simply, I'm all over the place, unable to pin down the state of mind and emotions being experienced, let alone the cause.

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I'm restless, stir crazy, miserable as a bandicoot, ready to burst into tears at the slightest provocation; a Buffy episode, a song lyric, that ad for Kids' Panadol, going for a walk and kicking up dead leaves. Forget phantom pregnancies; I have phantom PMS.

I'm violently angry at myself for feeling this way. I should be all positive and bouncy and happyhappyjoyjoy - and I am, that state shows no sign of diminishing - but then I have all this other contradictory stuff too. 

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I think that there is just too much going on in my dumb animal brain, too much stuff to think about; from missing Sam to trying to figure out the whole packing/moving thing, the pros and cons of shipping everything vs. flogging stuff off here and buying all new stuff together (heh - please indulge me a moment to enjoy that word; together. Mmmm yes); the endless lists and paperwork, waiting on paperwork, waiting on other people, waiting waiting waiting. And fuck it, I'm no good at waiting.

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What's particularly odd is that I'm missing work. Severely. Not missing The Abattoir, oh no no no no no, but Having A Job. Having a reason to get up in the morning, a routine; being useful, doing stuff, solving problems, and of course, having a secure paycheck is always nice.  Knowing that my career, earning capacity and professional persona will be effectively on hold for another eight or ten months is not helping.

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I'm back at the gym regularly though, and working out like fury. I'm already getting my muscle definition back (it always come back right quick, thank heavens), the bod is slimming down, streamlining - not that I was even vaguely fleshy but I can feel the difference. Hopefully my olde friends, those sweet endorphin fellas, will start to kick in soon, and I'll feel better. 

Because the drugs don't work. They just make things worse. This is just so wrong, so stupid; what the hell is wrong with the medical research community that they haven't yet discovered/manufactured a decent painkiller (for people like me who don't respond to the anti-inflammatory variety) that doesn't make the patient feel worse??? It's just not right. 

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Listening to:

Nothing. Everything makes me cry. RHCPs, Mozart, Sisters of Mercy even, FFSL.

Reading:

Wallowing in Judith Krantz sex clothes food sex beautiful people trash. That makes me cry too. But the dumb animal brain isn't up to Genetics textbooks. FFSL, again.

Wondering:

Why the medical research community is so horrible and unhelpful and unethical. WARNING: Rant pending. 

Lusting after:

Nothing. Maybe I do have Weltschmerz after all? Oh oh, hang on: I STILL haven't received my copy of Lucinda Williams' new CD. Maybe that's all that's wrong with me? Sounds about right ...

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