But hopefully not in a surgical way.
In the more usual spiritual and/or psychological sense. I’ve lived so much of my life all wrapped up in myself and buried deep within that fortress deep inside my soul, treating almost the entire world like it’s a foreign invader that needs to be repelled, that I can help wondering what life would be like if I could just learn to relax and let go.
Constantly bristling with hostility and defensiveness while bracing yourself for the next assault is exhausting, even when you only do it on the inside.
Hell, especially when you only do it on the inside. Because then you’ve got the smooth façade to maintain as well. And it has to be so good it even fools me most of the time.
The person that I want to be and try to be comes from the same place as the person I really am, but there is not a lot of connection between the two.
Like I have said here before, I’ve been a scared little creature hiding in the darkness of my inner tomb and pretending to be healthier than I am for a really long time.
Ever since I was raped, essentially, and that was 46 years ago.
And it’s hard for me to imagine how I could bring that poor little fox inside me out of the darkness and into the light so that I could integrate all my sides and parts and complications into some kind of coherent sense of who I am.
One person. Undivided. Whole.
It’s a heady thought.
At least I agree, in principle, that I need to open up.
I want to be able to do it. I want to be able to stop curling up in a ball and blocking everything out except for a very short list of allowable inputs. I want to be able to open my arms wide and embrace the world and life and accept it all for what it is.
Because this tiny island fortress of mine really stinks. In more than one way.
And I feel like I am making progress. Slow progress, which is the only kind of which I am capable it seems, but progress nonetheless.
Every day, I open the door to my tomb a teeny tiny bit more. Let in a little more fresh air and sunshine and light and warmth. Let out a little more of the toxins and darkness and coldness out. Make room for healthier things.
I don’t worry about the end point of it all any more.
All that matters is that it feels good to do it and I feel better afterwards.
That’s enough to keep me going for a while.
Why are there still trees everywhere?
Oh right, because I am not out of the woods yet.
Depressingly, I must say that I feel a little worse today than I did yesterday. Maybe that’s only cause I am more awake to feel things, I dunno.
But I definitely feel some of that drained feeling hanging around, and my runny nose has ganged up with my allergies to really make me go through a lot of Kleenex, not to mention giving me the usual sinus pain and headache.
Ergo, the decision on whether to go to the ER still hangs in the balance. I was really hoping I was over this thing but like a squatter this bug refuses to leave.
Get out of here, you god damned parasite! Go infect a Trump supporter, damn it! You know they’re not immunized against you!
More after the break.
The truth about me
I live at the bottom of a pile of shit.
Filth everywhere. Every possible form of human detritus surrounds me. Garbage of all kinds. Food waste. Miscellaneous leftover packaging from both Amazon and food deliveries. Used tissues. Various medical things I should be using but don’t.
And that’s just here in front of Mister Computer. The bed is far worse.
Every form of biological leakage has occurred there. My comforter has decades’ worth of dead skin cells and feverish night sweats caked into it. My mattress cover has rotted out from under me and the mattress springs poke through and do me injury. It has absorbed even more human effluvia than the comforter.
There is no place in this room which is even remotely clean. If I could, I would pack up my computer and my clothes and a few of my books and burn the rest.
Fire can only purify.
And it’s not like I want to live this way. In fact, I hate it. I hate it so much.
But that hate does not come with the motivation to fix it. Even though it seems to an outsider that even with my physical limitations, I could “easily” clean this place up and make it somewhat fit for human habitation, I just can’t.
I could apply to the province for help. If I had a diagnosis for whatever the fuck is wrong with my legs. But I don’t.
And I ain’t gonna get one any time soon.
I won’t be seeing the neurologist until the 28th of this month. Hopefully he or she will be more focused and capable than that joke of a doctor I have as my GP.
Fuck you, Doctor Chao. I’m going to end up in a wheelchair because you can’t handle my case and I am going to sue the shit out of you AND complain to the College.
Back to my disgusting existence.
One angle on my inability to clean is that when I was raped when I was 4 years old, I reverted in age and never completed my anal stage of development, ergo I am unable to move forward til I, as it were, “catch up”.
I know this : when I imagine myself cleaning, I am always crying too.
Perhaps I am mourning the little boy who has finally been forced to grow up despite having gotten almost none of the emotional nutrients he needed to grow and thrive, and we know something precious inside me had to die before I could get to that point.
Call it the smoldering remains of my crippled innocence.
Call it the sickening refuge of fractured child.
Call it a fluffy little fox named Fruvous.
It’s all just filth in the end anyway.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.