Well, frantic might not be the right word. But busy.
Wound care at 9:15 am. Had a “it sucks to be sensitive” moment when my nurse came to get me in the waiting area just as some other client, a rather confused old lady who did not speak English, and her care worker who barely? spoke English started a hubbub with my nurse about an appointment they thought was at 8:30 am but was in fact at 9:15 am just like mine.
There was much confusion and stress hanging in the air for me to walk into because of this, plus the disorder of it all upset me, and I was left walking into the Community Care Clinic feeling rather off kilter and upset.
It really sucks to be as sensitive as I am sometimes.
But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
My nurse was a lady with an African accent and dark skin, and that was kind of fun. I love the interesting rising caDENCE of her acCENT and the unusual empPHAsis she placed on some sylLABles, see.
It’s not impossible that it was actually a Caribbean accent. After today, I can really hear how the Caribbean accent relates to certain African accents.
Her skin tone and bone structure said Africa, though.
The usual bandage change happened despite the occasional tiny language snafus (“You have wounds on both your…. legs, right?” My feet, actually, but I am pretty sure you know that. ), and then we were on our way to the bank for my monthly bullshit.
The banking bullshit went great. There was absolutely no line at all so the whole thing took very little time and I didn’t need Julian to be my placeholder in line or anything.
I made the usual withdrawal. I still need to deal in cash because Van City still does not have a way for me to spend money via Visa Debit so that it acts just like a Visa card but the money comes out of my account instead of accruing as debt.
If I could only get that service, I would never need to go to the bank again. The money would be deposited in the account and I would spend it from there too.
There’s probably a way for me to do that and I am just not clever enough to think of it.
I can be very, very clever like any good fox, but it’s sporadic. Inspiration either strikes or it doesn’t and I don’t really have any control over that.
One silly thing : after we left the bank, we headed home, and it wasn’t until we had pulled into our parking spot that I realized we had forgotten to get my credit card.
You know, the preloaded credit card I buy every month so that I can buy things online like a civilized human of today.
Without it, I could not order my groceries, and that’s a no go. So off to Sav-On we went.
I registered the card then ordered my groceries when we got home. The groceries were $87 this week, ouch.
Normally I budget around $60/week but I was out of a bunch of things, including canned pop, and I had decided that to jumpstart my canned pop supply I would need to buy two “fridge buddy” 12 packs, and those are like $9 each.
Plus I decided I wanted to get my hard candies, and that was another $10.
So, ouch, but I knew it would be a costly week.
Then later on came shower time. I am enjoying these little excursions more and more as Albert and I get along quite well and always have a pleasant chat as we get the job done, so to speak.
Well, mostly him. But I help.
More after the break.
Permission to live
It’s what I am trying to give myself, more or less.
I could even go as far as calling it “permission to exist”. I have lived with the burden of subconsciously being ashamed to be alive for my entire life. Whatever recovery I can manage is going to require me to overcome that somehow.
No wonder I spent so much time alone in my room when I was growing up. Or watching TV by myself in the living room, when everyone else was busy.
I was such a nervous and timid little thing. Like an overwrought mouse.
I somehow need to learn to believe that my being around is a good thing. That means forever banishing that evil, evil voice inside me that tells me that I am a blight on all who know me and the world would be better off without me.
I know that voice is wrong, wrong, wrong.
But that doesn’t shut it up. For that, I suppose I would need to expiate whatever emotions that voice is expressing.
I am still working on being able to figure out that kind of thing. I know that all those evil thoughts come from a place of pain and rage – rage turned inward.
Depression makes us our own tormentor. We are the sadist and the victim. We are the torturer and the sinner. We are the plague and the stricken.
We feast on our own flesh.
This is getting pretty metal.
I guess the obvious solution is to find another outlet for all that fucking rage. And I agree with that objective in principle but I still shy away from it emotionally.
I’m afraid of my rage and where it might take me and what it could make me do. The urges it produces are absolutely psychotic sometimes.
I won’t go into details. I don’t want to scare you.
But I get how depression leads some people into depraved acts, I just know better and thus I can’t pretend like such acts are justified in any way.
I know the seduction of rage, and how easy it would be to follow whatever path leads to that rage being expressed.
And um, fuck that noise.
If it’s be miserable or be evil, I will stay sad, thank you very much.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.