I have a cold and it is cold. I felt better yesterday and got some things done and the apartment was a bit improved and I felt optimistic. I went to bed. I got up and I'm freezing, because the heat isn't working again. I'm filled with an immense rage, pent-up, against a whole lot of things starting with this cold. Yes. Point at the enemy that is the enemy, this rotten cold, those invading viruses.
It snowed last night. I do not feel good enough to take that as something fun and go running outside and make snowballs of it. Instead, like most of the years of my literal childhood, I'm inside coughing and having a hard time breathing and dreading it. I wanted to shift gears to do more art. I checked the TV listings. Nothing but pro football. I am not a fan of sports. I loathe sports. I can't play them. I don't like games I can't win, games I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of even managing to be the worst on the team. Football at the level of Special Olympics might actually be fun on a day I wasn't so sick with a cold that I didn't feel like picking up my cane and hobbling out to play. And even with that, I'd have to have a few other intelligent weirdos out on the team picking up the intellectual SF jokes that would make it fun to play. I had fun playing football once, just once in my life and it was in college with other intellectual weenies and a team captain who sensibly decided that if I couldn't run and I couldn't throw and I wouldn't quit and had that stocky short warrior attitude, he ought to put me in a position to stand still and guard. This worked, spectacularly. It was fun. He had a brain.
The TV whinge is fairly relevant to the cold because when I get sick to a certain point, I think I wind up looking for brainless entertainment. Which classical radio is definitely not. I actually want something brainless and vegetative, but, it has to have plot and story. Basically I''m whinging at that box to tell me a story and all it's doing is showing pro footballers.
It takes more patience than I've got to sit still till I manage to catch my breath, just from the exertion of going out to check the mail. And pick up after the things the cat knocked over while I was sleeping. The apartment looks so much better that it's screaming to be done. There isn't anyone here to take care of me but me. And the lousy rotten annoying thing about this disability is that I get this exhausted just doing the normal things. I can do them. It's not so blazingly obvious as, well, look, he's in a wheelchair and couldn't do it at all. No, just, tired and short of breath and exhausted and can't keep up. Tries to do this and that and can't keep up.
Oh but it is so satisfying to do what comes easily.
Oh, but there is so much reward to just pounding away and getting something done, racking up wordcount, now it's doing a story at the drop of a plot tag. I drive myself along at a wild speed when I'm writing. I think I'm making up for lost time. I think I'm making up for lost years when I was stupid and tried to do other things in life that were supposed to matter more. I busted my ass at that print shop in Chicago and I was sick literally almost all the time. I felt like this most days that I went to work. I don't know how I survived it. I do know why I did it. I did it because I had a screaming sick need to be loved, not by the world but by one person who knew that I needed it and played me like a fish on a hook with that need.
I haven't been this sick that often since I started doing this.
I do have to ask myself if I drove myself into the ground. If I focused too hard and worked too hard and pushed to the point that my body reacted, immune system shut down and said "Robert's not going to take a rest till we make him, let in a cold." It's possible. If it has anything to do with that, it's stress and disappointment and attitude. And the move. Let's not forget just what the stressors are. I have just wasted a lot of physical effort and time dealing with other people's mistakes, petty cheating and mind games.
I am tired of being broke. I sometimes get cabin fever being shut in. I get very frustrated if I feel as if there's no way out and I don't have choices. I get enraged at the mind games and have no tolerance for them and don't think that's anything I need to condone or accept or have anything to do with at all. I would like all that out of my life for good and to find, create a way of life and immediate social situation where that's just not done and that's not how anyone in the group that I'm part of takes anything in life. I feel as if I'm swimming in sewerage when I've got to deal with it - the alcoholic aftermath, the alanon phenomenon, the way the poisonous social patterns dig so deep that no one's responsible for a damn thing and no one can possibly think that anything that goes wrong could be just - something went wrong, things do, let's do something about it.
There's always got to be someone to blame. I can't, unless I do clear my head with journal like this, ask something like 'Did I make myself sick driving myself too hard?' in a way that's not blame but troubleshooting? I mean, let's face the reality here. If I made myself sick driving myself too hard this time I wasn't doing it to impress anyone. I was doing it like a kid that goes out and plays too hard or eats too many green apples or whatever becuase it felt good at the time and it was fun. Nobody whipped me into it but me and the process itself was so much fun that I"m mostly cranky because I'm not doing it again right now!
I'm with me right now. If I'm that angry at the mind games, the only person in here playing them is me. I'm mad at and trying to rip out the echoes of the past. I do have to be a good boss. I do have to reparent the inner child. I can commiserate with Little Robert that football is ultimately boring, frustrating and Not Fun At All (though Mayan soccer with the heads of decapitated enemies might be a lot of fun especially electronically or in a story). I can stop screaming at me to get things done. The man whose approval I need is Robert. Yes, that's all self involved and self contained, but when I get that right, it makes it so much easier to go back out among others again with the kind of confidence that lets me give more than take. If I'm feeling a terrible screaming emotional need I'm a downer to those around me. If I'm feeling strong and I care and I just respond naturally to others, then I'm like a great big oak in the forest there and I'm putting the right sort of energy into the world.
Maybe there's nothing wrong with feeling a bit crabby and cranky if I've had a cold for a whole week and it hasn't let up for more than a day. I got my tiny little words done for the week at minimal thousand a day level, and some of it was in stories. For what I'm motivating myself to do, I ought to give myself double points for rewriting and world building and chores that take more effort than just 'oh goodie, I get to go back to a neat planet and I don't have to think about the landlord.'
I get a lot done a little at a time. At the moment I've got... two unsorted boxes from the move from the shelter, that got damaged in the flood. There's good stuff in those boxes interspersed with moldy flood-damaged stuff and a lot of papers that will give me allergic reactions. If I did take a trash sack and go through those boxes, I'd suffer for a while but I'd finally get that out of the way - and that means being ruthless with moldy ruined paper no matter what it is. Unless it's my birth certificate or something it gets replaced or thrown out.
Doing that would be permanent cumulative improvement. It is brainless. I'm not quite up to it yet, but if I do it later on it's that final push that might get the 'get this apartment to tolerable' done. I would like to manage to vacuum it in half a dozen stints too. This might reduce the dust a lot once I was actually finished. But if I don't get it today, I'll get at it soon. I've got to tell myself that about all of this no matter how much I want it done and out of the way. Every bit of it seems small and finite and doable but if I let it crash in on me it will get overwhelming and i'll just feel lousy and not get any of it done.
I got the emptied boxes out and boy did that make floor space.
The glass is half full. That is a lot more floor space and a lot easier to get around to any part of this apartment than it was, even if it's not vaccumed or swept, even if there's still two boxes of old stuff to get rid of.
Robert and Ari >^..^<