quiet entry
Sigh.
That's all I can say: sigh.
I heaved sighs all day. Pure relief that I'm feeling slightly better, pure relief that I have people to talk to, pure relief that my applications are nearly over with. I drank some tea, I spent some time just gathering myself up. I feel together. For the first time since I saw the psychiatrist thursday, I feel calm.
Last night I crawled into bed and thought "I'm so sick of myself!" And I think it was true. I really had spent a fair amount of the day being analytical, frenetic, and a little over the top. I think there is such a thing as writing too much. I spent most of last night writing about myself, too, which is not such a bright idea always. Although, now that I am sick of myself, I may be a better person to be around. We'll see though.
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I wonder if I should be able to tell my family what's wrong. I mean, they know now, but I had to call up a stranger first. I'd much rather empty my heart out to some stranger online, or my therapist, or my english teacher. (My english teacher has probably been the most help of all.)
Sometimes I feel like my family doesn't deserve to know what's wrong with me. As though they've wronged me in some way. I have issues with my mother (oh. I never claimed to have anything much original to say.) and my father lays on guilt like the best of them. I've been known to feel disgust towards my mother. Physical revulsion. (And trust me, I feel plenty of guilt afterwards. She is, after all, my mother.)
Well, last night I came about as close as I ever get to my mother. She came into the computer room and handed me a copy of J. Crew's clearance catalogue. (whee. Oh, I know I've tiraded against j. crew, but I understood the gesture.) She kept running her fingers through my hair and whispering "I love you. You know I always will. I'm just afraid you won't always reciprocate it." And I sighed, and gave her a hug.
Sometimes I wonder about my mother's relationship with her mother. Does she really hate her? I know they don't really get along, but you can be angry and still feel love. Is she afraid that I won't love her because she doesn't love her mother? Is that what this is? Well, I'm glad that we made peace. Simplifies things, somewhat.
I kept saying "I don't know what caused this." She said "I don't know if you ever will." It was a relief to hear her say that. The night after I called that number, she came into the bath room while I was dissolving myself in the tub. (I think she likes talking to me while I'm naked. Maybe its some maternal thing. I don't know, but I don't like it much.) She said "Now, margaret, you have to tell me what was the matter." I said "I do not have to tell you." She nearly hissed, "Yes. You do." (you owe it to me, her voice said.)
So, I told her the truth: "I do not know what is the cause of this. I do not think that it has a cause."
("liar," her eye's hissed.)
She ran her fingers through my hair, and I told her that I love her (and always will), and things looked a little better. I tried to console her about the kitten, and she consoled me about everything. Like a mother should console.
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Still no kitten, and I still don't know if I'm sad or not. Maybe I'm just numb. Everyone keeps telling stories about their cats that've left and turned up months later after all hope was given up. I've geared myself for the fact that I probably will not see this kitten again. (katie told me that pessimists are either always right or pleasantly surprised...) I don't think this has sunk in yet, and I'm bracing myself for when it does.
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Cathartic is what this is. Relaxing. Easy. I (honestly) could talk forever if I let myself. I have so much on my mind, it's only a matter of figuring out how to articulate it. You know what was interesting today? I talked to my english teacher about having an online journal.
For the first time, face to face, I'd been able to have an intelligent conversation about what it means to write an online journal. Or hell, what it means to read one. And you know what? Damned if I understand the phenomena that is online journals. It really was refreshing to talk with her though, I didn't get any of the "What, are you sure you're sane?" b-s most people give you. She almost sounded impressed. I wonder what her journal would read like.
I have come to this conclusion: There is a line you have to draw when you write an online journal. It's a different game, there's no other way about it. Right now, I don't give a shit about who reads this. For one, I've primarily written about myself. ('course, some fellow told me it was really self indulgent. what was he expecting?) It's messy when you toss in other people. I dunno if I can keep this up though. We'll see. (it's all too soon to tell how this incarnation of my writing a journal is going to turn out.)
2000-01-04, Lackadaisical entry, by a calmer, quieter margaret
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