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Wednesday, 29 January 2014

I spy...

I had a few dreams last night. Of course, since I neglected to write about them earlier I now only remember two fragments of them.

In one, I lost one of my bottom front teeth. I only have three of them (was born without one of them, apparently) but I lost another one. Not sure how. Can't seem to remember it being painful, but I do remember feeling the gap and thinking to myself that now it would certainly look very strange to only have two teeth where four should be. 

In another, there was something like the MI6 (Wikipedia confirms I've got it right: that would be the organisation James Bond works for). I was at the headquarters' first floor, maybe at an exit. There were glass doors and walls and through one of them I saw a middle aged SmTn. He was looking my way and our eyes met for a brief moment. 

I wish I could say I remember what it was like and I wish I could say it was as sweet and sad and loving as I want to believe it was. But the truth is that I no longer remember. Maybe he just glanced my way and went along his merry way.

It's just... something occurred to me today. It changes nothing, of course. And it's actually not quite related to the dream. Except that it has to do with SmTn and my dreams about him. Those dreams I told him about? I maybe didn't quite get it exactly right when I said "I see a happy future for you that I'm not a part of" (if that's what I said or what he understood). I know that's what I thought, for a while there. And, your see, the thing is that in the dreams I told him about, the ones where his girlfriend is really happy to be engaged or where she's really nice to me... I remember her. Not him. I don't remember him being happy with her. I don't remember him being excited. I remember him arguing behind closed doors. I remember him upset and drunk and thinking of leaving her. I remember him smiling as he walked alongside me. 

It occurs to me just now that it's almost a valid reason to think I shouldn't have stopped talking to SmTn. I could have prevented the sort of heartbreak that makes you wish someone a happy Christmas alongside "Estranged." I could have him to talk to and to celebrate the small victories with. I could have him. Or, you know, I couldn't. Which is likely more accurate. Problem? He has a girlfriend. I was the emotional mistress. Problem? He wouldn't leave her for me. He wouldn't leave her. I couldn't ask him to. I could and maybe should have told him about my feelings... but those would ultimately change nothing. Such a display would be much like a gift: something freely given and for which nothing is expected in exchange. I could tell him, in so many words, that he'd owe me nothing. I could tell him he needn't say anything or do anything. I could just tell him what I needed to say and leave it at that. Problem? He may feel obligated to say something or do something foolish. Problem? This whole exchange is only happening in my head. While the thought did, for a moment, cross my mind, I don't suppose it would be very clever to mail him that postcard.

Problem? He's where all my happy thoughts lead to. Problem? It's not as inaccurate as you'd think to say the thought of him crosses my mind every waking minute.

This is no place to include the feedback I received from the group today, so I think I'll go ahead and keep that to myself until tomorrow, if you don't mind.

Monday, 27 January 2014

Hypochondria and other possible side effects

I have about a half hour before I attend a workshop intended to help me with a project for a class I'm not wholly invested in. That means I didn't leave as early as I could have (two and a half hours ago) and it also means I had time to do a lot of things I haven't done. Including some should-be-so-very-simple looking at data for research. 

I went to sleep relatively early last night (I made up my mind around 10:30pm to try to fall asleep, though I kept waking up remembering to change my alarm and do other menial tasks). I should have been able to sleep a full eight hours of sleep, to add to almost twelve I got to sleep the night before last when I also went to bed relatively early and then slept in. However, I get no rest from this extra hours of sleep. Compared to the six or sometimes five hours I normally clock in during weekdays, I feel as tired as I did before. If anything, I feel more tired. I woke up at least three times last night/this morning before my alarm rang. I woke up crying from a nightmare where the old man had been not only mismanaging our money but strangers' too and he was in big trouble for it. I had another one where I remember we were trying to hide from someone or something and an animal or other bat-like being spied on us and intended to sell us out to goodness knows who. It was essential that I melted several candles at its disposal to send messages with, apparently. My anxiety is on overdrive. Just a while ago, when ON was to give me the data I've yet to analyse I started looking for my USB drive. I couldn't find it. I didn't pay for it, it was a present to make up for the last hard drive giving up on me. It wasn't particularly precious to me but I knew it to be worth something. I don't know where it is yet, nor whether or not I'll find it when I get back to my room, but you wouldn't believe how much time I've wasted fretting about the fact that I couldn't find it. Knowing that I can't properly look for it until I have access to something more than my office and bookbag. 

My appetite being what it is these days, I'm not too surprised I'm feeling weak. It could just be a one time thing, or it could be hypochondria, but I fear my liver is starting to do worse for it. Last night, though it was not quite so warm in my room and the fan was on I woke up sweaty and too warm to go back to sleep. Today, though it's not quite so cold (in fact, it's looking like it's actually too soon to be this warm) and the temperature in the office is always the same and quite comfortable to be in, I'm cold. I don't dare heat water for a cup of tea because... I don't know. I feel guilty using the microwave oven when I'm not alone or someone might hear me and social awkwardness is not built for such worries. I'd buy a cup of tea but I've made up my mind not to make unnecessary purchases like that. Especially since it's not even that cold today. I'm trying to save money, not that my bank account could tell you that. 

As for the tango lesson last night... it went well. Except for a minor detail: the tall bloke who gave me the creeps and tried to talk to me about how I should keep going to class. It honestly made me not want to keep on going. But I'm not going to let him get in the way of doing something that's kind of fun and gets me out of the house. So I'll learn to deal with it if it comes to that. I'll also somehow have to deal with the anxiety of feeling stupid in front of the people I remember from last year, especially the ones who recognise me. I should be going now. I don't even know where that room is. 

Thursday, 23 January 2014

Mathematicians can't do statistics

I attended my very first maths class in a very long time today. It turns out I need to brush up on the isomorphism theorems, re-familiarise myself with quotient groups, group actions, group presentations and basic proof techniques as well as re-teach myself some definitions and... I basically need to teach myself how to do maths again. Real maths.

Fake maths, or all-too-real maths or statistics, if you like, are still too much for me. Which is to say that yesterday when all eyes should have been on me and my professional opinion as a "numbers person" was needed, I completely failed. Pf2 asked what my statistics background was like. I said that off the top of my head I had nothing but could pick up a book and get something started. His question is simple, sort of. Well, one of his questions was. I may have been too vague with my answer (which was still kind of wrong). It was all I could do to promise I would ask an actual statistics professor who works on this sort of thing. Until I can meet with him, if I can meet with him, the best advice I got from him was to use Google and look for someone dealing with a similar problem. I cannot help but feel worried that Pf2 must find me horribly inadequate. I haven't even studied the experiment all that well and when anyone is nice enough to explain something to me it is all I can do to repeat the information just given me without really retaining much of it. I have the brain power. Sort of. It's just not readily available to me, if you will. I actually had to drag myself to write this. I meant to sleep in the afternoon but I couldn't. I meant to study but I couldn't. I watched Kiki's Delivery Service. I have to wake up early tomorrow morning. Again. I won't sleep too well either, I fear. Again. The bad appetite is starting to get to me because now I actually feel week weak. But when I try to eat a whole serving of food halfway through I'm already struggling. It's all I can do then to at least control some of my food choices and try to eat a bit more fruit to go with the readily available bags of chips.

You know, I had the house all to myself this afternoon and I didn't even notice. I just didn't feel like getting out of bed. 

I don't... I don't even think it would be fair to say I have a song in my head. I know I had a Moulin Rouge kind of afternoon when I found out I could attend today's class, but I haven't played much music besides that on the radio and none of the songs seem to quite feet fit my mood. I also can't seem to be able to type spell today.

If you're wondering, I'm still feeling sad about SmTn. I still call his name out in my mind and daydream about seeing him again. I still wish I could tell him things and when I'm writing an e-mail address in the address textbox it saddens me to find that SmTn is no longer the first contact offered. He's actually nowhere to be found unless I actively look for him. Compare this to finding him when typing my own address, my sister's, mum's or anyone else's. I wonder if he'll say anything for my birthday. I wonder if anywone anyone will. Last year I didn't really care much but, for some reason, this year I do. Or maybe I cared last year and I just can't remember or somehow feel it's worse this year. 

How about if I tell you about today's class?

There's not an awful lot to tell, besides that the professor is a very nice man and a good teacher who tries to coax the answers out of his class. The class is not very numerous (no surprise there) and there is only one girl besides me (not here either). What strikes me as odd is to find so little participation. Fine, so it's not like me to speak up and I had trouble deciding when to walk into the classroom in the first place, ultimately deciding to walk in 5min before the class after at least most of the seats had been taken. Still, I can't help but feel that back home students were more eager. I know it's not a matter of the professor being bad, unclear or in any way intimidating. It's really down to the students there just not... either not having a clue (or too many clues) or not caring. Either of which is bad, if you ask me. And you should because I'm not exactly a brilliant maths student and I'm the one making this observation. Now I feel like I should work doubly hard to catch up properly and be able to participate in class, if I pluck up the courage. It will feel wrong not to, if I know the answer and no one speaks up. It will feel wrong not to at least try to be that good, not with such a nice professor letting me into his class.

Besides a tiny joke (it may be more appropriate to call it an observation on lazy students) I overheard (and was embarrassed to laugh about, as it wasn't a conversation I was a part of) before the class started, I'm not sure what to expect of the students. Maybe my expectations are too high. Maybe I still find the average person here to be awfully cartoonish. Maybe depression is an awful pairing for social awkwardness and introversion.

It's supposed to be 4 to 6 weeks for the medication to kick in. It's supposed to be 3 to 5 weeks more, then. It may be all in my head, because I don't quite think that my excitement when I was found out about today's class was the kind of euphoria they're looking for. But, in my hypochondria (possibly) and my uneasiness going to sleep, needing the sound of rainfall running in the background to even attempt to fall asleep, I wonder if it's not a misdiagnosis. The psychiatrist mentioned that if it's bipolar disorder then the depression meds would make me worse rather than better. Like I said, though, it may be my brain playing (more) tricks on me: since I'm not feeling better yet, even though I know it will be some time still, I wonder if it couldn't possibly be making me worse. 

I'm sorry, this is a very rambly post. Though I can tell I've got some better use of my memory (it graciously keeps me up at night or makes me wake up, wondering if I forgot some thing or other) I can't seem to get a grasp on the concept of focus. Or finishing a task, for that matter. Any task. 

Let me see if I can get some sleep.

Tuesday, 21 January 2014

Hello, I'm linaThumbe. I know you just told me your name and introduced yourself but I can't for the life of me remember you.

A PhD student walked in looking for ON. This used to be his old office (now I'm even more bewildered by the condom instructions but I won't go into that now). He asked if I knew if we had [insert instrument to measure conductivity] in the lab. I said I didn't know. I said I hadn't seen ON but to knock on his door anyway (no surprise when nothing happened, though, he's not there). The stranger introduced himself and I can't for the life of me remember his name. I did, however, remember a few moments after he left that yes, I do remember seeing that instrument when I was in the lab once. I wouldn't know if it's still there, months later, but I might have been able to say "Yes, I've seen it but I don't know if they still have it there. My position here is not completely worthless and I must somehow be worthy of having an office here." Damn it.

Also, per CtThumbe's suggestion (we had a chat last night, it was nice) I tried the audit thing again. Even though I know the class was held today and I showed up some 30min after it was over to the professor's office, I knocked on his door and got no answer. I'm starting to think it shouldn't be nearly this hard to reach someone and learn maths for fun, but it is. 

On another subject (sort of), I am actually quite glad that on the occasions when I don't torture myself with thoughts of failure I am still able to laugh at myself for silly and not-very-consequential mistakes. At least sometimes. When I'm alone and there's not someone like aunt A to point them out (and imply they could somehow lead to catastrophes). 

Social awkwardness, however, continues to be everything it's always been.

[night edit]
I tried his office again in the afternoon before leaving and I found the professor. He was incredibly nice and thought he'd answered but something was off with his internet and bottom line I can go to class without paying. He even gave me a copy of his lecture notes. I may have smiled way too much and gotten a bit stupid talking about other professors and pretending to know what I was talking about and oversharing and overall being socially awkward... but it's great! I'm going to a maths class!! Thanks, CtThumbe! Darling SmTn, I wish I could tell you about it...

Friday, 17 January 2014

*Fifteen hundred* posts of nonsense

Would you believe it?

I'm very much forcing myself to type this just like I force myself to eat, and attempt to make healthier food choices for the little appetite I can muster. It's not particularly important, but I wanted to keep note of the fact that I had a dream a couple of nights ago (I no longer remember how long ago) where I was hanging from a rope attached to some sort of very tall beam truss. I looked down and saw a pool where I could fall if I just let myself go. I looked at everything around me and had fun with the notion of up being down and down being up much like I did when I was a little girl and stared at the ceiling wondering what it would be like to live life walking on it instead of the floor. I quickly made myself dizzy and unable to calculate where exactly I would fall if I let myself go. I ultimately got scared and decided to just hang on tight to the truss and climb down without opening my eyes.

Then yesterday morning I woke up with "Can't take my eyes off of you" stuck in my head.

I have to see if I can push myself to get started on the homework assignments due in this week sometime before the weekend is over. I also have to see if I can figure out where my make-up brushes are.

For the time being I'm just in this wretched state of feeling like I've had too little to eat (true, but I've had at least one full meal and a bowl of cereal). I feel too weak to even stay out of bead and upright for too long. I'm too tired to think, to read, and felt tired enough that I didn't want to write either. Admittedly, it could be the half-dose of medication kicking in. Maybe this is what happens and I should adjust everything to take these at night. Maybe not, and I'm just tired and malnourished.

On the subject of medicine... I'm apparently a terrible patient. I told the doctor I'd been sleeping quite well since the temperatures dropped and all it took was letting the words out of my mouth to forget what it was like to sleep through the night without something waking me up. 

I'm sorry, this is a somewhat pointless post. 

Wednesday, 15 January 2014

No consequences?

I was on the plane when I started thinking of the question LesMisGuy asked hoping I'd kiss him: "What would you do if you knew there would be no consequences?"

This time it had very little to do with LesMisGuy and, rather, led to thoughts of what it is I want. You see, about a year ago, when SmTn asked if I'd go to summer school I ruled it out because it would have been selfish and wrong and I couldn't afford it, nor could my parents. But I keep wondering if it wasn't the time to meet him and get something(-something... something) started. It occurred to me that if I could do one stupid thing without worrying about whether or not I could afford it, without worrying about how practical it would be or even about whether or not it had any chances of working out, I would fly out to where he is and just mention I'd be in town for a week or so and ask if he'd like to meet. If I could be selfish and reckless and horrible like that, that's what I'd want. I'd want to get away from the As, I'd want to be close to SmTn, I'd want to leave this university and falsely advertised career out of my mind. It all makes me want to ask out loud to other people: what are the things you want to do that you've given up on? It would seem that a great part of "being a grown up" is giving up on such dreams and ruling them out as impractical nonsense, the same way you rule out being the lead character in any interesting (read: film/telly show/book-worthy) story. 

In the end, I guess, LesMisGuy's question was a very good one. It was the exact same question I asked EBF when he broke down and the one I think everyone should be able to answer in order to get their life on some kind of track to some sort of happy place (the wording, I know). It's a question I'd love to ask SmTn because I think the answer is what I get when I received a drunk text message from him (and a possibly-but-not-necessarily-drunk Christmas greeting). He likes me and has feelings for me and sometimes entertains/ed the idea of being with me. But life is in the way of that because he's got everything set up to be happy and I'm nowhere in that picture of happiness. One could argue silly arguments and wonder how much he can really love his girlfriend if he's got time and feelings to spare for someone else, but the answer is “Less than the girlfriend would like, probably, and more than it would take to leave her.” In the end, this want of mine to see him and be with him no matter what is subdued by not wanting to risk being broke and rejected. If I knew he would take me in, I'd only risk being broke in a foreign country and trying very hard to make ends meet and I (or rather, my hopeless romantic self) daresay I could manage.

There would be, of course, more questions to answer: what would I do with my career? Well, I'm not that passionate about it (I mean this one, the one that is more accurately described as a future job) and between this and whatever maths I can do there (even if it means “as a hobby/as an amateur”) might be better. What would I tell my family? That I'd be happier there than anywhere else. What about the money I owe? I'd struggle for a lot longer to pay it back. What if his family/friends disapproved? I'd cross my fingers and hope I could make him happy enough that they'd get over it. I suppose what I want is the one thing I'm sure would make me happy enough to dismiss all consequences that came from it. Why, then, don't we usually go after it?

Pop culture and Hollywood would have you believe that if you follow what you want and pull through no matter what, you will actually accomplish whatever it is you set out to do. Life has taught us better. We've only too often seen what happens when you shoot for the stars: you crash and hit yourself harder, falling from a much higher place.

I see it in Yep2. He's living the dream, or trying to. He found music as his way of being smart and different and letting go and expressing what he felt and he stuck by music, even when it meant putting aside academia and “real world” chances at being ““successful.”” His parents worried, his brother worried and my parents worried. They tried to dissuade him. I worried, but I also listened. I heard him talk about his idealistic plans and about the way doing what he's doing now, even if it means sleeping onn the floor of a closet for 7 months, is also the same as “taking his one shot at making a living the way he wants to.” Not the way he has to, not the way that he's been told to, but the way he wants to. Now, don't get me wrong. I can see how idealistic (bordering and sometimes crossing the line over to foolish) his plans are. But I haven't the heart to tell him it's not going to work out when he's still making ends meet and he's happy enduring hardship for what he sees as a greater good. It's all I can do to mail him cookies and a birthday present every year hoping they will somehow speak out to him and say “I'm here for you.” Because he's broke (not that I'm not but he's worse off) and he bought me lunch. Because he's got a tattoo of Le Petit Prince on his arm and the necklace of a snake that ate an elephant finds a better home with him than with me.

Yep1, on the other hand… well, I see it in him too. Except his case is a possibly-not-that-happy compromise between doing what he wants and doing what he's told is best for him. He’s followed his heart where no economically responsible man would follow. He's sacrificed some dreams for others and if he keeps that up it will get too late for him to succeed the way he once thought he would. I couldn't tell if that's the way he wants it to be. I know he's working hard trying to make ends meet but I'm not sure he's reaping any tangible rewards for it. If anything, I sometimes fear he's where he is because he's afraid to take bigger risks. Then I see other examples of the adult life. People with nine to five jobs who live stable, normal, and honestly somewhat boring lives.

Granted, those aren't the only outcomes. They're rather the outcomes offered to me (pretty much) by staying here (versus doing something outrageous).

I guess a similar question would be “What would you do if you won the lottery?”. Except it's a weaker version of it, assuming all you're afraid of is financial insecurity. My answer to that, besides “settle debt, pay for a house, a car, tuition and travels” is still “run off to see SmTn.”

I wonder why, you know. I wonder why it's the only thing I can think of wanting and whether I'll continue to want it in a few years. I suppose I'll continue to want love in my life, of the kind I've always imagined and SmTn seems to represent so well. I don't suppose I'll grow out of wanting to be with SmTn, I'll just grow into wishing to be with him.

Tuesday, 14 January 2014

Ask me again in two weeks

As long as I'm not doing anything productive, I might as well do something that's at least remotely useful: write.

There's a few things to write about, like the dream I had last night about my sister and I planning a trip on a cruise to visit several European countries and planning some more to see if we could maybe travel some more (besides the cruise). Of this dream I remember little other than being at sea, close enough to land that I could see land in a few directions, far away enough to know I needed some form of transportation to get anywhere. It was cloudy, and I seem to remember a very tall wave. There was also a dream concerning aunt LM, but I can't remember much about it.

Then there's yesterday's stranger on the bus. Some younger student of sociology. I'm sure sociology is a serious subject with important breakthroughs but in his case, it meant "everything, and therefore nothing at all." He struck me as being quite immature. Our talk began with him asking for some change (smallest possible unit, as in "What on Earth would you need it for, anyway?" change). I said I didn't have any with me and left things alone. Then he made it his mission to start a conversation with me, finding out as much as he could about me before I turned the tables and made it about him. He only just pretended to be smart and well-learned. Not so unlike MrInteresting (and, yes, I have had split seconds to wonder if he's somehow keeping tabs on me through other equally crazy people and I prefer to believe it's slightly more likely I just keep attracting the attention of equally strange men). He even asked for my number. Now, confession time? I didn't lie to him, though to describe myself now is hardly to describe myself at all, and I actually wrote down my real phone number (because I felt a bit "on the spot" and it did not occur to me to switch a digit or two, though I never intend to answer if he ever calls/texts). It was, not so surprisingly, yet another instance of not looking like myself. He seemed surprised to find out I'm a "smart cookie," where I come from, my observations on a few contradictions in what he was saying, and... I'm pretty sure he'd have been just as surprised by finding out about my undergrad degree or just how much I know about subjects other than the ones we discussed. Bottom line, I'm quickly finding that strangers can quickly gather that I'm clever, and not an awful lot more about me. Remind me to bring this up during group.

That last statement? I'm not just saying that. I'm also saying it based on today's appointment with a psychiatrist (+ supervisor). They both picked up on how smart I must be to still be crème de la crème in among my (quite frankly) mediocre classmates. They both offered their sympathy and assured me that some SSRI may not solve my problems but will make them significantly more bearable. Only until I'm done with the shitty phase and things start to look up. They "congratulated" me for taking action and seeking help. I must say I quite liked them a bit better than the therapist, mostly for the open science talk. It was a fair bit more straight forward. The psychiatrist made an effort to make the dry questionnaire a bit less dry, made eye contact, explained why she'd asked questions and what deductions she had made about me. This sort of communication struck me as more open than the one I had with the therapist (the empty promises of teaching me social skills, the "I think we're making progress" that led nowhere, the insistence on making me change my mind about things...). No nonsense stuff. I'm to start medication on Friday and meet with her/them(?) again in two weeks' time. 

On another subject, today's bout of ranting is brought to you by aunt A (surprise!) and her insistence on being unreasonably pessimistic. Independence is so close, but it costs quite a bit of money. As in, "I've left very little in my bank account and it seems I'll pretty much have to empty it." Soon. Would have been today but a sliver of hope opened up to a) save a tiny bit of money and b) postpone payment until I'm slightly less broke. (Oh, and it's starting to look like I'll be responsible for whatever's left to pay of my tuition, which will not happen unless I can secure a loan.) It all boils down to asking uncle A's sister for a favour, which aunt A is adamantly against. Because: reasons. So, next thing I know she's coming up with lies and excuses for things to be done her way because, damn it all, they must!

Oh, and, in the "social awkwardness" file we have my unwillingness to mail A something with cousin I. Because I feel like I have to offer to pay for it, and A's dad said it could be quite expensive and now I feel like backing out but A's parents already know and I'm now contemplating mailing her something with my gift card instead. *sigh*

Sunday, 12 January 2014

Eventful silence (I'll feel bad about wasting a title like this later)

I've been meaning to write for a while now. I even have a draft of a post I intended to post three days ago. It's not even that the last few days have been uneventful, by all means they haven't.

I could highlight, for example, that Wednesday afternoon I volunteered at an LGBTQ event on campus. The tomboy girl I met before was organising it and she was very nice to me. I wanted to hug her. I greeted people and smiled at everyone. More so some than others (I could see you, shameless freeloaders, and I disapproved). I was still the awkward straight girl who wouldn't even take a break from her spot when it as offered, nor did I do so much as ask for a glass of water when asked if I wanted anything. The organiser may or may not have felt a need to shield some of the more "out there" people from me, like an absolutely fabulous trans woman wearing a business suit, massive hair and bright pink lipstick. I loved her and my glance may have fallen on her a few more times than it did on anyone else there. She made me smile just by existing and I worried that my smile could be misconstrued as "I know. She's different!", the way some folks feel proud of identifying different people as if they deserved badges of honour for such cunning powers of observation to aid their bigotry. I wish that besides standing there, volunteering in my spot and welcoming people I had had a way to say I look up to her for being prouder of being herself than I am of being myself (and indeed many people I know of being themselves). I wish that volunteering came with a sign above my head that read "I see the way you are who you are and love who you love without apologising to anyone and I love you!" But it only comes with a genuine and heartfelt (though sometimes slightly awkward) smile. I even had time to think about how I would have told SmTn about it and hoped to make him proud.

I've thought of a title for the story inspired by SmTn I have yet to write: The Greatest Love Story That Ever Wasn't. A little cliché, I know. But cliché is not so bad if it's heartfelt.

While I'm still stuck on the subject of SmTn and to further drill in how not over him I am, I have a confession to make. I may have typed what little I remembered of the website where he posted his old pictures into Google and come out of it having found posts of his in forums. Mostly (entirely) tech-y geeky stuff I have no business with and no interest in. The problem is that I still made it my business to read through his posts and every thread (not that many) he started because it made me feel sort of close to him. Even funnier (creepier still on my part) when I found a post from years ago when he was messing around with coding. Maybe worth worrying the tiniest bit about, there may be some code to recognise visitors on his website (i.e. he could know I've been looking for it... and maybe even which three pictures I looked at) and that's kind of embarrassing.

Now on a different subject, seriously (a serious subject), therapy. I've made an appointment to see a psychiatrist (for you unenlightened folk those would be the ones allowed to prescribe medication). There was no conversation with anyone about it, other than the group leader. And even then it wasn't so much a conversation as me breaking into tears over the stupidest things and saying "I'm sorry I'm crying, but this is precisely why I think I need medication. I shouldn't be so upset about these things, all the time." Maybe when the appointment comes and I have to explain everything all over again I'll get to talk about how I can still see beauty in simple things, enjoy life and overall not be so much of a wretch but it is simply not possible for however many days a year I have to stay chez les A and I still have too many of those left to come out of the experience a sane person without any help.

With some exceptions, I think you could sort of tell when I'm depressed just by looking at how unwilling I am to do so much as write a blog post. That's exactly what has been happening over the last week. I really don't want to eat much or do much other than lie on the bed and waste my time doing absolutely nothing useful.

You see? This is about as much as I could write before wandering off and not doing anything. Again. Remind me to write about seeing beauty where others don't, about "Für Elise" and
remind me to update the kind online stranger and maybe do something about this SmTn-related sense of helplessness/hopelessness/doom I can't shake off.

Tuesday, 7 January 2014

Back to life as it was

This post is overdue, I suppose, but I can't quite sit down to write calmly at the house. We've got my aunt, uncle and youngest cousin staying over. When I first arrived at the As' aunt A asked where I wanted to sleep (suggested I took the couch). I said I'd sleep wherever I would wake the least number of people and my uncle just bit the bullet and said he'd be sleeping on the couch. Which left me to sleep in my bed, next to my aunt and cousin sharing another next to me. Dirty bedsheets though, which I haven't brought up and won't be bringing up until they're gone and I can do some laundry. All my things had been put into two boxes, as if trying to erase all evidence of me living in the room. All things including my computer (the one my parents got me for my birthday only in February), which was at the bottom of the bottom box. And got pressure spots. Of course. I pointed this out as I hurriedly tried to get my bookbag ready for the first day of class and my cousin relayed this information to aunt A who came to my room with crazy eyes and a look of faked remorse to ask what had happened to my computer. As if she fucking cared. 

I had to ask uncle A to give me a ride to the bus stop yesterday morning and right after "Good morning" I got a "you'd better get everything ready so you can use your new car as soon as possible." Nice to see you're so eager to not have to help me out anymore. Oh, and yesterday night he was talking about how the phone I chose is so much more expensive on a monthly basis than aunt A's and it's something wrong with the phone (and probably the fact that I chose it), which he explains as "the phone uses more data every month" (not true, plus, I pretty much always have the cellular data turned off) and not as "this is the contract I agreed to but then thought I'd change, as if I hadn't" (much more likely to be the case). Thanks for the tip, I'm working on it. Haven't seen BCM or cousin S. They haven't even called to say hello, pick up their presents or say "Thanks for the Christmas presents you left behind." (Not that anyone did.) I just had uncle A telling me I have to get cousin S to explain how to get new tires for the car. Which is not so much a "Here, we're trying to be nice" gift as a "Get off our backs, we want as little to do with you as possible" gift. Compare this to my family turning the house upside down cleaning and making a "Welcome home" poster complete with Adventskalendar and extra pieces of candy for good measure. 

Back in university things are a bit of a mess. Bureaucracy is making the rounds, as usual, this time in the form of not being able to register for a class because either I was told to take the wrong one by the academic advisor or the system is failing for you to get the permit for the one he told me about. Turns out they want me to get permits from a cancelled/unavailable phone number or someone who no longer works here. I thought I'd give the audit another shot, after not getting an answer from the professor teaching the class. It's geometric group theory, after all, and it sounds quite lovely, doesn't it? Didn't find him in his office. A very nice professor confused me with someone else and asked me to ask elsewhere. I turned to the secretary who promptly informed me that auditing a class costs money and it was up to me to find out how much. By the time I did, I gave up hope on showing up for the class to ask for the professor's permission: it would cost half as much as a regular class (read: too damned much). Curiously, looking for the cost of auditing a class I found out this university wastes a lot of money. In ways that can be verified and are actually forbidden by the law. So, not only am I charged an outrageous amount of money to attend a class without getting anything for it (besides an education), I know that money is being put to stupid uses. Too bad and too sad, I can't afford to pay that much and I've been dissuaded from trying to audit the class without permission (they say it's very much forbidden, like it's so wrong to want more knowledge). I'm really upset about this. It really doesn't cost the professor any additional effort to have me in the class, and as long as there are seats available in the classroom and I don't audit more than one or two classes per semester, it really should not cost a thing. There went my last shot at trying maths around here. 

Back in the office, nothing too exciting in terms of work. ON just walked into his office and complimented my hair. Which made me feel stupid. Social awkwardness at work. 

I've made arrangements to get a one on one session with the therapist leading group therapy. Just to sort out the whole "let's get me some pills" thing already. Because you know it's too much when you secretly wish the plane will crash down so you have an excuse not to go back to the As and you start crying on the bus ride to university just thinking of how much happier the dogs are to see you and welcome you than the As are.

As little help as they are (they were driving pretty much all the way to campus to go to a museum, yet they didn't think to ask me if they could drop me off/I'd like to come with), my aunt, uncle and cousin at least attempt to tell polite lies and help me out a bit. I sort of dread them leaving me alone with the As again because I won't get enough of a rest or enough help getting around while I sort out the car insurance business. 

I don't quite have time for it now, as I should be running off to class in 15min or so, but I should write a post about wants.

[Friday night edit]
An Unwelcome Back Party: two Christmas presents, from cousin S's girlfriend and cousin I appeared today as aunt A cleaned up Christmas. It would appear I've lost an earring, as I found a single earring in the bottom of one of the boxes my stuff was in. Which I somehow had to empty (even though I don't have much room and can't put everything back in its rightful place) because aunt A needed them to pack away the Christmas decorations. (Kind of made me wonder if it was even necessary to put all my things away in the first place, seeing how other completely in the way, trashable items were still there, including cousin S's second hand computer, which didn't receive the treatment my new computer did.)

Saturday, 4 January 2014

Late is late, later is still on time and on time is actually impossible


I'm going back to the As tomorrow. And I'm but guaranteed not to have a bed to sleep in. The outlook of sleeping in far too warm temperatures is no fun either. All that without mentioning what it means to go back to the As again. 

On other news, we went on a road trip to the town where summer school was hosted. Oh, the memories... The one picture I couldn't take was a picture of the place where SmTn and I got a soda before he left. I took pictures of a place near the hotel, but it doesn't quite match what I remember. Could be that it got remodelled. Could be that I got it wrong. However, we visited the hotel. I took pictures of the water fountain, the improvised library, and I ventured a little farther in towards the room SmTn was staying in. It just so happened to be open, so I took a quick picture of what it looked like from the door. Itty bitty tiny little bit stalkerish. I know. I also snapped a picture of the bench where I think (but can't quite remember) we sat down... and he told me his name and I completely forgot about it. I thought it was a green bench, but I couldn't see any green bench, so I opted for guessing which of the stores was the one I bought my Coca-cola in and I thought it was nice that the bench I thought was "the one" was occupied by a man on a guitar playing Kansas' "Dust In The Wind." The bench was, then, a place of music, but also of magic, and memories and faery tales... and SmTn. Much like the rest of the town. 

When I got back and looked at the pictures I couldn't settle on a single one to send SmTn. I also got him a postcard I'm not sure I'll get around to mailing. I chose 6 pictures that told a story (I thought): one of the hotel entrance, one of the town square and another that sort of centred the bench with the guitar playing man, one of the hotel's water fountain, one of the library (on the way to his room, I didn't dare add the picture of his old room) and, finally, one of the road that leads to the house where I was staying (and we walked on for a bit, as we ran to get my bag). 

There was a very sad misunderstanding I was only made aware of a day after the fact. While I walked around the hotel taking pictures, my parents talked to the people at the reception desk. They talked about previous summer schools hosted there. The old man told me they had actually not hosted last year's and had moved it to this year. The thought of it made imagine a future where I could go back this summer and see SmTn (I did tell him, after all, I'd do anything to be there for the next summer school... maybe he'd be there too). Then, when I mentioned how I'd absolutely attend it if it took place this year mum burst the bubble: the old man got it all wrong, of course they hosted it on time last year and won't host it again until next year. It remains a fact, then: I visited the town six months too late.

Upon coming back the song that played in the back of my head was "(I've Had) The Time of My Life"

[Sunday afternoon edit]
I found an answer from SmTn to my "*fireworks* [link to photo folder]" message: "Thanks. Big Smile :)" That's it. I'm a little let down, you know. Couldn't he use an extra line just to wish me the same (a happy new year)? Couldn't he write anything more? Couldn't we pretty please talk just the tiniest bit? Couldn't he open the door for me to bring up the outrageous idea? I almost feel like he shot me down with that. Like it's the final confirmation of how he was drunk texting me that Christmas greeting and I caught him sober and very much unwilling to reciprocate when I wished him a happy new year. I feel most definitely stupid for the whole exchange. And now I've got ABBA's "Take a Chance on Me" stuck in my head.

Thursday, 2 January 2014

Outrageous idea

I don't remember them as well anymore but I had two dreams over the last two days.

One involved a soap opera character who faked a pregnancy giving birth on a beach with lots of people from school1. I was actually absent for the birth itself, I'd taken a bathroom break. Which is how I know it happened in a span of 15min or less, in case you were interested.

The other I'm quite sure is from this morning. It involved SmTn and his girlfriend visiting. SmTn and I had made arrangements to meet/talk but it had to be fit around his schedule with her and she wouldn't have it. So, we couldn't do it. I had a dream about SmTn, then, except I didn't. It wasn't so much about him as it was about not being able to be with him, and I just remember seeing "evidence" of their travels. In particular I remember a large film under a bed with lots of writing on it. None of which I could understand, but it was hand written with big letters and lots of different colours. 

Now, the dream about SmTn has a bit of a story behind it.

I tried telling A about SmTn's Christmas message and she thought nothing of it. I needed feedback so... I thought of telling the kind online stranger about it. To my worries about how it could have/should have gone he said it sounded perfect to him and he thought it was a beautiful exchange. That for a New Year's exchange I should not fret and just do whatever I felt like. There's more to it, though. I also told the kind online stranger (in a lot more words) that I'm in love with SmTn. Not that he needed me to, he probably knew it already. Anyway, he also said "If you find yourself so drawn to him again, ask him if he can talk with you as more than a friend now, only if his last gf is out of the picture. Because he shouldn't be putting you in that situation and position again - you don't deserve that."

Fun fact: the first time I read it, I thought he was saying I should try to ask SmTn to be my friend and talk to me again, and somehow not let it be an issue with the girlfriend. Except it read "last gf"and it got me thinking. Then I had to read it again and realise he meant I should do something outrageous: ask SmTn to break up with his girlfriend and be more than just my friend. The worst part of it is that it makes sense. It's actully a very reasonable thing to do. If SmTn is heartbroken and has feelings for me and I have feeligns for him and we can have a conversation in a span of 6 short lines to tell one another as much... well, doesn't it make you wonder? Of course, I have absolutely no idea what the girlfriend is like, and one must assume she's every bit as nice as I remember her from my dreams. Of course, I can't really compete with someone he's been with for years, someone he's lived with, someone he can readily kiss and hold and sleep with. But... if SmTn thinks what I think, if he feels as I feel, if I somehow could tell him... if I could somehow ask him... I wonder what could happen then and I worry that the damned depression is lying to me and telling me it's impossible when it actually has a tiny (but very real) chance of happening. 

I don't know what to do. 

Except wait for him to write and see what I can come up with then. Or wait for Friday, when (if the old man has his way) we'll be in the setting place for summer school. Then I've made up my mind. I'll take a picture of the town square (better yet if it can be the bench where we both sat down that one night) and send it with a message "Happy new year!". It is, to me, the loudest and clearest way to say "I was thinking about you and I want you to think about me." I wish I could think of a way say "I want you to consider talking to me again and having no one to hide from, having nothing to hold back." I find it hard to believe I hadn't thought of what the kind online stranger said. I know I tried telling SmTn to consider me if things went south with his girlfriend and he found himself still not married many years from then. I then took that nonsense back. And it took two and a half years and a kind online stranger (and the loneliness to recur to him) to think "Would it really be so stupid?"