I’m full with it today. Brimming with it. Overflowing with it. The Unspeakable. Fighting the urge to write but, hang it, if I want to write, I will. And I will write what I WANT to write. I am touched, very, and gratefull, that I have friends who care enough about what I think and feel to offer advice, and/or care enough to feel sorry/frustrated/whatever over what I am doing or going through.
However. No-one knows the stupidity more than myself. No-one wishes me to no longer have pain, sorrow, exhaustion, vacant-headedness, and the inability to be strong in places I should be strong, more than myself. Believe me when I say this. I am my own worst enemy, I know this. I hang on to people and friendships with much more energy than they deserve, I know this. I give too much to people who couldn’t care less, and perhaps don’t deserve my giving, I know this. I love where there’s no point. I know this.
I have felt reluctant to write anything, in this my journal, because of things people have said. I have decided I can’t allow that to happen. I can’t allow my expression to be squashed by anyone, and I mean … anyone. My journalling has been denigrated in the past, by someone who at first loved it, loved the insight into me. Others have told me what I should feel. Or more correctly, what I should not feel. What I should and should not do. But … I’m sorry. I can’t be ruled by what others want, and I will not allow myself to not journal because certain content irritates anyone.
So be it. I will write what I want to write, when I want to write, in a place and manner in which I chose to write. I know I should not love someone who is not interested in my love, who I have not met, and probably won’t meet. But do we choose who to love? Do we choose when and when not to love? No, we DON’T choose. It just happens. I would prefer not to love, at all. Actually, I would prefer to love nobody, ever again. I would prefer to shut off my feelings as obviously others are able, but that’s not me. You can call it a fault, or you can see it as admirable, but when I love someone, I love long and hard. It rarely wavers and once my love is unwanted anymore, it takes forever to get over it. that’s me, like it or lump it. My heart broke, as stupid as some people may want to judge that as, and it’s taking a long time to mend. I will not apologise for that. Not even to Mr Music. For better or for worse, most probably for worse, I am an incurable romantic who believes in fairyland and sprites in the garden and a world of spirit around me.
Today’s been a down day. Not a black day, more of a brownish-tinged deep blue day. I still have them occasionally, but nowhere near as often as before, and never as dark in tone as before. I am recovering, from cancer, from the treatment, even from a broken heart, and most importantly the depression, but it is a long way up from how far down I’ve been. There is no explaining that to anyone who hasn’t faced cancer and the barbaric treatment for it. And worse … try dealing with broken hearts/dreams during the middle of all of that. You want the truth? The bald, ugly (huh, how ironic) truth? It’s a miracle I’m still alive today, and not because of the cancer or the treatment. The only thing that has stopped me is my child. Don’t judge, because you don’t understand until you stand in my shoes.
A big insomnia cycle has struck again. I didn’t sleep last night, until taking some strong pain killers plus my one remaining half a valium at 4.30 in the morning, and I finally feel into a dozy comfortable sleep during a National Geographic documentary on Big Sur. To top it off I’m finally catching Liam’s cold. Uncomfortable tickle in the throat. Coughing.
It’s an absolutely beautiful, beautiful day outside. I sat outside earlier and read, in the warm sun and the cool breeze, but the onset of the Dreaded Lurgy is getting the better of me, so now I am in bed, looking out througy my window at flowers everywhere, and two plum trees absolutely clothed in pink blossom. Big elephant ears and bromileads against my bedroom window. A Doris Day movie on the tv. The book I’m reading constantly at my side … “A Literary Passion. Letters of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller 1932-1953”. My throat hurting, my head getting that heavy ‘glug’ feeling.
My email inbox is totally empty, a very rare occurrence, and the only things coming through the mailbox are notes from ebay telling me about deals, a horoscope site telling me to read my daily horoscope, and countless offers to make my dick harder and make sex last longer. I thought today how nice, how refreshing, how much more personal it would be to swap from emails, to writing proper letters to people. Nobody does that anymore. But, even when I do, there are no handwritten replies in kind, apart from one, a literary soul-sister, who understands that writing by hand is so much more personal, and giving, than quick emails.
I’ve thought today of deleting my myspace account. About perhaps silently disappearing from someone’s life. Of ceasing correspondence, apart from friends who truly are bothered with me, who care to have decent conversations with me. I should nurture what I have to give, and only give where it is truly appreciated. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Who wants such a complex woman? No man I know. They SAY they do, they say they admire it even, but when it gets down to it, oh, they prefer the naive, moldable, simple, un-complex young little things.
Thoughts. If only the brain had green and red buttons. If only the heart had red and green buttons.
A letter from Anaïs Nin to Henry Miller:
Things I forgot to tell you: The quena is an instrument like a flute used by the South American Indians. It is made of human bones. It owes its origin to the worship of an Indian for his mistress. When she died he made a flute of one of her bones. It ha a more penegrating, more haunting sound than the ordinary flute.
