Also, Zack couldn’t find his glasses in the morning either, you glasses kids and your putting glasses places drunk
no you and alli were talking star wars and kept pausing…
Dude I carried you from the stairs to your bed, you kept saying you were gonna rip our throats out, I felt bad, but I didn’t want to leave you on the floor. Also Zack’s glasses were in his bed, I think, and you were in bed at 11:45-ish.
My dog is dying. This is not a surprise. She has lost weight and is, as far as my family can tell, deaf. This does not shock or startle me. We got her in 1998 (she was born around July 4th of that year) and I was ten. I’m turning 22 on April 21st. This dog survived moving five times, having a growth on her hip, and being in our home when the knob on the gas stove was left on and the house filled with explosive vapor. All things considered, remarkable.
This is one of the things I have begun to build emotional insulation against and it would appear that doing so is useless. The past two years have essentially been an exercise in trying to ruin myself so that I can no longer feel the pain of loss. This exercise has failed miserably except to deaden my ability to cope with my panic attacks and nervousness. My hands shake now when I go to the bank, pay for gas, and stand in the checkout line at a grocery store. My knees get weak. I can’t draw breath without feeling choked and strangled. Sometimes my skin feels like it’s burning. Two days ago I drove past a police officer and I almost passed out in the car. It felt like a heart attack. The pain behind my eyes was terrifying. I had nothing illegal in the car and I wasn’t speeding. The definition of an anxiety disorder, according to the therapist I visited five times and then abandoned, is a fear that is irrational and unfounded, thus disrupting normal activity. Now my “normal activity” is structured around avoiding stress and conflict, which makes me a vacant shell of a human being. How apparent this is to everyone around me is unclear. I don’t want people to worry about me, because that doesn’t help me or them. It’s not a fucking pity hunt. I just want some guidance. I find myself looking up information on medicines like propranolol and staring longingly at the diagram of its chemical structure, and wishing for a fistful of alprazolam.
All of this is most likely a result of undermedication* and it will all blow over in a few months.
But right now I’m out of my fucking head.
In other news I have begun this grand game called Homestuck which has lightened the mood considerably. The beginning is slow but - trust me - stick with it.
*The fact that I have to resort to such a term does, indeed, make me cringe.
During the Cold War space race of the 1960s, both America and the Soviet Union took great risks to try and one-up each other, sometimes with dire consequences. In 1967, cosmonaut Vladimir Kamarov went up in the Soyuz I capsule, which he knew was not safe, and it was a mission he knew he wouldn’t return from. But he couldn’t back out, because his backup was Yuri Gagarin, the man who had become a Russian hero for being the first person in space. And Kamarov didn’t make it. That’s him above… the lump of charcoal being looked over by Soviet officials.
“In 1967, both men were assigned to the same Earth-orbiting mission, and both knew the space capsule was not safe to fly. Komarov told friends he knew he would probably die. But he wouldn’t back out because he didn’t want Gagarin to die. Gagarin would have been his replacement.”
“1657: The debate over a no-fly zone rumbles on: A US intelligence chief, Lt Gen Ronald Burgess, tells a Senate hearing: “My understanding as I’ve studied in my schools, that [plan] would be considered an act of war.””—BBC News.
“It’s like they found one of those van Gogh’s at a garage sale. This woman bought it and she was using it to block out the sun in her kitchen. She was using it as a window shade, so it was getting all faded from the sun. And she cut it because it didn’t fit the window. When they finally discovered she had a van Gogh as a window shade, they brought in all these experts from the museum and they were all filling in her living room and they said, “How can you cut off the top off this painting?” And she said, “It was just a little piece of the sky.” Sometimes it’s the value you attach to things. It’s subjective. And we record on stuff that’s going to disintegrate. Just like films are made on celluloid that’s going to vanish, it’s going to be gone. It’s like drawing on wax paper or something.”—Tom Waits. From Beck’s website.