(no subject)

Christmas, outside of one child getting over the flu and the other developing the flu, was wonderful. Rayhawk, you're getting a direct thank-you card for your efforts. THANK YOU.

But that's not what I want to talk about. I don't even know what I want to talk about, except that I need to write. Hand to keyboard, nails to plastic, thoughts to words. About how once in a while I forget the quiet that writing brings, and about how once in a while, I have to write at night specifically for that reason.

It's not always the words themselves that are important. It's the effort. It's the ritual. We are creatures of comfort and I am no different. It's writing. It's always writing.

The thoughts are slowing down, as is everything Awful And Latuda Related. Totes awesome. Still lots on my mind. Love and loss. Lust and loneliness. Isolation and infatuation. Time. Time is on my mind.

We've all been here a long time.

Can we all stay here a long time, too? I'd like that. I'd really, really like that.

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Love to hate

I can't tell if the thoughts are moving too fast to catch or if the thoughts aren't there at all. But it feels like there's wind in my head. Movement of some kind.

Strange thought, as I am morbid and always seem to tilt towards the worst end scenario. "I can't wait to see what I'll hate about you." The whole idea is that those things, those things that you love about a person, that you just hate by the end of it. Not the annoying habits or the pet peeves, but the things that you just KICK YOURSELF for having been in love with to begin with.

I'm not a romantic person.

I really have to sleep.

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(no subject)

All of my pajamas are dirty. Like, blanketed in cat hair and cigarette ash dirty. I have pajama shorts but they aren't as comfy.

There are currently no children here, so I suppose going in the buff isn't out of the question. But my body feels weird. Another stupid early morning. I have the kids for the next three days so I must sleep. Here in a few hours, I'll try.

I'm also out of deodorant. That can be remedied shortly once I have a car, though. That moment is not now but it will be later.

Time is at least moving appropriately this morning. It's not slogging through a thickening morass of molasses. That's too much alliteration. Also, it just sounds cliche and dumb.

The Latuda DID put weight on me, in just a week. I'm not sure of the poundage, but I can feel my chin being heavier. Ergh. Water and portion control to reign in the damage.

I really want to write something relevant. I'm watching through my old videos. I'm not sure what I'm looking for, but it's comforting nonetheless. Proof of the self. Some might call that egotistical. Maybe it is.

But when you've spent decades wandering the wastelands of your own inner landscapes, seeing yourself - literally seeing yourself - is a marvelous anchor.

I need to shower. Catch up on emails. Write more. This will taper off. It has to. It will. I know it will.

Patience in the meantime. I love you all and thank you so much for listening.

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Latuda sucks

I lied.

It's tardive dyskinesia. The waking up ridiculously early with the ridiculous energy should have been a clue. This morning, I developed facial tics.

Oh yay.

So now I'm home, dosed up on Benadryl, hoping to sleep this fucker off. No, I don't want beta blockers. No, I don't want muscle relaxants. I said this was the ONE side effect I would automatically DC for.

So I'm DCing. I'm not going to let it get as bad as it did with Abilify, which did the same damn thing. Only then I was an idiot and let it go for months.

One day of this and I'm jumping the hell off this trainwreck. With luck the symptoms should only persist for another few days. Caught it the first day around this time.

I called the clinic and left a message for Dr. Cannon. There's no need for them to get back to me. I said I would try more relaxation techniques until I get to the doctor on the 31st.

Fuck second-generation antipsychotics. Fuck them hardcore.

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(no subject)

4 AM. This is ridiculous. Not much to be done about it. I have a busy day ahead, so bring on the coffee. (I know, I should forsake the stuff. Too bad.)

5 AM. Showered. I have gift shopping I can do shortly, as I have Pat's car. Something to fill the time. Something to do until it is time to do the things I need to do.

Time moves strangely for an insomniac.

Did gift shopping but forgot the most important part: Tape. I'll be hitting up a dollar store shortly. Why does everything have to open up 9 AM? It's only 7:17 AM.

What's with these insane surges of morning energy? They crash pretty hard, too. What rises must fall. Oi. I sit down, I jump up to do something. Anything. I do so, exhausted, sit back down, and want to jump right back up.

This isn't mania, per say. I think it's not, anyways. It's definitely not psycho-motor agitation. The energy is far more expansive than muscle restlessness. Weird Latuda reaction? Maybe. Who knows? Who cares? Okay, I do. I care. Still, not much to be done at the moment about it.

This kind of writing is maddening. It's not writing.

It's just killing time.

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I can't stop talking this morning

So after three attempts to get a video uploaded, one of which FINALLY uploaded but then refuses to play, I'm officially saying fuck it, and am just going to write it out. Why? Because it's 7 AM and I'm still bored as shit.

I've showered. I've cleaned and organized all of my bathroom drawers, my makeup drawers, and underneath my sink. I've taken a toothbrush to the toilet and the sink. And tried to upload three videos, all to no avail.

The frustrating part of this is in about two hours - when Jesse and his son get up - I'm going to crash. I just know it. Oi.

Jesse said something interesting last night. He said, concerning the first few times we talked and literally knew nothing about each other, that he wasn't expecting me. I think he was talking specifically about the kink, as he said I'm the first woman he's met who has more Yes's than No's.

I, nervous and delighted, said that I hope it made up for the crazy. That made me pause. In reality, nothing SHOULD have to "make up" for the crazy. That's just part of the deal. If you want the crazy sex Teressa, you have to take the rest of her crazy ass, too. It's not a separate thing, nor would I choose to separate it. It makes up a huge part of who I am, the sex included.

But then I thought to myself that any relationship, romantic or otherwise, comes with a certain sort of "risk vs reward" element. It's what allows us to choose the people who compliment us. It's what allows us to stay away from the people who would harm us.

So maybe what makes up for the crazy isn't such a bad way of thinking about it.

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Tired of me talking about Jesse? Too bad.

4 AM and I am bored as shit. I cleaned last night as to give myself some extra free time this morning. If only I'd known I'd be up at an ungodly hour and would be desperate for things to do. I suppose I could take a toothbrush to my bathroom, which is the only place I can turn the lights on. Maybe I'll post a video. Who knows? But because my nails are still wet and writing is a relatively nail-safe activity, I'll write. What else is there to do? Write. There is writing that is "else" to do.

Things of the Jesse:

* Jesse and his roommate both don't always pick up on sarcasm, so I often have to reiterate that I'm being sarcastic or snarky. I always thought that would be annoying. Turns out it's not annoying at all, but rather just A Thing I Need To Do. That works out fine.

* Jesse is making me feel wildly better about my body, even at this size. He says I'm built like a porn star. That makes me feel sexy and gives me some patience with the slow, steady march of weight loss.

* It did and still does shock Jesse that I'm so damn sarcastic and snarky. I'm not sure why this surprises so many people, outside of the idea that maybe I come off sweeter than I really am. I'm not a positive person, though, not by a long shot. I find positivity to be hugely aggravating. And god's honest truth, my path to health and self-discovery has been aaaalllll about the snark. Give myself the permission to be morbid, to be sarcastic, to be flippant. To be irreverent.

* Being cheerful all the time is a terrible imposition. I've obviously found enough positive thinking to keep me alive and kicking in this world of trauma, so the rest of it I simply have no need for.

* Jesse's son reminds me that I have the right to cry. Hearing someone so young say that, someone so young who KNOWS that, almost made me cry right there. How are some kids so smart? How'd he learn something that took me decades to figure out?

* A part of me almost wishes I was spiritual, if nothing else to give Jesse an immediate outlet to talk to. This relationship is all tangled up in his spiritual journey, but talking to me about it does no good. Perhaps I'll suggest to him that he hit up a message board. Reading is not the easiest task for him, but I do recognize that it's an important part of him that he needs to share. I won't keep him from searching for someone he CAN share that with.

* Nearly 5 AM and I think I might go crazy from boredom. I'll try going back to bed.

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What else is there to do?

Another 3 AM, another migraine. Thanks Latuda. At least I was in bed by 10 last night. That helps, though I'm sure I'll feel by 10 AM. But hey, at this point, any sleep is better than none.

This has been a pattern for most of my life, though. Early mornings started by early headaches. And I've been an early riser even aside from that. It would surprise my first foster mother, who would often find me up at 4 AM, drinking coffee and writing in the dining room. She swore I had eyesight like a hawk, as I did so in near total darkness. The truth is that I just like dim lights.

I didn't smoke then, or else I would have sat on the porch as I do now, endless paragraphs wreathed in smoke.

I've been dreaming about Cassie. Makes sense. It's still annoying. And it hurts. With every round of this, I'm learning how to let go. But she still twists me deeper than any other person ever has.

"'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need
Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why

If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?
If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?

Jesse raised his eyebrows when I told him that she has the largest break-up list of any relationship I've ever had. But it's true. Family cuts the sharpest, even for someone like me.

Such is the nature of heartbreak, though. I soldier through it. What else is there to do?

I'm sure I'll be writing more. It's only 3:30 AM. What else is there to do?

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(no subject)

I guess the trick isn't to sleep in later - it's to go to bed earlier. This whole waking up at 5 AM thing seems pretty immutable, so it's adjusting the bedtime, not the wakeup time, that needs to be done.

And yeah, turns out the glowstick stuff tore the hell out of the varnish on the table, which is Jesse's roomate's. I just may end up having to replace the table, which is fair enough. It's a very nice table but thankfully fairly new, so it's at least reassuring that I didn't destroy a family heirloom.

I have no idea if a social worker told Audrey that her mother didn't show. I hope it wasn't that. But I would guess so, since the children still have the blind hope that they will go home. I no longer tell them they will, but I don't give them the details on all the way Cassie's fucking up, either.

The system is not being good to these children.

Last night Jesse and I made paper chains out of construction paper for Christmas decorations. Pat's grandma had pitched in for the supplies, which nearly made me cry. Even Jesse's son helped out some. When I thanked Jesse's son for helping make this a good Christmas for Audrey and Julien, he got sad.

Jesse's son is a fairly normal 11 year old. He comes from an overly strict home with divorced parents, yes, but he has no idea of things like foster care, addicted parents, courts, and trauma. I had to explain to him - in the most kid-friendly terms I could - domestic abuse, the process of foster care, of why Audrey and Julien are IN foster care. His sadness was deep and he was troubled.

The difference between someone like him versus someone like the children - who knew all of this stuff from such an early age, from 5 and 7 - is so clear. It's heartbreaking. It's unfair. And it's very inescapably just the way it is.

I know life isn't fair but sometimes it seems so vastly unfair as to be cruel. But Jesse's son gives me hope. I'm not entirely sure how or why yet, but being around him gives me hope for Audrey and Julien.

Those two will carry open wounds that will scar them for life. But maybe, just maybe, someday they'll have the ability to laugh like Jesse's son does. Maybe someday they'll find a piece of normality like Jesse's son.

Maybe. God, I hope so.

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