Zero

OK, so we just published the last post, but the time is going to be off because it was sitting there ???????? it was a ...... ? few hours ago?   ?a few minutes ago? I'm not sure right now.  yay dxm and dissociation time dilation. 


OK.

So Reboot. Our mother is not on our side. she never has been.  There is something wrong with her.  We cannot trust her, she is (evil) untrustworthy.  Her narcisisistic structure will not allow her to actually boldly steal from her children, so I am pretty sure my money(whatever the hell it is) is safe.

The Reboot means that it is a new understanding of our mother.  which may not sound catyclysmic, but it is.  Accepting that she likes to hurt us is               life                       ch                    an             g                                ing.  It is as if the entire frame of the world is different.


We had a ritual/moment thing earlier, that's why we are writing.  We wanted to be completely clean and disconnected so we unplugged everything, e v e r y t h i n g and then we sat and had , tried, did, physical reactions, sitting, to say

so we sat in a sort of lotus position on the rug in the dark room alone and totally us.  And we said:  Our mother and father sexually abused us when we were an infant/toddler up to 5.  they may have physically abused us as well, but that is not the secret.  the teenage boys who lived there, the stepsons, they sexually inserted themselves or objects or something and they hurt us, and our mother and father did not notice and may have been part of it.  our mother willfully ignored the sexual abuse and allowed it to go on.  she never put you in therapy or believe you in any way, but talked to when you were 5 about bad touches and bad things and that you are supposed to tell, but when you told she said it didn't happen.  So you learned to become crazy.  You learned how to doublethink. doublethink. doublethink. doublethink doublethink doublethink. and because your are organically brain smart, you did a wonderful job.  and at 34, you broke down and went crazy sort of. and then you have been working on this for 3 and half years like a dissertation. and now you've figured it out.  she mindfucked you your entire childhood into believing that it never happened.  BUT IT DID.

IT HAPPENED.

And now the world is different. 

We have what Jeanette has

We have it. We have the same strength. the same beauty.  the same molten core of life.  You have what Gina has, what Bryan has what Jeanette has.  You have it.  And you don't want to believe you have it.  Because.

Because, if you had it, then fucking why?  Why all the pain and hurt if I am good?  Because life is not fair.  And your a beautiful plumed spangly peacock who was beaten in the muck and strangled and told that peacocks don't exist and if they did they are gross and unsettling and unseemly and not right.  And FUCK THEM. Peacocks are real and beautiful and just because you aren't one doesn't mean you have to smash me.   Because you could have been beautiful too.  ......................................  But you chose not to grow. So you are afraid of truth and beauty and light because it hurts you.  Because you are not strong?  Because you chose the wrong choice?  I don't know whats wrong with you.  That is a fact.  I haven't figured that out yet.  But it is not ok.  It is not OK to smash peacocks because you are afraid of their tremulous fully flared blue beauty.  Their beauty will not hurt you.  But I guess you will never understand that.

The point is- Mom- Abuser- you are not interested in communicating and fixing.  It would be OK if there was a problem because you were hurt as a child and didn't know how to love correctly, but you wanted to learn as you got older and fix it.   BUT THAT IS NOT YOU.  this may be the saddest sentence i ever write, you do not want to make things better, you want to lie and be comfortable. 

i am sobbing. i am so sad.  it is so anticlimactic.  my mother is not on the force for good. I want to say "right now", she's not on the force for good "right now", maybe she'll get it later.  so sad so sad so sad so sad so gross

.

had a moment, fuck, dont understate it fucking say it.  Ok, Had a physical body reaction to our discoveries/feelings, heaved was sick in the sink felt completely disconnected and reoriented myself subconsciously to not think about what i had been thinking about.  then cut out mentally and started talking about Dxm and realized we were avoiding mom.

our mother is not interested in fixing this.  otherwise she would have done it already. she had the chances, she has had therapy.  she did not use therapy.  in fact she denigrated it.  she is evil.she is not worth your time anymore.

physical reaction  happeninga

knowing you exist

Knowing you exist helps me so much.  Knowing you wrote your ground bone poems, your pole dancing to gospel hymns, your sweating blood truthfullness, you advice to adolscent girls with pink hair and crooked teeth.  You did/are doing the same thing i am doing.  creation? reacreation? from the pyre.  and just knowing you are there is enough sometimes.  i can't actually click the link, i can't hear the words, they would hurt my new skin, but knowing that you lived it, you felt it, you wrote it, then YOU SAID IT.  helps.  so. fucking. much.  thank you.  thank me.  we are miracles and warriors and princesses and princes and we deserve all the beauty and love in the world.  thank you.

Bryan's Poem.

OK, we are high, that is a consideration.  We just fucking cyber stalked our therapist, but we didn't mean to.  We were trying to find his email to email him this stuff, and then well, internet addiction type of click, click, click, oh, he's been quoted on ABC!  Fuck. He's a good guy. I think. I don't want to get a crush on him. But I have a therapist crush on him, because fuck, how else does this shit work. Fuck I wish I had more time with him.  Maybe he'll take me on as a private client when the summers over.  But, wow, he's a keeper.  He knows what he's doing and he cares and he is intuitive and honest.

And I am soooooooooooo afraid of falling in love or whatever that state is with him, because when you are that open and honest with someone it's like its a sticky tentacle grasp that just happens.  You just fall for them.  And I know that it is not the right course and that it is not useful and that it is part of the therapy and all of that, and IT STILL FUCKING HAPPENS. aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhh.  And I think if I had more time with him, I could work on it.   But we don't.  Because I know he could handle me having a love feeling for him.

when you are that open and honest with someone it's a sticky tentacle grasp that just happens.  you just fall for them.  but it is OK.  this is part of the healing.  having him take my red wet bleeding heart and hold it and hold it and hold it and hold it.  and hold.  and hold.  so i can look at it, i can see it is OK, it is not gangrenous, it is not communicable, it is not green with pus, it is not going to infect anyone.  it is not going to infect him.  it is not going to infect me.  it is going to heal me.  and it is strong, but it will not kill me.  it will not kill him.  he will not blow up.  he can take my strong wet heart and hold it so i can look at it.  so i can study it.  so i can learn to love it.  and he is strong so he holds it.  and it drips blood down his hands.  but he has studied, he has friends, he has a therapist, he has a supervisor, he knows the boundary.  he knows it is not his blood.  he knows he can wash it off.  he knows he is helping to heal, not having a love affair, so he holds my heart.  and i look at it.  i study it.  and i see its strength.  and i am so scared of it. soo sooo sooooo scared of it.  ......................................................

.......................... so i keep trying to give it to him.  to put in his chest.  but he explains that he won't take it because he can't take it.  it is not his to take.  it is mine.  it is in his hands right now but it is mine to take back.

so i think.  and i watch the bleed on his skin.  and i watch him.  i watch him, i watch him.  i watch him.  i wait for his grimace.  his disgust.  the briefest flutter of an eyelid, the smallest unconscious curl of a lip.  and it doesn't come.  he is calm.  he has studied, he has friends, he has a supervisor, he knows the boundary, he has the strength.  he holds my bleeding heart.  it drips my blood down his hands.  he is calm.  he is kind.  he even smiles once, with my blood pooling on the floor, he still sees the point of living.  he shows me i can feel.  because he is feeling.  so i watch him.  i watch him.  i watch him.

and one day, i take my heart in my hands.  i watch him.  how do i do this?  i watched him, so i know.  i am calm.  i let it bleed on my hands.  i feel.  i let the blood pool on the floor.  the pain will not kill me.  it did not kill me the first time,  i lived then.  i made it then.  i can make it now.  oh, the pain.  pain.  pain.  but i am calm.  i feel it.  i cry.  i cry.  i cry.  i cry.  i cry.  then i am quiet.  then i laugh.  then i smile at him.  he smiles at me.  i made it.  i still want to give my heart to him but i keep it.  it is mine to keep. 

And I take it in.  I take me in.  I take my strong red wet beating heart back and put it in my chest.  And I smile.  I say "We made it."  He says, "I think we did."  And I shake his bloody hand with my bloody hand.  And we stand and we look at each other and we smile with our hearts in our chest. 

Do the Work

Fucking fuck.  I don't wanna do the work, but i do wanna do the work, but fuck.  OK, we gotta do the work.  we gotta write the poems.  we've gotta go for the walks.  we gotta fucking do the fucking yoga.  we gotta fucking meditate. fucking meditate. fuck.  we don't wanna.  we wanna do drugs and get high in the sky and teach beautiful theoretical math and fuck the world.  and eat what sugar crap.  but we gotta fucking drag ourselves outta this.   we gotta. we gotta.

We have to do the work.  It's on now, I guess.  It's on.  We are high right now, but I guess it has to stop.  Eventually? (With a Chesire grin?)  Fuck.  Drug Problem.

Drug Problem.

We love the way we feel so much on DXM that we do not want to give it up.  It almost feels like a "gimme" quick cut pull away to me kind of thing.  My precious.  It's MINE, AND I LOVE IT AND FUCK OFF.  fuck. 

And we gotta focus on what the problem is, and actually the problem is not DXM.  The problem is that you are healing from a childhood of SEVERE abuse and mind-fucking and sex abuse and hurt.  And your mother is a very sick person who is not going to be able to go on this journey with you.  And your brother may not be able to go on this journey with you.   He has come a fucking long way, and he may find a way to be happy, but you can't do it for him  I ABSOLUTELY will help him any way that I can, but I can't control  his path.  It would be grotesque to do so.  You are alone.  You are going to make it.  You have to stop doing drugs.  You have to stop doing drugs.  You have to stop numbing reality.  You have to feel the freakiness in real time, not drug time.  You have to feel weird while you are sober.  You have to feel dissociative and wonky while you are sober.  While you are not chemically affected.  It is OK.  It is safe to be dissociative and wonky and sober.  You will not let go and become fully crazy all the time.  You can control it.  It is actually beautiful.  And you can do it.  But although the drug is beautiful and it helps, it hurts you, it is a chemical not meant for your body, it is probably hurting your liver, it is probably hurting your heart muscle, it definitely hurts you ability to have mental perspective and clarity.  Yes, it helps you feel and get to the truth.  It does. I absolutely will not dispute that.  It does fucking WORK.  But it can't be a lifestyle.  And you want it to be a lifestyle.  I do. I want it to be a lifestyle of wonkiness and gut intuition and truth and weirdness and calm and beauty and truth.  I am so scared to do it.

You have to fucking live out loud.  Yeah, that movie.  Cheesy, fuck yeah, but correct.  Live Fucking Out Loud.  You have to.  You can't keep going doing this drug thing.  I mean, you can.  You seem to be handling work, money, therapy and drugs sorta well right now.  You can do it.  You just have to decide is that the life you want?

I've been watching Weeds. Probably a bad idea.  but someone on it said he did all this terrible stuff, just to see if he could get away with it.  And that is sort of how I feel about the DXM.  Like, holy shit, I am dissociated to the fucking moon, high on chemicals and totally living my life.   And it's working just fine.  The only chinks are literally my own truthfulness.  If I didn't go to therapy, if I didn't have a true relationship with my friends, I would be fine!  It's sort of gross.   I could live like this forever.  I'm the one who keeps telling my fucking therapist I'm using drugs.  If I didn't go to therapy there would be no problem.  But I keep fucking going to therapy.  I feel like I need it.

BECAUSE I DO FUCKING NEED IT.  I need to tell my truth and be heard and loved and that is fucking therapy.  OK, I feel like I gotta stop because now I want to defend DXM forever.  OK.  Stop.

We were so strong. I was so strong.

I just have to validate myself.  To tell myself.  We were so so soooooooooooooo fucking strong.  We NEVER EVER hit back.  Never once.  Never once. Never.  Wow.  She is so lucky.  We could have killed her, and we "did not strike back" like the poet said.  We took her hitting us and belittling us and hurting us and being mean to Jeremy and took it all and never broke.   Wow. 

I am so proud of us.  So proud.  I am proud that we could get to the point to be proud about it:)  God damn, this therapy has been hard fucking work.  I don't know how the poets and the singers do it.  I know not everyone uses therapy.  But that's how it worked for me.  But now I think.   NoW  I don't know.  I was gonna say now I'm going to be a poet.  But I don't know.  I know I want to be a warrior for truth and growth and health.  How to do this is slightly unclear.

I love you.  I love us.  We are the strongest baddest toughest person and we can take shit and we can protect people and we can protect ourselves.  We are awesome.  You took it. We took it and never struck back.  And that. That is the strength.

I just realized that I was not allowed to love.

OK, so after writing my feelings about Jeanette, I realized that part of the urgency that is happening is not just because of her.  It is because I have NEVER been able to allow myself to actually love someone.  To, in the psychological use of the word, "attach" myself to anyone.  It was only and always my mother.  And that is why right now it feels like FUCKING JOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

TO FUCKING SCREAM:  I LOVE SOMEONE, ANYONE, I LOVE MYSELF, IN FACT.


oh, i love myself in fact.            That is it.                I love me.                And it's not a love me more than her (mom).  It's a I love me, and it allows me to not attack her. Funny.  Seriously.  I am allowed to have myself.  And that self fell itselfness in love with a girl.  a Woman.  who unfortunately is 1. not gay 2. your best friend and 3. someone you went through trauma treatment with.  Not ideal.  But SHE IS SO FUCKING GREAT! Small ones and big ones inside decry.  Yes, she fucking is.  But we can't fuck her. Because she isn't in the right place for that to happen for her with me right now.  It would be bad for her and probably for me.  Although I want to pretend I'm tough and could handle it. ARRRRRGH.  Because it seems so perfect.

We understand each others fuck ups about sex and weirdness and we'd be patient and loving with each other and it would be safe.  But it scares the living shit out of her, so no.  NO.

It is because we are scared.  We only trust her.  Her and Gina.  Hah, which I guess means we'd have real sex with Gina.  Hah.  We can have all sorts of stupid not real sex all over the place, (and we have), but we've only had real sex once, maybe twice with Alan in college.  Real sex meaning connected, all there, emotionally there sex.  And when it happened with Alan, it was an accident.  He was a good guy, I think.  I hope.  Maybe I'll check up on him on Facebook.  Alan Nail.

So we are fucking allowed to own our damn selves.  And when your mother hits you, do not strike back.

I love all the things you love....

I love all the things you love, why won't you love me? Gosh it is so fucking hard. I love you so fucking much and it is not going to work, it is not healthy, it is chemically not right also, because you are not actually gay. Seriously, I chuckle at this point. Futility and hurt. Jeanette you are so smart and intuitive and bright and creative and beautiful and I love all the things you love. And I love you.

You are so pretty. You are the woman that is awesome and is creating her own path and her own healing, I just love you. And I get so jealous of you. I must be projecting myself onto you, which is why we should not be in a romantic relationship. We are tooooooooooooooooooooooo close to each other. We project and triangulate and trigger each other into oblivion. And we both work SO HARD not to do that to each other. I respect us. We try really hard. But I guess...   it's become self evident that I can't be in your orbit right now. I seem to spontaneously combust. Which I wish I didn't do, I don't want to do it, but it keeps happening so I have to heed the signs and stay away. And it hurts me.  Because I really actually in a completely non-exploitative way care about you. And I would like to be there to support you, and I am not, because my path is a swirly mess of dissociation and DXM.

But I swear to you, Jeanette. I love you. And what the hell does that mean, right? It means, that right now and for the forseeable future and I think for my lifetime, I care about how you make out. I fervently wish for your success in happiness and individuation and learning and growth and whatever other Jungian stuff I don't remember. I want you to be happy, and I will do acts towards assuring that happiness.  In other words, I got your back.

So I have no idea if I am writing this to put on the blog or to send to you, but here it is. You fucking rock. I fucking rock. Every person who has gone through this hell and made it fucking rocks. And I am going to make it. And you are going to make it. And we are both gonna rock, but maybe not together at this exact moment.  I love you.  I love me.  OK.  Enough. :)

"Unsolicited Advice to Adolescent Girls with Crooked Teeth and Pink Hair...

Am I Dr. Watson?

So, I am totally in a spiral of self-hatred, dissociation and shame.  I have been stuck in my house for about 2 months (?) basically eating and watching Netflix and whatever I torrent off the internet.  I am not in a good place.  And no matter how I say it here, I will sound better than I actually am.  I am not good.  3 weeks ago, if I had a gun, I probably would have killed myself.  Ironically, only my depression stopped my suicide.  It was too much work to plan the whole fucking thing, so I slept instead.

I have been watching and "fangirl" ing this TV show I like- Sherlock on BBC.  It is about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson in the present.  Dr. Watson is a ptsd guy from the Afghanistan war, and he shacks up with Sherlock to solve crimes.  What I love about the show is that Dr. Watson is just like me.  He has nothing, no love, no passion, nothing to live for and as he says in episode 1 to his therapist (!) "nothing ever happens to me."  And then he randomly becomes flatmates with Sherlock and his life begins.  GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDDd.  Please let that happen to me.  I have nothing, no life, nothing.  I feel I am unworthy of even a tumblr account.  I want a Sherlock to come save me.  And I will be the practical human being to his sociopathic/neutral good/asperger's bx.  I just need to be saved.

The beauty of the show Sherlock is basically that they fall in love with each other, without either one knowing what the fuck to do about it.  So they stay platonic work partners that spend every fucking waking moment with each other.  I would be happy with even this fucked up codependent relationship.

I just need help.  Help..  I need love.  And companionship.  But I need to save myself, because no one else can save me.  The idea of a Sherlock is beautiful, but misguided.  I have to be my own Sherlock.  I have to save myself.

PS. After at least a year and a half of abstaining, I got drunk tonight at a lesbian bar and talked to some women.  I even sort of have plans for later in the week.  And let me tell you, I would trade (and did) all the sobriety in the world to have a life. and friendship.  So there.

I am exhausted

Well, I am officially a badass.  I had one hell, whopper of a migraine last night after I got off the phone, so my sleep was very shallow and troubled.  But I got up and went to group anyway.  And that is when I was awesome.

Trigger Alert:

I told about the memory I had 3 weeks ago.  The memory of being orally raped by a male when I was an infant.  Yes.  Part of me still has a somewhat hard time believing we can remember something that happened when we were an infant.  But most of me believes it.  I have read enough research about traumatic memory that I know it's possible.  And it happened to me.  This is not the first memory I have had about sexual abuse, but it is the most complete and concrete.  It was all senses at once.  Other times I have had body memories, but no visuals, or visuals when I was high that I discounted because I was high.  This happened dead sober, when I was least expecting it, meaning I wasn't trolling for a memory.  It just came. 

I don't understand someone who would do that to a baby.  It is so foreign that it seems almost impossible.  But my body memory was real.  So I believe myself.  I just am devastated.  Devastated that I was hurt before I could even walk, made to dissociate before I could even communicate.  It is a wonder I'm still alive.  I think some seriously terrible things happened to me in that house, and I know seriously terrible things happened to me in the other house.  I know my mother beat me, emotionally abused me and terrorized me my entire childhood until I was 21.  I told her she couldn't hit me anymore at 21.  Twenty fucking one, and she was still in such utter control of me.  37 and the control is just finally waning, after three years of intensive, intensive, intensive therapy.  Almost 4 years now.  Wow.  I don't like to think about it.  It feels like it shouldn't be taking me this long.

But fuck that.  I was one of the most defended people ever.  I was in total unreality about my childhood, because it was never safe before to truly understand how bad it was.  It took me 2 years to truly trust the therapeutic process.

I am so sad, but it is a good sad, an authentic devastation about my childhood.  I had no one safe, ever.  Ever.  So, I am a badass for making it through.  Yes, I am.  We all are. 

Cards, Cards, Cards

I had a wonderful day today, even though part of it was spent telling my group why I was a waste of space and should kill myself.  Hmmm.  Anyway, the rest of the day went really well.  Big confession time here, this is something I keep so compartmentalized from myself that it never even occured to me to put in writing:  I was arrested last year for shoplifting.  I wasn't booked or fingerprinted or anything, but I was handcuffed within the store, then given a ticket/paper that told me to show up for court.  I got a lawyer, paid him mucho bucks, and he's been on it since then.  Today was our trial date, finally, after lawyer stalled for a year on purpose.  His strategy was to continue the case forever, so that when it finally came to trial, none of the witnesses/cops would show up.  AND GUESS WHAT HAPPENED?  IT WORKED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So I went to the courthouse today for the trial, and before it even got started the prosecution dropped my case because no cops showed up to witness!!!!  Yay!!!! YAY.

This is a second chance for me.  It's like the Goddess said, hey chica, wake up! when I got arrested, but she let me off the hook for major damage.  Now I can pay more money and have my record expunged, and I will be as pure as the driven snow.  Ha.   But I must work on the shoplifting.  I now have pretty much accepted that it is part of my whole trauma-liciousness.  It actually is on a list in the book Secret Survivors. Checklist to see if you have sexual trauma, and shoplifting is one of the choices.  That was quite a shock when I saw that, because it doesn't immediately seem to have to do with trauma.  But there's a correlation.  Weird.

Lara came back to group today to process more about her leaving.  I missed most of it because of court, but it was nice she came.  I am going to miss her so, so, so, so, so, so much.  Sad just thinking about it.

OK.  Good day!  I went to walk on the beach to celebrate my courthouse victory and it was nice.  I picked up a cool piece of coral I want to make into a necklace.

I am still sort of in love with -.  In love is probably not the write word.  In infatuation? In like?  I want to spend more time with her, and I can't because she's such a damn loner.  I miss her when I'm not hanging out with her, and we're just friends.  Ugh.  I don't know if this is romantic, or I'm just lonely and excited to have a friend who can keep up with me.  I don't think I really want to do anything physical with her, I just want to be around her a lot.  What is that?  A friend crush?

OK, time to finish my dang business cards.  I've been working on them for weeks, and I've got to take the plunge, finalize the design and order the damn things!  They will be ordered by tomorrow.  Yay.  Then the official Owl Tutoring will begin.  If I get 4 clients a week I would be overjoyed.  And I'm pretty sure I can get them!  Yay!

On what looks like to me, my mother's hand

How do I both love and hate Ani Difranco.  She is a genius, but cold.  I am jealous of her talent, her drive, her ability to succeed.  I don't think I could have ever been an Ani, but I could have been great.  Is it too late now?  Probably.

I relapsed just now.  Watching porn.  Ugh.  I hate it, but I do it.  I also relapsed on alcohol.  But for some reason that doesn't seem like a big deal.  Because I don't really think alcohol is a problem.  DXM is definitely a problem.

"look with all of you, not with just your eyes."  Albacore, Ani Difranco.

My hands are aging.  My face is not I guess.  I got carded tonight to buy my uggy six pack of Mikes Pink Hard Lemonade.  The guy thought I was in my 20's. Yay.  Or not.  Whatever.

I am so sad.  And so, so, so, so, so alone.  I want to be in love, to have someone love me, but I have no ability to do so.  I want a circle of friends that I can love and love me.  And I don't.  I have 3 good friends.  That is good.  But somehow that doesn't seem like enough somehow.  J says I'm feeling the abandonment.  This feeling of aloneness and emptiness is the emptiness from childhood.  Maybe so, but how do I fix it?  How does that knowledge somehow help?

I think I am close to suicidal again. Death by ennui.

My mother's hands were always on me.  Except when I wouldn't touch her.  But she always had the god-fucking-given right to put her hands on me at any time she wanted.  The right of her being the adult, the right because I was a child, the right because she was my mother and she owned me.  The right of the strong over the weak, over the young, over the helpless.  I loved her and she used that against me.  I put up with so much, because I had no other choice.  I should have left.  Like Suzanne said, at 5 I should have packed a bag, grabbed my 3 year old bother and fucking flown to Paris.  Gotten away from the werewolves.  Werewolf mother, werewolf father.  Werewolf daughter?  No.

Friends?

Hola.  So I just painted my nails and am trying to type without smudging them.  We'll see.  Just got off the phone with Tara and had a good talk with her about Susan.  Susan and I are having problems because... well basically because she is clueless on how to be a good friend.  I asked her on Weds to hang out with me because I was having a bad day and she said she would come over, even though she didn't want to.  This hurt my feelings, and I told her so today.  After discussing this for 10 minutes or so on the phone today, she told me our friendship was not going to work out and she wished me luck in life.  Then she hung up.  So I guess we are not friends anymore?  This is really Susan's issue.  It is not cool to say you dont want to hang out with someone, but you'll still come over.  Not cool, it hurt my feelings, and that she can't understand that is her problem, not mine.  So I guess we're not friends, and that's the way it is.

I slept all day today.  I mean all day.  But I am not going to beat myself up about it.  So there.

OK, gotta go, gotta eat. 

Boredom or Fear

So I'm home alone.  Which is a luxury, to be able to have my own place, with air conditioning, a comfy bed, a great TV, a blu-ray player and Netflix.  But I have too much time on my hands.  But I am also afraid to do anything.  I do not want to leave the house.  I would have nothing to do anyway.  As of right now I am in the odd and very lucky position of having all my financial needs taken care of, and having absolutely nothing to do.

I could make cards for my fledgling tutoring business, but I am afraid.  I could go get something to eat, but I don't want to leave the house.  I just watch tv, screw around on the internet, and hide.

I am supposed to start IOP tomorrow, and I'm worried that I'm only doing it because I don't know what else to do.  I need to get myself a life, but I don't want to.  But I am no longer suicidal- I know I am going to live, I just don't know HOW. 

Ugh. Ugh. Uggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  I guess the first step would be to take a shower.  Then get something to eat.  Then go to a meeting.  Then what?  Who the fuck knows.