I don't really want to hear about this shit until I turn 50. I figure that will give me a few years off. I still hate it, but other people will want me to celebrate. I don't care, but I'll roll my eyes--maybe, just maybe--and try. Lots of thoughts in my head at the moment, too. I'm doing this for me. My blog has died, traded over to facebook and twitter rantings, but today, for the first time in a long time, I feel like writing.
No one can really give me what I want, let alone need. I think this may very well be at the heart of this. Not my family, "friends" (jesus, I use that term loosely), or anyone else. It's simply over. Time passing and all that nonsense.With the continual health problems I face, I fear that my thoughts are making my body turn over and against itself. It's happening to my thyroid. And always, the breast. Always the breast. Nodules growing, solidifying, scaring the shit out of me and perhaps pushing me towards that wonderful C word. I often hear the other C word (LOL), but even that only spurs me on. It doesn't matter anymore. If this is the thing that's going to kill me, well, then get on with it already. I really and truly do not want to be one of those Guess How Old She Is people that gets whispered about or "celebrated" on the news for passing a certain age. I think my father and my grandfather got it right: 65 and 75. Dear Old Dad went to sleep (or so I was told, but no one knows, since he was alone when the stroke zapped him), and my Granddad had just been informed of my birth, and toppled to the ground behind a chair two hours later, heart stopped as well. They worked, they drank, they laughed, they fought like cats and dogs, but really didn't get into retirement. Maybe Granddad, but not Dad. I'm ok with this. Do I really want to have to keep working and working so that baby boomers can get their tax breaks and live wonderful lives while I continue to struggle? NO. And that's that. I have not recovered from the recession, I still have very little money, too much time to think about 15 zillion things I could have done differently, and it's just so damn easy to blame myself. With what little guidance I've found in my life, there really isn't anyone else to blame but myself. That's the funny thing about mistakes: you don't know you've made them until it's waaaay too late or if someone's screaming at you about it. Had too much of both, actually. I am honestly done with the entire business.
I'm set to see Deadpool today, and I really don't care about that, either, but the person who's taking me is being incredibly kind and generous to me, and that's the part that matters. I feel like a burden to everyone, but that's not something that's going away. It started in 2006 when my fibromyalgia got worse and continues to gnaw at me. Whatever. I forgot how to have fun years ago. I wanted it, it wasn't allowed. This is probably wrapped up in my birthday hatred, too--for years and years, I had to work like a dog: tired, sick, bad periods, headaches, flu, bronchitis, verbal and physical abuse (1990 comes to mind as always!) and really? I just wanted to stay alone and quiet. Skating, dance, sitting inside a library with my books and my records and seeking beauty. I don't want to be told THIS IS HOW YOU HAVE TO FEEL. NOW CELEBRATE, DAMMIT. WE WANT CAKE, TOO, YOU BRAT. Meh. I'm just so over it.
I am just tired of being in pain (fibro), stiff (old injuries), cold all the time (thyroid)with headaches and strange dreams. I'd like to go back and visit myself through some time portal and watch the girl that I was, see what I missed. Like my own personal sitcom. Christ, I need to get outta my head.
Well, that's that. I'm in a library and I have to log off soon. 25 years ago today, I stepped onto the ice again at the old SkyRink with Viscuso, Renee and Tommy. Funny what you remember. It's been 8 years since I had skates on. My one and only love, if I am honest.
Sigh. It sucks having to cheerlead yourself. I'm done.
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