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Second day of Christmas baking. I've come home exhausted and vowing never to touch another Christmas cookie again before, but this year for the first time I never really enjoyed it to begin with; just another... duty, almost, something to be done; except - what (whom) for, exactly? Or why? Because I've been doing it for the last 30 or so years of my life?

(Also, don't try the cookie thing with a 13 months old kid around. I love my niece, but, gah. It's impossible to get any work done with anything approaching efficiency.)

I usually love finding & giving gifts, but this year I wish I could (not that my job lets me) just forget about the whole Christmas thing altogether. I haven't bought anything for anyone so far, I don't know when I will, and really don't particularly want to. I wish I had the money and time to take a few weeks off & a plane to some sunny, warm beach somewhere where Christmas isn't celebrated. Or heard of, if that is at all possible.

I'm so tired of it all. Mostly I'm tired of all the repetition and sameness in my life.

The therapist always tells me to focus on what's positive in my life, myself. Now that's something that's hard to find/see at the best of times, and something I can't really seem to influence either (the perception, that is; either I see/feel it, or I don't), but it increasingly seems a wasted effort, because when I'm not putting up a facade for other people, but being honest with myself instead there isn't anything. I'm 35, and what I'm doing is sitting at my computer listening to NIN & writing a livejournal entry which is 2/3 whinebithchmylifesucks and 1/3 fanishness. Before that I was watching an episode of Smallville. Before that, baking Christmas cookies for no other reason that because I've always done it. Tomorrow I'll return to the same crappy job I've been whining about for years. My four years younger sister has a boyfriend, a child and a dissertation that's more or less finished. How is that life not a failure? How is that worth anything? Because it isn't.


Eh.


Also, while we're talking about immaturity & pointless life time wasting?

Don't do this to me, Smallville. I finally dug out the S5 box set I bought ages ago & never watched, because Christmas-stress induced brain-deadness seemed like a good state of mind to approach this. And, predictably, crap. And not improved by James Marsters. [Insert redundant rant about this show's wasted potential.] Until the Christmas episode, which, just, guh. Heartbreak. I might have sniffed a bit. Oh, Lex. Episodes like this leave me semi-convinced that someone does actually know what they're doing, because the characterisation was absolutely stringent for once instead of all over the place as usual. I've been randomly scribbling down thoughts during the earlier episodes and it seemed pretty obvious that Lex is looking for power because the one thing he's afraid of (and not entirely unjustified, growing up in this family), is to be powerless and at someone's mercy. So it's actually nice to hear that the show's creators and I are on the same page here, because most of the time I suspect the characterisation I see in my head exists only there. I don't think I've ever seen Michael Rosenbaum in anything else, so I really have no idea how good an actor he is when he's not on SV, but there he's very good indeed. Or can be, if they actually give him enough screen-time and development do something with his character...
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ExpandI really don't like Sundays. )


Also, on a less whiny note,

Expanda few more thoughts about the Dumbledore outing. )


And I really must grab DH back from my mother and re-read it now. :)


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It's this time of the year again...

(pt. 1, which mostly struck me after the belly-dancing lesson last week)

I really don't want to be this person any longer who is always so self-conscious and bound by fears. Afraid to possibly look or act ridiculous, of not doing things right and not being good enough, and (as a consequence) not being liked, afraid of not being always in control to the point where I'll almost desperately try to avoid situations I can't control, relationships where I would risk myself emotionally... It's not that I've been unaware of this tendency in myself before, but I never realised so forcibly how much this is ruining my life, and I'm so tired of that. I want to learn to let myself go at least a little, but I don't know how. I don't even know where to begin.




(pt. 2, which occurred to during a cleaning-, dusting-, & tidying-spree in preparation for [livejournal.com profile] soavezefiretto's visit)

Stuff, stuff, stuff; too much of it. So many things that are remainders of the past. Why do I cling to these things so much, why is it so hard to part with them? Is it that my life is so poor that I'm afraid that if I let go of the debris of my past there'll be nothing left? I tend to mock people who define themselves over material status symbols, designer clothing, etc., but in a way all that clutter defines me, and part of me needs it for that. If I threw out everything but what I am now... I'd be left with some books, some cds and dvds, my digital camera, my computer. Some of the more recently acquired art books would remain, but the shelves full of archaeology books would have to go.

This apartment isn't even who I am, it's ghosts from five years or more ago, a pretence I can't let go of.

Bowie records, Soft Cell records, random Eighties stuff I haven't listened to since I moved the records here five years ago. Marilyn Manson CDs, NIN bootlegs. Tapes with musical recordings from the The Crush era. Stones and shells and two big boxes full of diss stuff on top of my wardrobe. Hippie skirts and blouses from more than a decade ago within. Books about Achaemenid history still on my desk, partly because there is no room on the shelves, partly to keep up (for myself more than anyone else) the pretence that I might actually work with them again. Other history book on court art I bought for comparison when I started to work in the books-shop and still pretended I was going to write a diss, and have never actually even read. All those ceramic sculptures, when I haven't even touched clay in four years. An almost dried-up bottle of green ink and I don't even remember the last time I used my fountain pen.


Ghosts from a brighter time.


I don't even know who I am, now. The reason why I've written so little recently is that there is nothing write-worthy. No adventures, no epiphanies, no inner development except for the worse. I've always maintained it was important that one should be able to define oneself in a positive way rather than by what one dislikes, but right now, this seems impossible, and this, too, scares me.


How is it possible that I seem to know less about herself as time passes, rather than more? That I get more and more insecure about myself as time passes?
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Last week we had 20+ degrees, today winter has caught up with us with a vengeance, temperatures barely above freezing point, icy wind, first snow-flakes; winter coat and scarf, and perhaps I should turn on the heat at home, because I'm wearing three sweaters and huddled into a blanket...

I've taken today and tomorrow off, which makes five free days in a row, the last real breathing space before the Christmas rush, but so far I haven't done much worth reporting. Slept, wasted time on the internet, read (a little), practiced belly dance moves yesterday (with the help of a book and a DVD I bought, which helped clarify the moves a lot; I already practiced with Ch. on Monday since the lesson was canceled due to Herbstferien or some such newfangled thing, and I'm definitely feeling more secure and comfortable -- to the point where I'm actually considering buying a jingly hip scarf. Or not.).

Today I spent two hours with my sister (by now very eager to go home, which she'll do tomorrow) in the hospital, and it's amazing how much more alert the Little Mouse (she's seriously too tiny at the moment for a name like Larissa, and I won't be the first to shorten it to Lara, although I'm pretty sure I will at some point) is now. Tuesday it was sleep, or drink, or wah!, big scary new world (eyes shut, hands over ears), today she was much more awake and looking around, trying out what one can stuff into one's mouth (corner of the blanket; five fingers), and let her aunt stroke and tickle her while her mother was having horrible hospital lunch, and right, I'll stop boring everyone to tears with baby news.... ::cough::


Napped in the afternoon after i came home for a couple of hours, twice, woke up a little disorientated as a result, but still yawning...


***


Expandeh. cut for excessive navel gazing that shouldn't be done in public anyway  )
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I'm very much in need of a holiday; or, slightly rephrased and rather more to the point, I really do hope the upcoming holiday will fix whatever is wrong with my state of mind. Because over the last few days, week, it's rapidly turned into one of these self-loathing periods. Withdrawal, depression, lethargy.

I have stupid, veiled sort-of arguments with M.-at-work about things I don't feel strongly about, if at all, merely to argue & be contrary, as an outlet for some deeper frustration, with her, with work, or with my life, probably all of that. Mostly I resent her for simply being there, because I'd rather be alone and not have to talk to anyone.

It's petty, ugly, and I'm turning into someone I never wanted to be, or rather, never wanted to become again, and I don't know how to stop it, only hoping it will stop again, eventually. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

The problem is that I can only feel that my life is worth something, and once I don't, I can't argue it, even to convince myself. Considered objectively/rationally, I've failed abysmally in just about every respect. And strike the 'just about'. Sometimes I feel (felt) what I have is enough, that I can make it work, but just now it's not, all the bits and pieces I desperately cling to, covering a vast emptiness. Is it the lack of the whole love/sex/relationship thing that causes this feeling of hollowness, or that I'm incapable of feeling strongly about/committing to anything?

I'm so disgusted with myself, at one point last weekend my finger hovered over the delete journal button for quite a long time, but (of course) in the end I didn't do it, mainly because (further proof of my patheticness, if needed) I felt I'd have nothing else to show for the last three years of my life, and paranoidly thinking that perhaps the undelete function would mess up and not work for me... and if you already know you're going to undelete, it's pointless drama and fishing for sympathy to delete in the first place.






[At least last week I slowly stopped feeling so absolutely drained & dead physically, managed a morning run on Friday & was in Melk and Göttweig yesterday, more in an effort to actually get out of doors and do something, anything, than genuine enthusiasm, but, well. Also, my left shoulder hurts, from too much driving with the window down, I presume. ::whine::

I watch too much tv, not even dvds, but stupid tv shows, anything to keep my mind vaguely occupied & distracted, read a bit (in fact spent € 50 at the half-price bookstore on holiday reading material), but as always not as much as my conscience tells me I ought to.

Also, I'm drinking mugs & mug of not even all that disgusting tea for my stomach, which has improved at least to the point where I feel well enough to start craving chocolate or some kind of comfort food, but unfortunately everything that would even remotely qualify as such is on the Don't Eat list, and in the end I want to get well more than I want chocolate. I also weigh a few kilos less than I have in quite some time, but can't bring myself to care much.]
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So that it isn't all gloom and depression, right at the top of the journal....



solitary_summer: (Default)

Something needs to change. Maybe I need more private entries (a paper journal would be an option, but I actually prefer typing, it's neater, among other things, and I like to be able to go back and edit), but recently... I'm not happy with this as I used to be. I edit myself, don't be too needy, don't be too depressed, don't bother people too much with crap you have no right bothering them with, can't say this, can't say that, for fear of making a fool of myself, &c. and maybe that's normal socialisation finally kicking in at a rather late age, but I'm not happy with the results, I feel... a little fake, a little only half there, always being so careful with what image I create of myself. I'm not saying that this was never a concern, but it's been kind of taking over recently, switching entries from public to friends only to private, feeling stupid or guilty, being embarrassed, not finish writing entries because they aren't thought through and articulated enough, spellcheck and edit a dozen times. Perfectionism taking over even here.

When I started this journal (on deadjournal) it was about honesty, saying things I couldn't say elsewhere, articulating them outside my own mind. Turned out it helped me thinking things through, made them clearer, helped me work through some issues (I think). I need to go back to this again, on a less despair & depression ridden level, hopefully, but I need to be honest with myself, instead of constantly checking myself, not in any big ways, but in too many small ones.

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