I wish I had the gumption to do anything. It's so hard, working as much as I do, then waking up exhausted, wanting to just stay in bed forever. Some days I can't even bring myself to wash a dish. I know that's just the way it is for me, depression and all that. But the exhaustion makes it worse. And also the sun-less midwest in its present winter state. Strange because cold usually drives my creativity (as opposed to heat, which causes me great laziness), but the SUN. I watched a documentary a few days ago about Aileen Wurnos, first American female serial killer (Monster is about her, I have to admit a bizarre fascination and sympathy for the woman who I believe originated as a victim-- but who, make no mistake, was utterly batshit). The doc was mostly a chronicle of her history and her last days in prison, death row, whatnot, basically after she rejected all possibilities for an appeal and desired the death penalty, just to get her the hell out of here. Anyway, on the thing are several interviews with her, and while that goes on her attention switches from the interviewer to the camera in front of her-- sometimes she stares it down, ranting and raving like a lunatic and her eyes, I kid you not, are jet black. You cannot tell where her pupils begin. And with her uber pale skin it's as though she has black holes gaping in her head. It's terrifying. It's an effect I think the film industry would employ if they knew how. The interviewer, asked about her freaky appearance, responded that she apparently looked like that due to being on death row and NEVER seeing the sun. No windows. No outings (i'm not sure if that was a rule or if that was her choice-- she wanted to die, so the latter is not impossible). Just darkness. I wonder if I will look that way by the end of the season. I joke of course. But. Still frightening.
Winter has its perks. I still love the snow, it hasn't been impossible yet (they say January and February are murderous). The other day ice was hanging from everything, and all of the trees were dripping and glistening, every single twig was coated and luminous. Martha Stewart wishes.
I haven't been writing. It's been such a while since I've been able to make the time for it that now when I really want to write I don't even do it because I'm afraid I've lost it. I have to start to change that. I have to get back on track. I spent about 45 minutes today daydreaming about myself-- my future self. The sort of things I'll write, where I'll go, the things I'll do for others, the fantastic things I'll wear (today it was a Penny Lane coat-- visual aid below). The jobs I'll have. The grad school I'll go to. The incredibly attractive Jewish guy I'll spend my time with in New York, the beautiful Scotsman I'll date in Europe. The time I'll spend living in tents and writing and waitresses across the US. All things that can be managed, maybe, if I just live my life properly. If I just suck it up and try to fly right. It comes and goes. That's when I wonder about medication, sometimes. If I were on prozac or whathaveyou, would I be able to get out of bed like a normal person? If I took some sort of add med, could I organize my thoughts enough to plod through the day and work towards a goal? Would I budget better? I recognize I have alot of time to work these things out. I have alot of time to do all of these things. And I do feel happy about that, happy to think that I've (just this year) really done alot of good and adventurous things. And I also recognize that dissatisfaction is inherent (once I again, I'm reminded of C.S. Lewis's explanation for human discontent, look it up in Mere Christianity) . But. I am not the young person that I want to be right now. I could stand to be a tired little snot, but only if I had completely earned that exhaustion in every aspect of my life. I need to take better care of myself physically and spiritually, I need to get back to reading/studying more, I need to be better with finances, with dedicating my time to others, with priorities. I know I'll always be trying to get it together, but I'd really like to ALMOST get it together here sometime soon. That's not too much to hope for, is it?
My birthday was on Monday. As per usual, not a very exciting thing, but I wasn't depressed like I usually find myself. I got home from work, opened a few weird things that my mother had sent me (Time Bandits and Babe (???) and an awesomely peculiar, semispooky Owl Ornament), tried to paint my nails, fell asleep (sadly not for very long), got up, then Amanda and I got ready to go to Dickinson's ONE nice restaurant, which was of course closed on Monday nights. So we went to Applebee's (as per usual. Applebee's is literally the ONLY place to go at night aside from the bars). Then to a random bar for my birthday shot. Then I drank a (dreadful) whiskey sour as my company refused to imbibe and returned home in a peaceful mood, and put on the Breakfast at Tiffany's soundtrack. After listening to Moonriver about 5 times I decided it was time to watch the damn thing so I said goodnight to Amanda and curled up on the couch, close to our lovely, glowing christmas tree, and watched Holly Golightly live her existence, which, to a slightly sentimental me, full of that desperate feeling to romanticize my uneventful present life, seemed alot like a much more glamorous version of my own existence. I'm like the midwestern, slob Holly, except instead of Cat I have an Amanda. Who I think would be pretty upset if I booted her out of a moving taxi, so it's all the same, isn't it?
That's it. I'm going to write something. As I sit here waxing poetic on myself I'm realizing that I should just grab this moment inbetween work and sleep and just TRY. Here goes.