Y'know

[kiya]

I thought my week was improving.

But now it seems that I can't express a distinction that makes something make sense (and therefore need to be shouted at) and if I express pain and frustration about the actions of a third party (which third party understood why I was hurt already, damnit) I also need to be shouted at.

Here's to badly mangled trust, extreme frustration at my inability to communicate that has gotten to the level that it's seriously impairing my ability to communicate, and not knowing anymore if I have the strength to stay up here on the surface rather than just crawling into a hole and staying there until I rot.

On the bright side, this doesn't have me in the nausea-inducing state of breakdown; this is the more familiar severe depressive fit.

I really wanna take a mulligan on this fucking month.


I can't find my Hitchhikers' Guide scripts, which is a shame; there's a Marvin speech I want to quote.

Hah. Okay. And I found the book I was looking for earlier, too.

Googoogoogoogoo. Ddddddrrrrpp. Errrrrrrrrk. Zootlewurdlezootlewurdlezootlewurdle. Fringggggg.

F...f...f...f...Fact! I ache, therefore I am. Or in my case I am therefore I ache. Oh look - I appear to be lying at the bottom of a very deep dark hole. That seems a familiar concept. What does it remind me of? Ah, I remember. Life. That's what lying at the bottom of a deep dark hole reminds me of. Life. Perhaps if I just lie here and ignore it it will go away again.

Or then again, perhaps not. To be perfectly frank with myself, if it didn't go away as a result of me falling fifteen miles through the air and a further mile through solid rock I'm probably stuck with it for good. Why don't I just lie here anyway? Why don't I climb out? Why don't I just go zootlewurdle? Does it matter? Even if it does matter, does it matter that it matters?

Zootlewurdle, zootlewurdle, zootlewurdle. . . .

(The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, radio version, Fit the Eleventh. By Douglas Noel Adams.)

Comments

[elynne.livejournal.com]

Dear Ghu, hon, I'm sorry. You seem communicatively functional to me. Of course, that's in writing, and I know that some people communicate better in writing than they do in person (and vice-versa), but still.

Somebody that I've known on and off through the 'net for years is a very - interesting person who goes by the handle of Anvil. Rather like Piranha, Anvil doesn't have much truck with releasing personal details, so to this day I know virtually no vital information about this person's offline life (gender, age, location, name, etc). The most unusual thing about Anvil is zir habit of writing in... disjointed fragments, like bubbles of thought. It's hard to explain, and I can't reproduce it properly, but this is an awkward sample:

{thoughts well up, crackling}
{communication requires effort}
{not effort from one, but effort from both}
{communication requires connection}
{if one party fears/desires no connection, effective communication is impossible}
{for your end only are you responsible}
{connections are impossible through a barrier}
{?perhaps some other issue is causing upset?}

You don't write like that, obviously - and neither do I; but I've always appreciated that writing style, which I find very expressive and easy to understand; in some ways, easier to understand than writing under traditional rules of grammar. Anvil is much more elegant and consice at it than I am, though. :]

But, yeah. I hear ya.

[kiya]

I've spent so long training myself to translate thoughtshapes into language that I'm not sure I know anymore how to . . . how to let the thoughtshapes out in a rawer form.

Which means often that I sound much more coherent than I am: all the stuff that doesn't go into words gets set aside, and there's a big heap of paincraving-bloodwish-terror-anger-terror-loss-nospacefortears-shuddering-silence-falsecalm-resignation-hollowness-echo. . . stuff. And none of it goes into the words.

There aren't words for, when I was looking for the scripts, coming across my hair-cutting knife (blade about the length of my forearm-bones, hilt the length of my palm and roughly carved into the head of a snake; it's all handcrafted) the thoughts in my head: years ago I would in times of stress carve patterns into the back of my hand and along my forearm, usually with a stiletto, and the urge danced around the edges of my mind: not suicidal but vindictive, bloody, cold. There's something . . . sane . . . about physical pain. Also outside the words.

I was hitting the walls earlier. That stuff doesn't go in the words either.

I don't know.

I don't, at this point, know if I've lost a partnership. I don't know if I'll go to bed and wake up feeling like this, or if I"ll feel better, sith sanity and distance and all that good stuff, or if it'll have shaken and settled into a deadthing.

Scares the living fuck out of me.

Except it doesn't, because if it matters, does it matter that it matters?

Zootlewurdle. . . .

[submarine-bells.livejournal.com]

I honestly don't know what to say beyond a vastly emphatic seeble about the awfulness of the scarier kinds of relationship-uncertainty, and an emphatic hope that by the time you read this things will be very much closer to being settled and resolved.

Good luck in resolving it all productively, and here's a whole bunch of {{{{{{{{{{sanity and calmness and copingness vibes}}}}}}}}}}}}.

[kiya]

Have a dose of mild irony (of the good sort): at the point at which you wrote that, sanity and working-stuff-out was being negotiated.

I won't say I'm sane at this point; it seems a bit much to ask of myself in my current state. But I'm no longer feeling like randomly quoting Yeats at people.