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

[kiya]

And I still don't know if the bad-feeling-about-this thing I was dealing with before this visit was a genuine timeslip or just paranoia.

And I suspect I'm sounding like a complete psych-case in here.

[sashajwolf.livejournal.com]

Not to me. I hope things start to go better Real Soon.

[kiya]

Gods. Me too.

I just went and told Kevin about the knife-urges. He thanked me, which feels incredibly incongruous.

I still feel like a headcase, but at least I'm a loved headcase. Or something.

Thanks for the well-wish. These things matter. . .

I think I shall have a glass of milk, bless the fact that we got to the grocery (just before it closed) to _get_ milk, so I have it and can be comforted by it, and contemplate bed, in the hopes that the world looks less terrifying in the morning.

[rosefox]

You are indeed a loved headcase. And I'm glad you have comfortable, familiar, it-didn't-go-anywhere-or-do-anything-weird milk.

I am truly sorry to hear about the communication problems. Seems like a lot of people I care about are going through stuff like that right now. This is probably a bit of an... incongruous offer, given what I think I'm figuring out are the givens (and I could always be wrong), but if there is anything at all that I can do to help with translation or easing of hurt, please let me know.

[mittelbar.livejournal.com]

I hope the world looks less terrifying most of the time.

Never had the guts to use a knife, but probably best that I don't keep them handy. Only ever put a hole in a hollow-core door. I dislike milk, pero entiendo la comodidad. I believe this translates to "cousin" rather than "seebling."

Communication difficulties are the big suck. Sometimes I wish we could just say "I'll have my [girl] call your [girl] and we'll patch things up."