Do you have a habit of staying unimaginably busy? I do. I do this thing when I’ve spent any amount of time doing nothing (watching TV, relaxing) where I feel guilty for not being productive. I tell myself could have been writing or doing homework (I’m working towards my Bachelor’s in Journalism) and I make myself feel bad about it. My doctor recently asked me if I hallucinate (I have paranoid schizophrenia) when I’m doing something I like like running or reading, and I realized that I don’t really do much of what I like anymore, so I couldn’t answer his question. I told him that I’m either working, doing. homework, or sleeping. He said that I really need to try to give myself at least one hour a day of something I enjoy, to see if this helps me unwind enough so that the stress of my life is not affecting my brain disorder. I really have been trying since then (hence my new goal of posting to this blog more often). Do you feel guilty about those moments of self care, or do you practice self care at all?
I won’t be able to sleep. I know this even before I lie down. It’s 12 and I didn’t wake up until 8 and I just finished the largest sized cup of iced coffee you can get from Starbucks. The new Starbucks in town is nice, but busy. It’s the first trendy thing that has popped up here. Give me a Trader Joe’s, and I would have died and gone to heaven.
I open my eyes every so often to look at my phone. It’s on vibrate so I’ll know if a message comes in, but this is not enough to stop me from doing so. I wait, just like I do every other day, from a text from him. Which doesn’t make any sense. The last time I heard from him, he was “getting married in a few months.” It’s been more than a few months, whatever a few means. He has a wife, a house, money in the bank, and sperm that’s ready to make life. Why would he text me? He wouldn’t, but that’s not enough to stop me from wondering if he will. Maybe he’ll realize he loves me too much to get married and invite me to San Diego, like on that one day we spent together. My laugh is sinister in the peaceful confines of my bedroom. Yeah, right.
His balls. My cat lost his balls. (Some people are sensitive about this kind of stuff. Trigger Warning: BALLS)
Since I adopted Ronan in the setting of a drug deal gone horribly wrong – dark parking lot by myself, didn’t get any drugs but got a kitten! – he has served as the gentlest, most nurturing animal that ever existed. It’s been a stressful year since the man I love had to move to Hawaii for three months (just a couple weeks after I got Ronan) and many other stressful things happened that don’t necessarily need to be said on the Internet, but Ronan has never complained. I had to give up his kitty friend Gansey (who I also adopted at the time) because he didn’t play nice with my four-year-old Ella (another cat, not a kid) which started the endless fights between Ronan and Ella, not because Ronan is an asshole, but because Ella is kind of an asshole (I love her dearly but she is), but Ronan never complained. He laid* with me every night as I cried because The Man was however many miles it is from California to Hawaii and he perched on my shoulder like a meowing parrot when he was a baby and when we moved instead of freaking out and hiding like Ella would he jumped into the window and looked at Kona The German Husky in the backyard and squeaked, as he does, as if to say, HOLY SHIT MOM WTF IS THAT.
I look out at the water crushing its own dreams. It’s dark. The lights along the pier are not bright enough to illuminate its pollution-ridden surface and the full moon is hiding somewhere behind the smog. I’m squatting because everything I’m wearing is new, including my shoes.
“Dangggg baby, back at it again with the maroon Vans,” he says.
I laugh. He makes me laugh a lot, and it’s not one of those laughs you push out in your day job to humor someone, while plotting to kill them. You only hear this brand of sound after 5 PM and on weekends.
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When she tells me to do something, I feel like she is talking down to me. I don’t know if she really is, but it probably doesn’t matter, because she’s spoken to me in this manner so many times that I can’t erase how she’s treated me from my mind to discern what is past and what is present. Even if she’s not talking down to me now, I know she’s spoken down to me before, and she never apologized, so it’s kind of a moot point, this bullshit side effect of paranoid schizophrenia where I tell myself I’m perceiving things incorrectly because I’m fucking crazy.