Yesterday was a hubbub of emotion for me, and I’ve not yet fully dealt with it. Thankfully, even my dreams last night allowed me to push aside the serious stuff.
However, prior to that I’d been having more dreams about Chris, though I feel like I should be having less. I cannot recall the one from two days ago, but I know it hung around me for most of the following day, like a mourning over a passed animal: not entirely overwhelming, but depressing enough. The following night I dreamed I “came home” from wherever to find a sheet of paper ripped from his journal sitting on a table of some kind. I read it, and it said, “Linda’s MINE. Ha ha ha!” Though we were apparently still “together,” we weren’t, as I felt as though I was walking on eggshells, waiting for him to ask me where I had been, what I was doing, &c. A friend of his was over (no one I recognize IRL), but in another room from either of us. He snatched up the piece of paper through a window between the two rooms, but too late as I had already read it. I sneaked his journal from the room it had been in, but never got a chance to read it. I’m not sure why or what happened next; that part’s a little fuzzy. Then the dream is over.
I’m in no mood to analyze it, so I won’t, and I imagine it will dissipate from my memory before I can care enough to pour over it. (Thankfully.)
So as that was the prominent thought (aside from work, school, the usual) throughout my mind, I get to work yesterday to discover an e-mail from my stepmother that they will be away this weekend in CT and no need to come over (as I do every Friday). Now, I may be taking this a little to personally, but not only was I not invited (which I probably couldn’t have attended anyway), but I wasn’t asked to dog sit or house sit or anything. Would asking either of those things draw me to the “so, why wasn’t I at least invited?” question? Would they draw attention to the trip in general? Does anyone feel the least bit guilty about this?
When I moved back home (for the seven hundredth time), my mother told me to seek solace in my family, and I did. When we went to Hershey, I discovered some things about my brother and his upbringing that were less than stellar, but things I could not possibly help modify on a few-hours-per-weekly basis. Do/did I want to go away with them again? Yes and no. Of course the “family trip” is nice on the whole, but I’d have to be in a better place to deal with certain aspects and facets of others’ lives and I’m not yet prepared to. Does it still hurt to be ignored when considering another trip? Fuck yes. However, my father has told me I’m too sensitive, so am I just being overly-so? I’d hate to think this is something not to be hurt over, but I can’t help but think he’d just tell me to “toughen up.”
Of course, it will never come up because emotions just don’t in my family. Any therapist would tell me to bring it up anyway, but I just can not. In almost twenty-eight years I cannot recall emotion being discussed, and I can’t, for the life of me, recall the last time someone in my family (aside from a response from Kellen) said, “I love you” to me.
I know this is something I have to deal with, because it’s sitting in my brain, just under the surface, itching to be brought up and analyzed. I haven’t let it yet, and were it up to me, I would push it farther from consciousness. But it won’t let me. It sits there, a dull ache, a small hole in my heart that gets a little bit bigger every time I think about it and shove it down again. Soon it will decide on its own to show up. I just hope the SBU psychologist can see me before it does.
This technically frees up my Friday, on which day I was asked to see a musician play in my own town. I should agree to go, now that I have the time. But the things I don’t seem to have right now are money (thanks to all the graduate school applications) and energy. I can honestly say I’m a little depressed by everything right now. Not so much that all I want to do is stay in bed and sleep, but enough that I’m not exactly the best company to be around. I don’t want to pretend everything is fine. I want to ignore it, probably the least healthy way of dealing with it. But then again, with the notion of talking to someone (relatively soon) on the horizon, maybe it won’t be too bad after all. But in the end I don’t have the cashola or the oomph to be around anyone I don’t have to. I had planned on staying in this weekend for other reasons (a goddamn break after a very intense 3-week semester and before the next one), but it looks like now I have much more of a reason to.
Sorry, but this next story isn’t the most optimistic either, just another day in the crappy portion of my life (which I know will get better; I’m not here looking for pity or a cheer-up, I promise!). I had my follow-up dermatology appointment yesterday as well. Turns out my blood-work was perfect for all tests performed and the biopsy of the skin in my index finger was benign (the “relief” portion of this entry) leading Dr. Goldburt to conclude… that she has no idea what’s wrong with my hand. I was referred to a rheumatologist, someone who deals specifically only in swollen joints. So thus far I’ve knocked out hand therapy (don’t ask!), orthopedics, and now dermatology. No one seems to know what the hell is wrong with the painful little fuckers that grow on my hand, then heal, then grow in other places, mostly around the knuckle. At what point am I just supposed to throw up my hands and give up? Honestly, if they didn’t hurt, I wouldn’t care. But shooting pain in my hand when I randomly brush it against something is not an occurrence I would prefer to live with.
So things are a little hectic right now. My winter class ends tomorrow, and the spring semester starts on Monday. But more on that later. For now I have to go distract my mind with something other than this crap.