Next time ... in the meantime, budget!
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
In the past week, I have experienced a few things, and they're unpleasant.
I had to file a Child Protective Services report on behalf of a client at my internship. Wednesday evening the matter came up, and on Thursday after discussing it with my supervisor, I had to file it. I have no memory of last Monday or Tuesday. I recall vague details of Wednesday, and most of Thursday. I remember Friday clearly, but I don't recall much of my counseling session on Saturday.
What I am attempting to describe is the experience of getting so stressed out that my brain shuts down; I essentially enter "power save" mode. I lose memory of what happened prior to the event, sometimes what happened during it, and usually after it. I have no memory what so ever of my 2 client sessions on Thursday evening, and if I did not have homework on Monday & Tuesday evening to write about what I had accomplished at internship, I would not have anything to fall back on to.
This is not my first experience of losing memory. There are entire months that I cannot recall from being unemployed for 1.5 years prior to the job I currently have; and there are many instances of arguments and rages that my mom exposed me, my sister and dad to, that I have spotty memory of, or none at all. One example would be last July. I don't recall a large portion of what went on, not even the day. I know it was the same day as a housewarming party. That's about it. But I also know that I hid in my closet that day, and in doing so, I remembered a similar incident many years ago, of hiding in my closet, trying to muffle the noise and block it out. Actively trying to block it out.
I'm okay. I'm not great. I have daily headaches, and back pain. Add shooting pain to that back pain, and I've now been sleeping with the heating pad for over a month. Saturday evening my back pain was so bad that I took two Excedrin at 10:30 pm and at midnight I was struggling not to cry over it - the medication didn't work.
Emotionally, I seem to hold it together pretty well at work. I feel like crying in the morning sometimes. I definitely cry in my therapist's office, and if you know me, you know that I do not cry. I'm very stoic, even for a young person.
I got a text this morning from a girlfriend who needs a roommate. I texted her back saying that I was interested: what's the rent? Where's the location, etc. Turns out, it is a condo in Signal Hill. I want to work out a budget for myself to see if it works out. So I'll be meeting up with my friends to make a budget and see if I can afford the place. I'll go out on Monday to see it, even if I have to ditch my internship class. I cannot shake the feeling that I need to ask permission to move out!
I'll keep you up-to-date.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Ever seen someone who just looked like they belonged to a different era? She’s like that. Every movement carries delicacy and I’d rather cut than to say a coarse word in her earshot. She walks like a waltz and her gaze like a forbidden secret, one that your father hasn’t told you about yet regarding women and the way they make you feel. Yet, she’s not terribly ethereal. Garish taxi-cab yellow polish tries in vain to hide gnawed out stubs of nails. Her flaxen hair just adds to the way her brown eyes claw at you. She makes you exhale the way you gasp when walking into those old law libraries, rows upon rows of books; tile after tile, feeling like you’re looking into eternity, and you remember to breathe only since you’re about to pass out and the spots come out across your eyes. Have to touch, have to reach out, see if she’s really there; perhaps a vision, a fantasy, an Angel. Just as I’ve memorized her every fiber and cell, she’s slipping away from me, weaving between the crowds with the ease of a creek between boulders. But she’s weaving me behind, floating through the crowds on the subway platform. Then, then she’s just gone. Perhaps an angel.
Back to me, my dragging raincoat and battered briefcase. I only ground myself to the spot on the platform just to keep from being pushed over the edge onto the rails, and I can’t but help and believe that the Angel would come back, and I could gaze at her one more time. Never enough, though as much as I want it. And what could she want with something disgustingly wretched like me? Angels don’t get involved with us, do they? They’re there with God, doing His better Will and we’re just milling around down below hoping for the most minor of crumbs to fall from the manor-owner’s table. No, the lovely angelic sight won’t be around until she’s needed to whisk me away. Better for me to be taken when my lungs are clogged and cackle like an old hag under the chains of emphysema, and my hair natty and gray. At that time, wouldn’t I be wandering though – lost in another time and completely unaware of my surroundings? I’ll be like my Angel, from another time and place with only a few traces of the times to bring someone back out of reverie.