February 19th, 2021

we are all mad

everything's fine

Friday, February 19th, 2021.
I don't want to write but I always want to write. Both can be true at the same time.

It used to be that the people of my dreams (and nightmares) were mostly strangers. People I had never met or known. I could speculate that they might have been faces seen in a crowd in person, those who pass us by, clocked by my brain and filed, or background persons from sources of media - television, film, photographs, video - or that one thought I had so many years ago, that they were actual people somewhere out there, strangers and people I had never known, also dreaming, also seeing strangers like myself in their dreams. But whatever about all that, the thing is, recently, the people in my dreams are those I have known. Family members. Estranged or not, there they are, interacting with me more than I've ever experienced in real life. Old friends. Ones that are no longer friends. Exes. The ones who I had the most intimate relationships with, the ones I gave too much of myself to, uninhibited naivety. I wake up wanting to search for them, to see how they are, the dreams being so vivid, it makes me wonder. That goes for family too. & I either find nothing or find something and whichever one, it doesn't change anything.

I have wanted to write but I keep thinking of those who are in love or passionately connected with their significant other or experiencing things I haven't in a long time. I think of conversations and books read aloud and sitting at the feet of someone with them running a hand through my long hair, my head rested for a bit, my chest against their legs, a feeling of safe, relinquishing my weariness, feeling peace. I don't know if I will ever get to have that again, where I feel that amount of trust and give myself over, though I've wanted to, I still want to, I don't know if there's time.

This isn't the first time I've thought that a certain situation or circumstance would never change or would last forever. Good or bad or neither. So this will change, eventually, and then I will think back to what has been my life for the past while and place the grief with the rest of the sadness, that vessel in my body that contains it. But just like all previous times of this feeling, of this being, I don't know and it feels - well, this time I feel like I'm numbing out. I don't know if I've lost the parts of me that I wanted to keep or if I've tucked them away, hoping that when it's all clear, I can bring myself out again. There you are, I'd say, I remember you.

I made the Dean's List for the Fall 2020 Semester. GPA of 3.5 or higher and I had attained a 4.0. The letter (via email) didn't come until after I had dropped out of the second term. I told myself that I needed time to find my WHY. I questioned my why. What am I trying to prove? And to who? And does it matter? To myself? When faced with a few touch and go moments of wondering if I was going to die and thinking of the real possibility that I might, I asked myself if trying to prove I could still get some schooling (and this would only be the very first step in the long struggle to get anywhere with it) at my age, in a time where the prospects are depressing for those half my age with numerous degrees and experience, I again, asked myself why. Of course I got a 4.0 GPA that term. I could do it again, or close to it, I think. My intelligence, despite any disintegration and dulling over the years, is still above average. My ability to learn new things and to navigate with computers or discussions has not diminished. Then what? Make my parents proud? WHY. At this point, WHY. Show who, what, exactly? WHY. No. And do you know what it was like for me to phone the w.s.i.b. to ask them for the secondary allotment to be reinstated while I was in this particular program, to support me in that I haven't given up, even after all these years, and that I was doing an immersive program that met the criteria - to receive their expected no. To see it in writing again that they'll never do what they were supposed to do for that girl that was injured in the factory - the one that had potential and had the time. WHY. Because I've applied to jobs and no one is getting hired in this city with less than a degree for the most basic of things. Because whenever I get an interview, I do well, and then I'm passed up. Because coinciding with each time, I'm contacted and could earn more than any of these jobs could pay me but.

The journals. They should be collected and published. Self-published, I suppose, is the only way I can do it. The photographs, collected and printed. Some of them are not too bad. The documentation of my injured worker's experience still remains too daunting for me to do alone. When on the phone with them, I still can't take it. The person answering the phone probably wasn't even born when I went through this and they don't know. During the time periods where I have thought that I might not make it through this, I knew that getting my work out there would be more important for me to have accomplished than the 4.0 GPA. Why not both? You might wonder, or, I wondered just now. I guess I could. I probably will return to the program and do the work. Hopefully with a less all is futile feeling in my gut. I needed the break. I didn't like how I was responding in my head to the general dialogue, to the timing, to the emotions I was feeling about those who were trying so hard to prove something, such a show, and maybe I saw myself projected back at me. I didn't like it. I didn't like the bitter taste I had in not getting a reason to get involved more. I wouldn't have reacted that way before. No one is better than anyone. And the amount of books behind me when I'm on zoom doesn't mean I'm rich or didn't need the opportunity. They just mean that I built a wall of books behind me as barrier, as a carved out space for myself, and that whenever I've had any money (and when I've not) I've bought books. I would still have these books around me even if I were in a place living by myself, if that were financially possible. I would have an empty fridge but full bookshelves. What I'm saying is, if I'm supposed to get into the job market again, if I'm supposed to have a future of work, I need the opportunity as much as anyone because I have nothing but holes on my resume. The references I have, I can't. Discretion. Surprisingly, I'm capable.

The view is something to be thankful for and the warmth and the way we can function day to day is enough to survive. I'm thankful he is working. I'm thankful I get my bi-weekly pay. I'm scared of not enough because so much is going on right now and I'm close to it, just floors above, and it's come knocking at the door. A man knocked at the door in the evening wanting to charge his tablet and when told no, asked to use the phone, told no, and thankfully left. I was unaware as I played a video game and was on game chat one of the few times I actually do. So many floors up and someone from outside, feeling desperate or emboldened enough to try to get in somehow, and who knows what would have happened had he not been met at the door by a man of similar height? The door isn't opened anymore without looking through the hole. If it had been me answering the door, I would have looked first. But that shook us up. The property manager was notified but not even a few days later, someone came up to deliver something and said they got in fine - the door was open. The property manager doesn't believe in wearing a mask - wears it on their chin just in case someone official comes by. In the news recently, an apartment building not far from here had an outbreak of the virus, one of the variants, and it is said it was likely passed from one person to the next from the elevator or a hallway. How can it not be everywhere by now?

It's been since November that I last went out. I forgot about that quick walk and thought it was September that I went out. But no, I made it out in November. I think I didn't want it to be so long as two months without being outside. But now it is February. I expect and hope to be going out at the end of the month to get taxes done. That will be three months. Right now, the worry is that the last T4 we're waiting for won't be issued in time. It's stressing us out. We want to get this done. We need it. There is nothing else to help right now. It's stressful to live in this way during this time. I want to go outside, by the way. I think of it often. I want to take photos and wander. I want that feeling of tiredness from walking after the feeling of walking a long ways. I want to be by the water. I want to see some trees. I want to notice things.

High risk.

I miss things that I can't do anything about right now. Right now is about keeping us going. Making sure the cats are okay. Keeping him focused on his job. Helping us through. Wash your hands. Did you wash your hands? I used to have more details. More to share. It devastates me that I'm in such a muted state of living. But maybe it was supposed to be this way, now, for this time, so that I don't scream.