Saturday, February 20, 2016

...

attempted apology to popsci in a doc, which was sent over skype. if i'm still blocked, that is going to take an eternity. i had to fucking end it. i have no more energy left in me for this. if i get accused of something in return, or my doc ends up being altered to make me seem nasty or abrasive and then is posted to the web to slaughter me socially, i can at least confirm that my career is dead in that regard, and retreat to the confines of a nice corner. i'm doubting it will happen but i am sincerely scared.
please don't make my attempt to try and say i'm sorry a public event....
i risked this because i am tired of feeling this way and i'm sure you are too
i'm sorry alright

speaking of drama...
mother and i got into a feud over trivial garage cleaning shit. so much for civility between us, civility be damned when there's a thousand different reasons for us to begin fighting over nothing aside from a few differences as to what needs to be kept and what not? she also repeatedly called me 'uncaring of the past' because i told her to stop constantly being distracted by the lure of the albums she kept eyeing that she's actually suppose to be sending to my grandmother, but that's besides the point. eventually, we lapsed into a screaming interruption fit that lasted until we were hoarse, and even when we tried to speak rationally, there was no agreement or understanding. i was left simply with nothing gained, but all my will to argue lost. i am hurting already and my mother's contribution when we were seemingly starting to have some better relationship, has hindered that even worsely.

i can't hate her, anyway, hell, a bit ago, she was nearly hospitalized under the premise that something was possibly wrong with her brain. i don't know what hurts more, the sudden lurching of your mother's mortality onto you, and the fear that something is sincerely wrong, the responsibility thrust onto the shoulders by doctors who are forcing you to sign for you when you barely feel like an adult yourself, the excess of legally binding papers with terms and conditions applied in print so small even a person without visual aid would damn near need a magnifier, and all the other added pilings of what happens if something is wrong.. her CAT/CT scans took an hour to two to complete, that which felt like the longest of my life. I had not honestly been in the ER since my admission to the mental hospital, and the regular ER for a few hours back in 2014, where i was almost immediately stuck with an IV by doctors who'd trouble finding my vein properly due to dehydration, when they eventually settled for a protruding one in my hand that hurt like hell to prick. I had not been in that sterile, bleached whiteness of constant movement, even late in the night, since then. To say that the personal and exterior connotations stressed me would be an understatement, while I forced myself to retain a strength to juxtapose my mother's obvious physical weakness and inability at the time. Her results came back right, and she was then released, after they finally gave her meds to aid her pain.

the last time she'd whacked her head on a blunt surface was from a seizure, this time it was from likely drunkenness, though she swore she fainted. that combined with the fact that she'd stopped taking her medications to prevent seizure or stroke from occurring again, had me greatly concerned that she'd some damage. The only wound present now with her is a black eye.

I may hold a lot of fury towards my mother, but I cannot hate her in her entirety for what she has done to me. Don't think even I understand that myself sometimes when feeling esp vindictive. It's not anything but hurtful to have seen her looking so weak and blathering on in a slurred incomprehensible speech whilst I just had to hold her frail hand. My mother when I was younger went through a time where she was so sick after the initial seziure that she was literally fucking wilting, and to see that again, at another age, would break me, I think. the concern I have for her is great, despite some of my apparent indifference that a lot of people think I have. she's not well, and I don't know how to better her, but if she drinks herself to great inebriation and eventual addiction that may shorten her life indefinitely, dies because of foolishness, even if I am not around to see it, that hurt will seep into my veins and probably never leave. I know not how to help my mother, as I know not how to help anyone who doesn't want to be helped.... I don't know how i'm exactly properly dealing with this combined with the rage, and as shown during the hospital visit, I'm still incredibly brittle, spiting my status as a legal adult. Sometimes I feel like the child in me who was stripped barren of her childhood is calling out and knows not what to do, and that was certainly one of those times. to feign being strong is hard, but to suppress the urge to just wail into nothingness while nobody watches and nobody comes emerging from shadows to help you, is all the worse.

I'm sorry, friends. It's hard. And even after tonight, I'll admit, I'm still not out of words I want to write. I think i'm going to go another round with the journal, start one again, finish my ever ongoing fiction that's lingering in development hell if it means I can exhaust an endlessly flowing stream of what seems to be my emotional reconsideration.

If I can't right things in regard to my own relationships, the least I can do is work on fictionalized ones. I dunno.

My mother prior to our screaming found a journal written by my father during his latter teen and early twentysome years, in a similar instance where he too was friendless. Accounting how he watched others antics from afar in what he called "unintelligible gibberish", written backwards on the cover in his ironically sarcastic fashion. I'd not read much of it and now that it's in his possession he probably will not allow me, but what I did read does remind me of how alike we are, in a sense. I don't think we willingly remove ourselves from social interaction out of preference, I think that withdrawal has always been on the basis of fear. I think those brief tidbits somehow only give me a greater appreciation that I have someone like my dad as an influence in my life somehow, because if he could overcome his social anxiety, maybe I can too. Maybe all the mistrust I have is just preparation for another reawakening. I could always start my own diary, instead. certainly beats never shutting the fuck up here, even if this blog is purposely not listed on any of my sites for the sake of privacy, I have yet to actually restrict it from public search or privatize it entirely, I just don't see a point.

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