Going out dancing. This is, not new, but new in that it’s been a while. I keep imagining it going poorly. Feeling isolated and alone. Not being able to enjoy myself. But this is phooey. I can’t predict the future. Well done, cognitive behavioral therapy! I can feel it beginning to make a difference in how I think, the work I’ve done on myself. I’m nervous, I’m scared, I don’t want to do this. I just want to stay and at home and do nothing. And be safe. That’s the key point, being safe. Feeling emotionally safe. Feeling, secure. Feelings feelings feelings! It is always to do with feelings. Fuck feelings. What about the rest of reality- there’s a whole ton of it! So much juicy reality. I’m rediscovering music. Old and new. It feels good. I’m rediscovering myself, as it were. Slowly. In these months of nothing much, I have excavated years worth of lost material. They are small things, barely visible to the naked eye, but there they are nonetheless. I can feel them. There we are with feelings again. But in a more productive way. I’m going to have fun with my friends. The questions pop up now, questioning friendship, questioning bonds, questioning whether it is worth trying to enjoy life at all. Playing it safe is good only for rest, and too much rest becomes disease. Uhh, why does joy make me sad? Why do things I LIKE, make me sad? I don’t understand. Listening to Twisted Sister. Makes me nostalgic, though it is in no way related to my past. Or anything about me. Well, I do enjoy rock. But this is common with writers, is it not? This melancholia. I most feel like writing when I am like this, scared and sad. Or on the verge of it. My hands are sweaty. Now listening to Foo Fighters. Best of You. Kurt Cobain died 20 years ago. I love Nirvana, my favourite band. Hands still sweaty. This will be an experiment in socializing. Everything in the real world feels like some sick experiment, always. What can the mentally ill withstand? What is the breaking point? Well, the breaking point is insanity. Well, no, because this is already insanity. The breaking point is… a point where the insanity is no longer bearable. A crisis. I’ve been told that the Chinese character for “crisis” is composed of those for “Danger” and “Opportunity”. Makes sense. Chinese calligraphy is a stunning art form. Listening to Modest Mouse. Make-up has been applied. Walking to dance place will occur soon. Maybe I won’t go. Maybe I can’t do it. No no no, gotta go. This nervous feeling is so familiar. I will have it a lot going back to school. I have to learn to cope. Mild anxiety? Very mild, but nonetheless. Maybe I should get a tattoo of something to remind me to just, be. A small circle. Just something to remind me. Angels. Guardian angels. Maybe. I feel crippled. Something in me doesn’t work! Something is broken. Something is deformed. Sharon Van Etten, One Day. “Ooh oh, one day I’ll be fine with that.” I hope so. Maybe I shouldn’t reduce my medication. Maybe I need a safety net. I’m a hermit nerd woman. This must mean I’m brilliant, right? I can’t be this fucked up with average intelligence/capabilities. I must be Wonder Woman.  Green Day, Jesus of Suburbia. Oh, my youth. I am leaving Toronto in a few weeks. How strange. I will have to utilize all my power to not fall apart, not because I am unhappy to leave, but because that is simply what I will have to do to survive the changes. I hope I get my old job back. If not, that’s okay. I can search. I can really search. Searching. That’s about all I do. Search and search and search for the courage to survive. Wow, real life is hard. It’s easy going day to day, from bed to shower to kitchen to library to grocery store back to kitchen, shower, bed. That’s as much as I can currently take. But dancing? Regular classes? Interacting with people? A job? Oh my. How can I? And what do I say when I can’t? I can say I have a mental disability, but that doesn’t feel sufficient. How does one explain the inability to go dancing, when physically you are well? You are the right age and the right gender. I feel like dancing has become gendered, at least. How do you explain the fear of joy?  Joy can only lead to sorrow. This is as true as gravity. Or it at least tests as well as gravity. At least I have people who understand. This is true, not everyone does. At least I have the venue to express myself. What loneliness would I endure then? I need to write for the sake of others, to share all this putrid grief. I write to survive, I really do.

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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