Normal is Evolving

It is extremely comforting to me to read confessions from people I love and respect like the Bloggess and Wil Wheaton on the topic of depression. Because of them, it's starting to feel like it's okay to admit that I deal with this stuff. I don't have to be ashamed of my feelings, I don't have to hide them, and most importantly, I don't have to pretend I don't have them. It's really comforting to echo Jenny Lawson's words, "depression lies". It makes me feel "normal" - I think "normal" is evolving to include people like me - people who are anxious all the time, who live in constant fear of rejection and ridicule. And just because I know it's unfounded, because I know I shouldn't feel the way I do, it doesn't stop me from feeling thus. I like knowing that I'm not alone. I like knowing that even though I absolutely love my life, love my family, love my friends - it's okay to be sad sometimes. And it's nice to know that that sadness is not imaginary, even if it's not justified.

So, thank you internet, for the comfort you give by showing me I'm not alone.

So Many

Why, ohh why does someone like I
have so many feels?

I am looking forward to... God, I can't even picture it. Sometime soon, I will have a day (an entire fucking day) that I will spend alone, and I will soak up the silence. I will soak up enough silence to last the coming weeks and months. I will soak up so much silence that I will end the day screaming, just to hear noise.

It will be glorious.

I love my people. I love the people who are sucking up my time, devouring it like beasts, making me laugh and cry and feel the feels.

I think I just need to miss them a bit more. Not individually, because they're so spread out, just taking nibbles here and there, I miss them all already - but I just need a few bites of that time to squander. To toss away, frivolously.

One.
One is a recipe for disaster.
A beginning with no end.
(Perhaps a middle.)
Never an end.
One is languid - not for the impatient.
(And I am impatient.)
One is a dangerous drug,
which I crave, but fear.

Legit'

My eyes hurt from crying, but not in a bad way. The kind of crying that I need to release stress and worry, to stop fretting over things I can't control. A catharsis through tears.

And it's almost a full moon. I'm going to blame that for my crazy brain, even though there's no evidence that "lunacy" really exists.

Men really exist. They make me crazy. That's hormones, right? Completely legit'...

Mostly, I'm just feeling in a rut. I need to pop out into an open field and run around a while.

Flesh for Supper

I did not catch this chicken - did not kill it, clean it, nor pluck the feathers from its goospimpled flesh. I did not remove its head and feet. I did not see its blood in the dirt.

I did roast its body, covered in chopped herbs and garlic, slowly in my oven. I ripped its carcass apart, separating out bone, sinew and cartilage - pulling back greasy skin to expose tender white muscle. I collect the flesh to be consumed and dump the bones into a pot to be boiled for stock.

My hands are covered in the animal's fat and flecks of flesh. I feel like a barbarian. I have destroyed this small body, cracked ribs, pulled the bones from their sockets, ripped muscles out to be eaten. I scrub my hands with dish soap, removing the grease and cleaning the bits of meat from beneath my fingernails. I have conquered this avian corpse.