negative, but the truth

Oh boy, I thought, today I can lie around and feel sorry for myself. I will not answer the phone, no matter who calls.

Nothing remotely occurred like I thought. Brother brought the iron table and chairs from mom's house. The House could sell anytime. I talked to Connie who has a nasty bug. And called to wish mom a happy birthday again.

Since I do not seem to contribute much, I wonder why anyone cares. I spend much of my waking time wishing someone cared. From what my PHriends say, they care. Somehow I cannot convince myself. Former co-workers tell me they care. I do not believe that either.

I do not want to be miserable anymore.

Miss you, dude.

How to have an anxiety attack

I like to surprise people anonymously with little gifts or something I know will make their day. I do not like to venture away from home. So I create a problem for myself -- how do I get the surprise to the suprisee? Sometimes a relative of the surprisee can help out. But nine times out of 10, the idea only causes my anxiety meter to rise past the safe limits. Then the whole surprise idea collapses on itself and I must fret over another method to accomplish what I had intended to be fun and mysterious.

I sometimes agree to do something (for my own good). The closer the time nears for me to act, the more I start looking for excuses to back out. Anxiety rises more than before. When I try to explain why I cannot go do so-and-so, most people believe me. You can hear the disbelief in their voices and see it on their faces. How do you explain to someone my unease when I leave the safety of my house?

I want to have friends and have fun, but most people do not understand. When asked what I am feeling or how you can help, I am unable to tell you. Yet I am lonely.

Let's try this again

OK, I do not know how long this time will last, but with your blessing, here I go.

I have wasted a lot of time sleeping or lying down. Knowing my life could be only minutes longer, I should try my best to enjoy the rest of my time.

To that end, I discovered a need to have what I consider art on my walls. Art, being personal, can mean one thing to me and a bunch of garbage to someone else. I "met" a couple of artists on FB and after some negotiation, I picked up three works for my apartment.

The disparity in styles says this represents me. Two of the works evoke American folk style. Lots of color and do-dads. They have an air of family portraits from the 1600s, yet a modern twist. The vivid colors come from the paint. (You know, I find myself forgetting words more and more. The file cabinet of my brain rusts.) Ah yes, I remember now -- acrylics. Oh yes, the portraits are of cats.

The other piece is pencil, I think. The Marvel comic-type drawing shows a woman with a large hammer. This heroine bears the name Harley Quinn. Harley's size makes the lighting crucial to see the detail. I think the situation calls for one of those museum lights. She has the gold nameplate at the bottom of her frame.

I am talking with a photography artist I know on another piece. I love to buy art from people I know.

· · ·

Somehow yesterday, Pogo locked himself in a lower kitchen cabinet. Sometime after Momo's nap, he wandered into the kitchen. We hear a meow and Momo walks over to the cabinet door, stands on his hind legs (no easy feat for my pudgy one), grabs the top of the door with his claws and walks backward, thus opening the door. Pogo gave Momo a look and ran out of the kitchen. Momo stood there a second or two, then moseyed over to the food dish. Rescue work is hard, you know.

Miss you, dude.

Life's lessons

Life seems extra hard around my birthday. Always.

This year I made my best friend mad. At the last second, I could not make myself go do errands and eat out.  She asked something like, you want to go. I said to be honest, no. Knowing I hurt her feelings makes me feel guilty. Then I trash myself. My heart hurts. I want to isolate myself totally. I cannot hurt anyone or get hurt. I want to cry, but I have no tears to shed. Grey tints the day so no sunshine can penetrate.

I am past the birthday gloom and into the cough your lungs out through your chest phase. Now the unwashed dishes, stained with cheese and pasta parmesan sauce line the countertops and fill the sink. Bits of dried pasta turn brown and cements itself to the sink. At the very bottom in the metal drain stopper, slices and shreds of cat food send salvos of sensory stink bombs of their own.

The floor offers a variety of obstacles to make walking barefoot uncomfortable at the least. Because Momo does not hold his head over the bowl when he chews, bits of hard food escape. Pretty soon the small chunks are far from their origin. Pogo takes a bite from his bowl, puts it on the floor and then chows down. If you ever need some glue, borrow some of Pogo's moist food. You can always spray the repair with perfume later.

A grey-brown film of dust covers every surface. Water spots and runs mar the view from the big windows.

Chunks of plaster above the bathtub continue to fall near, and probably in, the drain. One of my boys covers his business so enthusiastically all the litter ends up in a big pile at one corner of the box with the pile oozing onto the floor. The old man exhibits his own peculiarities.

···

I am not much of a gambler, but I took the bait this time. This gamble comes in two parts. The first part went well. I wagered on someone I had never met to do what they promised. After some minor glitches, the deal went well. I rejoiced.

The other person turned out the opposite. I upheld my end of the bargain. They did not.

I never know if a gamble will work,  but sometimes you must try. I am not sorry I tried.

Hey Dude, I miss you.

Impressions

The dark waves build on the fringes of my mind.

I made plans to go to the store and eat out. When I woke up this morning the waves lapped at the positive me. The doubts rise and rise to the point of suffocation. One more heavy wave and I will wash away.

Is it always about me? Am I selfish and self-centered? Am I wrong to say I cannot go? Does every kind act toward me need repayment? What if I want to help people and do the right thing but I am paralyzed with what? Dread? Fear? Laziness? Selfishness?

The world is a mess, and I am a mess in it

I am such an insecure person, I would rather pay someone twice than get into an argument about whether I already paid. Some people like to argue, but not me.

I know I am not so important that I am the focus of your world. Since I feel the same about myself, that must mean no one thinks I am important. If I don't care for myself, how can anyone else?

Do I need help or am I just fine? How did I manage to live for years without these thoughts and now they scream accusations when I am least prepared to defend myself.

I do not want to live this way. Help me.

How's this for rationalizing?

The days fill themselves with premium chocolate ice cream bars, nuts, and crackers. Bits of food, thanks to Pogo, make walking barefoot an unpleasant adventure. Dust, like a brown shroud, drapes across the furniture. The boys' box does get attention, though the used grocery bags stack up near the box. I am sure the odor permeates the apartment, but I cannot smell much of anything. A benefit, I could say, from the years of smoking.

Television holds no power over me these days. Sitting in my chair and watching the clouds, big and puffy like those I remember from childhood, change patterns as they move across the sky. Occasionally a jet adds an exclamation.

The boys, along with a dozen or so flies, go in and out of the sliding glass door. The flies spreading the word among themselves that this place offers a flies' smorgasbord, the boys to make sure I am still sitting here.

No serious amount of energy  expended by me could get home back in shape in one day. Chipping away the chores does not work. The house seems to get dirtier faster than I can clean. Wonder why? If I completed two chores a day, and then did not mess with the recently cleaned object/room/floor, a clean house would appear in a few months. Not the way cleaning works.

Today's forecast calls for overcast skies, rain, and sleep. Oh well, the dirty house does not plan a trip to Cleanville, anytime soon.

IMYD