Where am I?
Nov. 10th, 2007 11:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cosmolinguistI seem to have lost myself again.
I looked in all the usual places: the equivalents of under the bed, behind the couch, way at the back of the fridge.
Indeed, I did some chores yesterday, my day off. I felt good afterwards, but I did not find myself there. I might expect to; I talk about it all the time, because I'm thinking about it, because I'm feeling guilty and sluggish and disgusted for all I have not done. (And I often accompany it with A Prairie Home Companion or Sounds of the Sixties, both of which are very Me things.) But if anything, I thought the girl who actually did make a big batch of food to put in tupperware containers for the busy days ahead, then moving swiftly on to making a delicious, healthy, unspeakably simple meal for myself to eat right then, after tidying all the papers in the living room and in between hanging up laundry so nothing stayed damp and musty in the washing machine ... I thought that girl must have been someone else, because that's certainly not how I usually act.
I looked for me at work today. Oh, did I ever. I spent hours and hours there, thirteen and a half to be precise. I might well have expected to find myself there too, because people often expect that your job is who you are, as in "I'm a rocket scientist." "I'm a stunt pilot." But I've never felt like my job; the other people with my job are younger than me and going on to respectable careers in nursing or psychology or occupational therapy or something, whereas I'm still just glad I have a job at all.
I looked for myself in my past, my history, my nostalgia (see entries passim!). I might have expected to be there, because I've been thinking a lot about these things again: because we're rolling around to the anniversary of the blackest days of my life and because I also found myself unable to sleep last night since my brain wouldn't stop replaying a meal at a restaurant (what was it called again? what's the secret of that curry? I'll never know) and bits of conversation that are of no use to anyone. But I didn't find myself in the memories that are usually so warm and familiar to me. I can't concentrate on them, can't take refuge in even the nicest ones.
I looked for myself in thoughts of my friends, all too far away: in the nice things they've said about me and the fun things we've done together and the good times I hope to have more of in the future. I looked at my friends list, I read and wrote e-mails, I IMed people. This is probably the closest I've gotten to finding myself, but it still didn't work. Their loveliness proved a pleasant distraction, but I still had to consciously hold myself back from changing the subject to how rubbish I have been feeling latey, an especially confused and inarticulate kind of rubbish. Luckily for them the confusion and inarticulacy saved them, because I didn't (I think) even hint at it really, since I didn't know what to say.
I looked for me at my last, best, and now only, hope: my words. Words are my companions, and have been since before I could remember. I have been able to read so long I don't remember learning how (indeed; I didn't know you needed to learn, and couldn't understand why my brother had such difficulty with it when he started school). I don't remember a time before I wanted to write. I didn't really have friends growing up; I had books. Despite (or perhaps because of) spending so much of my waking life reading, I dream about words as often as anything else, happily skimming my dream-"eyes" over dream-text I usually don't remember when I wake up, though I can recall some of the dream-fonts with startling precision. I don't know what I'm thinking until I can put it in words: I don't mind too much if it's talking to someone or writing it down, though I'm much better in writing than in conversation. So I went to look at my words, and I must say, I wasn't impressed!
(I have this habit of deleting recent entries, not when I've just written them (though occasionally I do that too!) but when I haven't written anything for a little while. I used to think this curiously paradoxical, but now I think I've figured out that this why I do that. And indeed I've done it in the past couple of days.)
It's sad when even the words desert me. Or, when I desert them, I guess, since they're here and I'm the one who seems to have gone missing. Either way, it's hard to be separated from something I find so close and friendly most of the time.
I still don't know where I am, but I do know this happens every so often and I'm not worried ... though I'm running very low on patience. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I hope I get back soon.
I looked in all the usual places: the equivalents of under the bed, behind the couch, way at the back of the fridge.
Indeed, I did some chores yesterday, my day off. I felt good afterwards, but I did not find myself there. I might expect to; I talk about it all the time, because I'm thinking about it, because I'm feeling guilty and sluggish and disgusted for all I have not done. (And I often accompany it with A Prairie Home Companion or Sounds of the Sixties, both of which are very Me things.) But if anything, I thought the girl who actually did make a big batch of food to put in tupperware containers for the busy days ahead, then moving swiftly on to making a delicious, healthy, unspeakably simple meal for myself to eat right then, after tidying all the papers in the living room and in between hanging up laundry so nothing stayed damp and musty in the washing machine ... I thought that girl must have been someone else, because that's certainly not how I usually act.
I looked for me at work today. Oh, did I ever. I spent hours and hours there, thirteen and a half to be precise. I might well have expected to find myself there too, because people often expect that your job is who you are, as in "I'm a rocket scientist." "I'm a stunt pilot." But I've never felt like my job; the other people with my job are younger than me and going on to respectable careers in nursing or psychology or occupational therapy or something, whereas I'm still just glad I have a job at all.
I looked for myself in my past, my history, my nostalgia (see entries passim!). I might have expected to be there, because I've been thinking a lot about these things again: because we're rolling around to the anniversary of the blackest days of my life and because I also found myself unable to sleep last night since my brain wouldn't stop replaying a meal at a restaurant (what was it called again? what's the secret of that curry? I'll never know) and bits of conversation that are of no use to anyone. But I didn't find myself in the memories that are usually so warm and familiar to me. I can't concentrate on them, can't take refuge in even the nicest ones.
I looked for myself in thoughts of my friends, all too far away: in the nice things they've said about me and the fun things we've done together and the good times I hope to have more of in the future. I looked at my friends list, I read and wrote e-mails, I IMed people. This is probably the closest I've gotten to finding myself, but it still didn't work. Their loveliness proved a pleasant distraction, but I still had to consciously hold myself back from changing the subject to how rubbish I have been feeling latey, an especially confused and inarticulate kind of rubbish. Luckily for them the confusion and inarticulacy saved them, because I didn't (I think) even hint at it really, since I didn't know what to say.
I looked for me at my last, best, and now only, hope: my words. Words are my companions, and have been since before I could remember. I have been able to read so long I don't remember learning how (indeed; I didn't know you needed to learn, and couldn't understand why my brother had such difficulty with it when he started school). I don't remember a time before I wanted to write. I didn't really have friends growing up; I had books. Despite (or perhaps because of) spending so much of my waking life reading, I dream about words as often as anything else, happily skimming my dream-"eyes" over dream-text I usually don't remember when I wake up, though I can recall some of the dream-fonts with startling precision. I don't know what I'm thinking until I can put it in words: I don't mind too much if it's talking to someone or writing it down, though I'm much better in writing than in conversation. So I went to look at my words, and I must say, I wasn't impressed!
(I have this habit of deleting recent entries, not when I've just written them (though occasionally I do that too!) but when I haven't written anything for a little while. I used to think this curiously paradoxical, but now I think I've figured out that this why I do that. And indeed I've done it in the past couple of days.)
It's sad when even the words desert me. Or, when I desert them, I guess, since they're here and I'm the one who seems to have gone missing. Either way, it's hard to be separated from something I find so close and friendly most of the time.
I still don't know where I am, but I do know this happens every so often and I'm not worried ... though I'm running very low on patience. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I hope I get back soon.