balancing act

so the past two weeks have been the best since 2004. Which is a long, long time. Coincidentally, the past seven weeks (and yep, I am counting!) have been the first time since ex-BF was murdered in 2004 that I have had any kind of a sex-life. The depression dug in before that, which was probably the only reason I have remained celibate for so long.

And while the intellectual bit of me is watching this all with a bemused grin, every other bit is wriggling around like an overjoyed puppy. It has been so damn long since I felt this good, and really, whatever is the cause, if it can just stick around for a while...please?

I figure it's kind of a combination result. The dude and the Tofranil together. Neither meds nor loving someone have been enough on their own in the past three years, but at the moment, the mix is working. And it is just so f-ing awesome....

oh dear...

....am starting to reach the very unwelcome conclusion that any mood improvements might well have more to do with the dude than the meds. Basing that on my complete subsidence this morning when he didn't appear as expected. Don't need that, don't want it, don't think I can handle it at all well. This is so not supposed to be happening... he is not even remotely close to any of the things that I am attracted to in a man. Even so, when I do something as innocuous as running my hand over his arm, when I put my face against his neck and just breath in the scent of his skin, when he almost absent-mindedly touches me anywhere while he is concentrating on something and there is a sharp almost painful reaction from every bit of my body from the toes upwards....sheeit. And that's not even going anywhere near how awesome it feels by the time we get to anything close to bed....

On the other hand, I increased the Tofranil on Sat - so maybe it is that instead. God, I hope so...

"You do something to me
something deep inside
I'm hanging on the wire
for a love I'll never find
You do something wonderful
chase it all away
mixing my emotions
throws me back again

Hanging on the wire yeah
said I'm waiting for the change
Dancing through the fire
just to catch a flame
feel real again

Hanging on the wire yeah
said I'm waiting for the change
Oh I'm dancing through the fire
just to catch a flame
to feel real again

You do something to me
somewhere deep inside
Hoping to get close to
a peace I cannot find

Dancing through the fire
just to catch a flame
Just to get close to
just close enough
To tell you that.....

You do something to me - oh, something deep inside"
Paul Weller, 'you do something to me'

too good to last

unfortunately.

at least I am still doing the work bit - after 12-15 hours since weds, I am about a quarter of the way through it. And seeing as it's from home, no-one except the animals cares that I cry solidly for most of it.

guess three glorious days is more than last years great big zero. Fucking loser...

finally!

I got my ass halfway into gear, and started on the work that I have been avoiding for the last month. It's cutting it fine, because I have about a trillion hours to do within the next two weeks, followed by a whole lot more immediately before we upgrade. And seeing as I selected the date, it can't be weaseled out of. I've also realised again that working during daylight just doesn't happen. Too many little birds to feed. Too many calls about other little birds. I can't turn my phone off - I'm not really allowed to for work, and feel too guilty about birds anyway - and I can't ignore calls for long. At the same time, I don't want to encourage my nocturnal habits; it's all too easy to slip into staying up all night and being the walking dead for the days.

The work-attack comes along with being absolutely terrified to admit that for three days now, I haven't cried. Haven't been suicidal. Haven't counted my OD pill stash.
FUCK!!! I feel fragile as all hell, but I don't feel like I want to die before I even wake up. Not sure if it's the Tofranil or getting laid regularly - I'm hoping it's the meds, because they're a lot more available and certain than any ongoing dude input would be. For now though, that still goes well. Scratch well...make it amazingly. I have no idea why, figure that I'm not even going to try to understand it, but he is still absolutely doing it for me. I look at him and find myself getting this little smirk on my face as I wonder how soon I can get his clothes off.
He is becoming more and more cuddly too, which I really enjoy. This ain't love, or anything serious at all, but it just feels so damn good for now.

if you are feeling generous...

...have a look at this blog, Novi Sad Cats. One woman with a mission, and some good friends in other places, doing what she can to make a difference. I know there are always many in need - and in our own countries too - but I am really touched by this story. So often, in wars and natural disasters, the forgotten ones are the domestic animals whose owners may be dead or displaced. In a country like Serbia which has been so bitterly fought over for so long, I believe that making a difference to the animals also makes a difference to the people; that it's an investment in hope for the future...

So if you have a few dollars to spare, contact Dzeilana - her address is at the bottom of the page - and maybe make some Novi Sad cats happy.

hangin' in

....almost the end of a long, long week. Taking new meds, skipping the vodka, keeping my head below the parapet. I feel bruised and tired, and have a vague feeling that hospital might have been a good idea - just not feasible at the moment, though. Too many birds, too much work, too complicated to try set it up. I know; if I got hit by a bus it would have to happen....but anything short of that, just can't do it. Instead, am arranging to take two weeks off next month, after major work project part #1 goes live, and when baby bird season is tailing off a bit.

Meanwhile, I ricochet from tdoc to pdoc to the dude, setting new lows in my inability to communicate. Pdoc of course, is having great fun with the whole dude affair, which I can understand - it's the first time he's seen me being led by the gonads, and it's appealing to his wicked sense of humour. This week, he leant back, gave me the very serious appraising look, and asked whether I thought orgasms could be an effective treatment for depression. I said yes, if they could last for a whole lot longer. Well, he says straight-faced, there was a guy who was studying that, but he went off to do some research and has never returned....

The dude himself continues to mystify me, confuse me and generally just complicate my life. One day soon (I hope) this will wear off, and I will be even more on guard against being blindsided like this. For now though, even his name is enough to get me hot and bothered - the way he feels...his scent...yo!, 'nuff said.

mental marathon

the past three days. I am exhausted, and in fact have been sleeping on my desk for the last two hours. Had to wake up long enough to do a small bit of work, and am going to be asleep again very shortly. Yesterday was the worst I have been in ages because for some reason there was just so much tension mixed in. By about 2 a.m. I was seriously thinking of taking a timeout and just crawling into a hospital bed for a few days. By this morning though, arranging that was just beyond my organisational ability, and I chickened out.

However the miserable message from the early hours was still on the answering machine, so pdoc's office lady called, and after I'd finished sobbing on her shoulder, he sent a script for the next candidate up for wonder drug of the decade. Tofranil, which is one of a very short list that we haven't tried in the past three years. God, I really really hope that this is going to be the one that works.....

stupid, stupid, stupid

- wish I could say that last night was cathartic, but not quite. It was about the only diversion, give it that. And at least it transmuted enough so that I eventually went to bed and slept. Not enough though for any more than that. Probably because it was contained at three tidy slices, little enough that I can lie with a straight face about accidental injury. Little enough that someone could pretend to believe me. If they wanted to. Not enough, though, to stop hurting.

Pdoc rags me about being the neat-freak of SI. And I am, although in every other way I am anything but tidy. Not something I am proud of, but it is just the way it is, and the only way that it helps. The cutting is one of the things that has always made me worry about personality disorders, although pdoc reckons not. I've cut sporadically since I was 15, but only in the last few years has it been anywhere that would be routinely visible. Then it was what pdoc calls the Team Adidas logo on my left forearm, and I ripped shit out of that over and over. Still, it is tidy enough that most people will believe - or pretend to - the story about the iguana capture.

That was one of the things that finally let me trust pdoc completely - he didn't make a huge fuss about it, didn't act like it was the end of everything. Just looked, said that at least I was keeping it clean and not in need of any medical attention, and let it be. In turn, I feel that I can tell him when it happens. He understands that it's some unspecified combination of absolute misery and tension, and that I can't anticipate it. There are times where I am so depressed that breathing is a triumph and I don't cut, and times where I am really stressed but don't do it either. And then, shit....get the wrong mix and out come the razor blades. He laughs at that too, that it has to be a blade. At one time I tried not keeping any in the house - after I ended up driving to a really shady area when I could barely stand because I was so wasted, but it was just such an overwhelming need.... I figured that at least if I allow myself to keep one perfect blade, I can sometimes get past it by just watching the blade for a while. Maybe stroking it. Maybe do enough of the ritual preparation. Sometimes it is enough.

Sometimes it's not.


"your jacket,
hanging in my cupboard
has the scent of laughter
- often, I press my face to its softness"
(jcat, 1981)

so I have to boast about this one....

- although she has obviously only just handed in the assignment for which we were blundering about in the dark in strange places yesterday, DuckBuddy got back the results today from her first few assignments. She cracked 100% on three of the five, and others were in 90's. Way higher than anyone else on the course. Perfectionism is rewarded..... although she doesn't see it, she is so talented and smart and funny. I still don't understand why she would want to be friends, but I am glad that she does....

I told pdoc about the early hours shoot with me as bodyguard, which he kind of snickered about and said that the only difference that that would make is two murders instead of one - I've obviously never shown him my fierce/tough/musclebound impression. Then he went off on one of his tangents, and says that having found DB and I dead in the gardens, the only obvious link between us would be him, and he'd have to explain to the cops why two of his patients were murdered at dawn, and he'd probably be had up before the medical council to explain it to them as well... Shit, things like that just make me wish even more that I could get better. He's just about never seen me when it's good. I've never been able to share me being quick and funny, and I would so much like to be able to. Irreverence and wordplay and wicked humour is such a part of who I am. Double-shit. I say 'who I am' so glibly. Guess it should be 'who I used to be', although I can still slip on that cloak to disguise me sometimes. Could possibly do it with him too, but if I start the camouflage...it would be too easy to keep on hiding. And I want that person back for real, I want to feel like that when I leave a place too. Not to feel myself deflate as the hot air hisses out and I drive home alone crying because it is just so tiring being the walking talking marionette shadow of what I used to take for granted....

of mad ducks and umm...guess it makes me mad too...

so Duckbuddy the perfectionist wasn't happy with the photographs she took for her course on Friday, and wanted to redo them. The assignment involved all sorts of things at the local botanical gardens starting just before sunrise. Now on Friday, there was a whole classful of students running around at dawn - she was planning on going on her own. With an armful of expensive cameras. In the dark. To a place known for its many muggings, although I don't know how early the muggers start work. I wasn't keen on her going on her own, so said I'd come with. At 05h00 in the morning... which makes me just as mad as she is.

Unfortunately, yesterday the dude couldn't get here because of car issues, so I ended up going over to see him at work. Once again, not quite sure why. No training, no canoodling - well, not much, not nearly enough - and we just sat around talking about nothing much for an hour or so. I ended up meeting a friend for a few drinks, racing home 3 hours later to mynah-mommy coming to fetch the visiting bird....many more drinks before I got her to leave at midnight. After which I cooked supper and hit the net for a while, and slept somewhere around 02h00, not nearly enough hours before a cheerful Duck was on the phone to wake me up.

We went there, climbed through a hole in the fence, tripped over all sorts of wires and chains, fumbled around in the dark, and she had her camera set up ten minutes before there was enough light for it to even register. I'm not sure that I was much use as a bodyguard, because every time she set up a shot I sat down on the nearest paving and went to sleep. Goes without saying that most of the day was a write-off while I slept in the bath and at my desk.

No dude today either, but a couple of sweet text messages from him just in time to head off the severely morbid mood in favour of just majorly depressed. If nothing else, this is a good reminder of why I avoid relationships - god knows what being with someone I loved would do to me, if this is how it feels to have a bit of casual fun....

What Love Does - Duet with Ross Learmonth
(Music: Jaco Spies Lyrics: Jaco Spies, Lienka, Ilne Muller, sample MP3 at
Lienka's website

Do you know what the world is all about?
Do you know what the world is all about?
I'm not afraid to die, at all

Do you know what the world is all about? (What makes it different than the stars in the heavens above?)
Do you know what the world is all about? (What makes it different than the stars?)
I'm not afraid to die, at all

'Cause this is what love does to me
I fear not to bleed
Yes this is what love does to me
I'm down on my knees

Do you know how to find what was left behind?
Do you know how to find the rainbow's gold?
You'll always see me try, until the day I die

'Cause this is what love does to me
I fear not to bleed
Yes this is what love does to me
I'm down on my knees

I'm not afraid to try, I don't even know why
The love that we shared wasn't always black and white
And what I know to be true may mean nothing to you
The only virtue is the one between two

allegory

so you are sitting alone at home one day, and the phone rings. It's the magazine subscription service, and they say that your Aunty Ethel has given you a gift of a years free subscription to XYZ magazine. You are about to tell them that you have never even read XYZ, and you don't have an Aunty Ethel either, when you suddenly think 'wait...they don't know where to send it to, but they think it should be sent to me. For a while, at no cost...' and instead you say 'oh cool, my address is ABC'....

a few weeks pass, and you are really enjoying getting XYZ, which you haven't ever bought before. You feel a little bit bad about it, because after all, Aunty Ethel is paying for it to be sent to her favourite niece. But not so bad that you are going to call up and tell the subscriptions dept that there has been a mistake. You read XYZ from cover to cover every week, and every week you discover a really special column, or a really interesting article, and you think to yourself that you are really lucky, because you could never afford this at the regular cover price....

so you are sitting alone at home one day, and the phone rings. It's the local branch of the mafia, to say that you have been taking their favourite niece's copy of XYZ every week. Even though you know it was never meant for you, and no...it doesn't make any difference that you felt bad about it. Because you have had many, many days in which to call up and give them the right details, and you have never done it. Every week, you have justified it by thinking that the niece obviously isn't missing it, that between her and Aunty E they don't seem to appreciate the mag anyway, that if they'd like, you can return all the copies you have been sent so far, and no harm done...

and the dude on the phone laughs, and tells you that it is way too late for that. If you were going to be honest, the time is long past. If you meant no harm, it is also irrelevant. If you think that your punishment is to never get the magazine again, to never know the end of the story that they print a chapter from every week, to miss reading your favourite bits every day....? He laughs again, and tells you that you are going to hurt way, way, way more than that. Forever....

to uga visitor?

disclaimer.....I don't routinely check ISPs (which is as detailed as it gets), but I do check search terms. You were looking for info on mousebirds and liver disease.... please contact Kateri Davis at Davis-Lund Aviaries in California. They breed mousies, and she is about the world's best on mousebird raising and keeping. The only point she loses out on....is she hasn't seen that much of them living wild! Hey, you guys in the US have enough advantages - us Africans have to keep a few. Mousebirds in our gardens....elephants in the back yard....lions on the streets downtown...
Seriously though. If you need info on anything to do with mousies of whatever species, she's the lady who really knows everything!

nothing....

nothing much said
nothing happened
just....nothing.

Came over today. Didn't seem much like wanting to train. Didn't want sex. I don't even know why he came here at all. So we sat around a bit, had coffee, downloaded a movie he wanted. And then he left. I managed to not start crying until after that, but I guess I haven't really stopped since. Guess too that I'd kind of forgotten why exactly I've been celibate for so long.

"..Till fortune found a girl who fanned a flame he thought had died
Whose burning beauty cut him like a knife.
She touched him through the senses that his mind could not control.
Then smiling stepped aside and watched him fall.
Betrayed by his own body and the hunger in his soul
Duvalier was a dreamer after all"
(Kris Kristofferson, Duvalier's Dream)