Totally What’s Happening
Big Tag Words1Q84 100 days project 365 project bed books card cards chatting with The Boy colorado correspondence depression face fear food friends handwriting project Haruki Murakami Kevyn kitten letter letters Lily links love mail truck Me vs. The Queue movies personal correspondence poetry postcard postcards postcrossing random Reading school self-portrait sendsomething sex stamps stationery The Boy video Vivian Wedgehead writing
The Stuff From Before
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Tag Archives: Vivian
All on my bed. Not much better to find in my life. All so delightful. I live a life full of warmth and delight, filled with hair that gives me allergy attacks.
This year with NaNo, I found myself not having the time for letters and postcards. I was so excited to find myself with a day full of snow and some time after my doctor’s appointments today to get started back on my correspondence. Boy howdy was there a pile to come back to, and I’m psyched to get started back with my great letter love.
Then the clipping of my tidy piles. Clips are important, never underestimate clips and mail and how they are important to each other. Sorting and clips go together. They so totally go together and sometimes I wish I had more sizes, ooo or several colors.
I started with some fantastic postcards. This is the first batch that I decided to work on, aren’t they fantastic? There are colors, and art, and a couple of boats, and then fantastic illustrations. It is a good haul, and was a wonderful place to start.
It was really grand to get back into my postcard collection and pick out things to send. There was some Doctor Who, some animation, Jimmy Stewart in Telluride, and all kinds of portraits! I am just thrilled to be back to writing post, and writing just a few less words a day than I was with NaNo. It was a great snowy day.
Today is beautiful and I feel so happy!
I have a kitten – two kittens! It is the life of luxury!
I have a great family.
I have fantastic friends.
I sometimes am brave enough to leave the house.
I did yoga today!
I totally did everything on my list for today!
Yay Yay Yay for December.
I feel so optimistic here at the end of the year.
On the 1st I wrote a crap ton of words for my NaNo thanks to all the sprints from Friday Night Writes, and I feel super good about where I stand and how things look from here…I mean obviously there is still lots to come, but this fat stack of words makes me feel really good, and I am excited for what comes next!
Both things were obviously well thought out and will be considered brilliant ideas, once I recover from all the wounds I suffer from both undertakings.
They they they they – Every they.
The words seem like they should make sense and it all seems like I should agree.
I should agree. always agree
But there is something terribly off about all these people agreeing that things will be better knowing I’ve made the decision to get help and be better.
Things can only get better if we crack you open.
Crack you open and see inside.
Where all the rot,
and worms reside.
That must be better,
must be better.
I listen to the words all these people say. I nod and agree. always agree
But it doesn’t feel better.
It doesn’t feel better to crack me open and see all the pieces inside.
I feel like I’m letting everyone down.
How very useless I am.
I can’t even keep it together.
I can’t even keep it together.
In some ways psych facilities feel a lot like S&M sex dungeons. They both are way creepier and scarier in your imagination than they ever are in reality. When you actually encounter either place you just manage to find every single cliché alive and well and groping around in the dark just like you.
I didn’t want to be trapped in my head anymore and tried to find a book to read. The book selection – befuddling. There is a Raymond Chandler mystery, in Italian. Then there is Madame Bovary – just what every OCD suicidal depressive needs to conquer – and that one is in French. Every Cat murder mystery book every written apparently, two books from a Jane Austen as a detective mystery series, and two different collections of porn short stories. I found a copy of Flowers for Algernon, that will have to do I guess.
I’m writing with a golf pencil. I can’t have a real pencil, nothing with an eraser, and fuck no I can’t have a pen – and my actual journal with stickers is totally not allowed. I was looked at, looked over for scars and marks and issues, and my bra was taken because it has wires, my shoes because they have laces, and my purse because it had anything remotely normal in it I guess. I know this is all safety related. I know this is all to ground me in to this place, this time, my mind, my issues, where I’m at, this is to keep me safe. But I have a hard time giving a shit what anyone says if they can’t spell aspartame for my allergy wristband.
Suicidal Depressive – I want to go home.