When I was little, I dreamed of being chased. Sometimes, the assailant was the thumbtacks hanging posters above the head of my bed - they would fly through the air, aiming to stab me, and there was no where I could run that they couldn’t follow. Sometimes the assailant would be an unknown man, and no matter which room I hid in, he would always be a step behind in. I would eventually escape our house and run to the neighbors’ house, but they would either not be home, or be unable to help me, and we would all end up running down the street for… our lives? It was never really clear what danger I was in, but it was clear that I was fighting for my life. The underlying feeling was never one of strength, always hopelessness and despair.

Last night I dreamed that I was running from a man who wanted to forcibly tattoo me with a stapler. But the stapler was broken; not only would he inflict harm on me if he caught me, but he was going to force me to fix the stapler first. I would have to repair the instrument of my own torture. So I ran through the rooms of my parents’ house - in the language of my dreams, the safest place in the world. I hid in the safest place I could think of: locked in the bathroom of my parents’ room. Two locked doors between me and him. But the doors didn’t lock securely, and as I heard him breaking through the first barrier, I had to climb out the second-story  window, and find a way down to safety. But even that wasn’t safe; he was waiting for me there, as well.

That’s about all I remember from the dream, but the feeling of nameless terror and dread stayed with me through the day. That happens to me, sometimes; it’s a feeling that’s hard to describe. When I was in high school, there was an eclipse of the sun. While the eclipse was at its height, there was full daylight, but the quality of that light shifted to something entirely different. That’s what the dread feels like for me, when it happens. A slight, undefinable shift in my perception. It isn’t dread of anything in particular; everything looks exactly the same, and yet completely alien. Everything behaves exactly the same, except with an underlying edge, as if in a nightmare. It’s the difference between a dream of unpleasant events, and a nightmare of the same events. In one, you can watch the story unfold objectively; in the other, the fear takes over completely.

It’s time: I need to move forward with the divorce, and the very thought of it makes me ill. I can barely stand the thought of facing someone who caused me such pain, let alone working with him towards our common goal - a goal I never really wanted in the first place, except out of necessity. Thinking about impossibly high lawyers fees makes me panicked. Looking at the paperwork from the summer, the paperwork I tucked away in a safe place and haven’t looked at much since, brings back all the anxiety and despair and terror that I felt then. It’s as if the feelings wove themselves into the very threads of the paper, and fused themselves in with the text.

It’s unfair that love should end in so much pain, and that anyone should have to face this alone. Of course, my friends and family are all with my in heart and in spirit, but no one can handle the details for me, not unless I pay large(r) amounts of money that I don’t have. They can only offer a shoulder to cry on, or a kind word, or their concern. Not that these things aren’t appreciated, but they can’t erase the pain or the fear, and today my heart felt like it was breaking all over again. All I can do is move forward as well as I know how.

I’m reminded of the stories of people who have performed self-surgery, without anesthesia, in moments of dire need. They have to do it, or they’ll die, right? But that can’t possibly erase the vague hope that somehow, the problem will solve itself, they won’t have to do something so distasteful. I keep hoping that this will just sort itself out, somehow, against all reason. But I know it’s that sort of thinking that got me into this mess in the first place.

It would appear that I need to do something drastic with this blog to kick start me back into actually using it. I have some ideas, but nothing concrete. Most of them hinge around owning a digital camera, because let’s face it, everything is better with pretty pictures. Unfortunately, my camera has gone MIA since the move, and I’m starting to lose hope that I’ll ever find it. I have no idea as to where it could have gone, but I’m getting very close to buying myself a new camera. Maybe if those tax refunds go through, that’s what I’ll do with some of the money. I have my eye on the Canon PowerShot SD750.

Serenity Designs was a mostly failed concept, between the drama of the summer, the move to a new (smaller) apartment, trying to rebuild my life, and losing my camera, I just haven’t gotten it up and running like I had hoped. Also, I discovered that while I like selling things I’ve made, I much prefer making things for myself and my friends. Basically, I’m too lazy to run a crafting business. I’m happy to make things on request, but I don’t think I’m going to sell much online, until I find something small and quick to make and sell in volume (for instance, I have plans to dig out my beading supplies and work on some pretty stitch holders and beaded bookmarks).

I haven’t abandoned Blistered Avalon entirely, but it’ll probably still be on extended hiatus until I buy a new camera and get inspired. So, um, keep stopping by every few weeks. Eventually I’ll either get my ass in gear and start posting again, or delete everything in a fit of frustration and start over from scratch.

January thaw -
the stray cat slept
somewhere else

There’s no way I’m going to finish this novel by the end of November. And that makes me very sad. I very much want the satisfaction of writing “The End” after 50,000 words of fiction. But I’m going to keep plugging away at it. Maybe I can catch up over Thanksgiving weekend. I still have 12 days. (Eep.)

I did write 4600 words over the weekend, so that’s something. I also knit 6 rows of the hat I’m making, ate many yummy foods (most of them containing either apples or pumpkin), failed to properly configure NetHack on Ciela (my PowerBook), got drunk on champagne and rum, and watched many videos on YouTube, when K’s internet wasn’t crawling along at impossibly slow speeds.

It was a good weekend.

The weather outside this morning is a perfect mirror of my insides.

It has been raining, and as I leave my apartment, the world is covered in a slick, slippery coat, the kind of surface that thoughts and memories slide right off. There is a thin layer of sticky, blanketing fog, and the trees stand barren, having lost most of their remaining leaves in last night’s winds.

The Oxbow is glassy as I drive past, much like my gaze must be - slightly baffled, not comprehending. Why am I here again? Why do I care? Why am I outside, watching myself drive through the murk of my own mind, when I could be sleeping in my warm bed, curled up with a cat who doesn’t particularly care if I’m presentable so long as he gets fed?

Sometimes rain gives the world an appearance of cleanness and freshness, of renewal and hope. And sometimes it makes the world look dirty, glum and inhospitable. My mind, too, feels inhospitable. Which is probably why I’m not living there at the moment, but off in some other world where nothing really matters. Even the prospect of losing pay – or worse, losing my job entirely – was barely enough to drag me out of the house, and has yet to be enough to drag me out of this misery.

This happened last month at this time, too. The medications can only hold out against the tide of hormones for so long, and eventually the depression wells to the surface like evil little beads of sweat or blood, and I struggle against drowning for a few weeks until the veil drops away and I’m left on the shore, coughing and gasping and reveling in the freedom for another two or three weeks, until the waves crash down again and the cycle starts anew.

Looks like it’s time to see the doctor again.