� lines set thick � 2003-01-01 � 8:51 p.m. �
I am feeling like I drank too much... I don't drink...
I am feeling weighed and restless... hit by a truck, hard enough to hurt me... soft enough to let me live.
Uneventfulness was fine for me last night as I spent it praying for my own body to have mercy on me...
I slept on my boyfriend's side of the bed... a less obstructed path to the ensuite... and now both our backs pay for it.
I wonder if this a sign of things to come... in like a lion, so lion all year through. If that's the case I'll skip this year and move right to the next.
Mum called last night a bit before my misery hit at its fullest... my friends and family from home all around screaming Happy New Year at it turned for them at 10 pm here.
Mum knows I've lived longer than I should have... she knows without certain detail that every day is a trial for me and I am through with fighting anymore... she knows I've had it hard... she sees my blood... and understands that I am not as strong as I was when I was a kid and didn't know any better.
She knows not to tell me that comfort will find me... she knows it probably won't... despite what effort I put into finding it first.
I think it's in the hype and conformity of a so-called tradition like last night that I realize just how much older I truly am than those around me... how much more I've lived... seen... felt and dealt with.
And when the day rolls around I am a little more aware... a little more greatful than I was the day before... but not for the one year... not for the days to come... but for all the days before me... for the good and bad that has moulded me into this.... and it's everyday that I am aware... everyday that i am greatful.
Mum gave me this plate she made for Christmas... with a million pictures of me on it... different stills of my life from birth to the last time she saw me... and it makes me cry to see it... for the thought she put into and for the small blonde girl with her head resting on folded arms... looking back at me.... For the two small boys and a baby girl in the centre... for their arms around her... for their smiles... for what that girl was, and what I am not.... for what those boys would do to protect me... and for the times they just couldn't and still can't.
I know with every waking hour I am more learned than I was the hour before. I know that for every hurt I lived, it hurts less and is working more for me than against. I know with every word I write I press a little harder against someone's nerve....
That neither gratifies me or pains me... it's part of who i am...
Twenty three times around has taught me plenty.
� previous � next � comments � diaryland � old �