Being vulnerable sucks. Knowing you’re being vulnerable is somehow worse. Like, we can be vulnerable with friends or family or strangers and they can go… “wow you’re so vulnerable” and we’re like, yeah… sure, I guess I was.
When you go into something knowing you’re being vulnerable it’s like… yeah, uhm, okay I am about to get super vulnerable. Ready?
I feel super human today (not super human like a super hero), I feel super… human. It’s one of those emotional days when I am super in tune with my body and my emotions and it makes me uncomfortable.
Things are always changing around me. Yet, I feel as though I stand completely still. Sometimes people who have near death experiences report having their lives flash before their eyes. For me it’s like that a lot of the time.
Another friend I get to call Dr. blah blah
Another friend I get to see over the next nine months whose belly swells bigger and bigger. Chalk full of life. Chalk full of opportunity.
These are the days when I remember I am a chronic. These are the days when everything just sucks and there isn’t a damn thing I can do to change it.
As I have said before I don’t believe in ‘attitude adjustments’ – I think emotions serve a purpose. The melancholy is serving a purpose so I will ride it out. Yesterday I tried to sleep through it but woke up feeling worse. I went to bed last night hoping today would feel different and instead I woke up dizzy, way too early, stubbed my toe, swore a lot, cried a little, and then tended to the animals.
Phyllis always vibes off my vibe so today she is moping around the house.
So I turned my music up and opened my laptop and found myself here… babbling on and sounding like a whiny child.
At least I have some insight right?
The truth is yesterday and today and who knows… maybe tomorrow are just the ebb to the flow…
I think it’s just baby fever. Or maybe kitten fever. Or fear that neither one of those things is going to happen for me. Or fear that me pursuing my doctorate is a joke. A waste of time and money…
Maybe it’s the aftermath of my grandma’s death eating away at me.
Maybe it’s my quiet fucking house.
Maybe it’s my physical illness manifesting as a mental one.
Fuck it. Future Amanda can over-analyze.
Back to the grind…