It's been real. As the weekend comes to a close that is all I can say to sum it up. As I am pretty off kilter myself it is hard to make much of the weekend other than insurmountable highs and intolerable lows.
Joe's gig, a definite high. He was so on, and although I'm so off recently, his talent and energy made for a universal high on Friday night. No one in attendance could deny having a phenomenal evening. There is an unmistakable beauty in love, whether it is romantic love, or love of art, when it is present, you just know. It moves me to see him in his element. It's bittersweet celebrity is, there really is no moderation, no boundaries, no filter, and much like our weekend, the journey has been paved in gold and goat shit.
Saturday, not so swank. My symbiotic high is over and the nagging bitch that is depression is weighing ever so heavily on my shoulders. Boxes of this school year's curriculum for both children lay unopened in the living room. I've unfinished craft projects on the kitchen table, laundry, dusting...now, if I could just locate my motivation.This week I've contacted three therapists for appointments and none have returned my call, I missed work on Saturday and it is unlikely that I will make it tomorrow as the thought of leaving home and dealing with the public has grown increasingly more frightening as the week has progressed. I'm feeling kind of like a piece of furniture in the house as everyone is going on with their usual routine over and around me. There is controversy brewing as the perils of puberty have also climaxed over the weekend, and along with my motivation my cape is amiss; I haven't the wherewith all to rescue myself much less anyone else. Man and Manchild will have to manage without my perspective this time. Yael is asking me about Hannah Montana pop up, something...aaah to be 8 right now...oh,no-wait then, I have to deal with the parents, their baggage and addictions, huh? Yeah, scratch that, bad idea. But, perhaps to be 8 and be her...now that's better.
Things are just not at their best right now, and I'm growing increasingly frustrated with the fact that I am not in a position to "fix" it on my own. I don't function well in a collaborative setting. Trust if I could talk to myself for 45 minutes minutes get to the root of whatever it is that is ailing me, write a prescription for something that will give me enough energy to have that conversation with myself and get out of this fucking rut, I would.
Joe's gig, a definite high. He was so on, and although I'm so off recently, his talent and energy made for a universal high on Friday night. No one in attendance could deny having a phenomenal evening. There is an unmistakable beauty in love, whether it is romantic love, or love of art, when it is present, you just know. It moves me to see him in his element. It's bittersweet celebrity is, there really is no moderation, no boundaries, no filter, and much like our weekend, the journey has been paved in gold and goat shit.
Saturday, not so swank. My symbiotic high is over and the nagging bitch that is depression is weighing ever so heavily on my shoulders. Boxes of this school year's curriculum for both children lay unopened in the living room. I've unfinished craft projects on the kitchen table, laundry, dusting...now, if I could just locate my motivation.This week I've contacted three therapists for appointments and none have returned my call, I missed work on Saturday and it is unlikely that I will make it tomorrow as the thought of leaving home and dealing with the public has grown increasingly more frightening as the week has progressed. I'm feeling kind of like a piece of furniture in the house as everyone is going on with their usual routine over and around me. There is controversy brewing as the perils of puberty have also climaxed over the weekend, and along with my motivation my cape is amiss; I haven't the wherewith all to rescue myself much less anyone else. Man and Manchild will have to manage without my perspective this time. Yael is asking me about Hannah Montana pop up, something...aaah to be 8 right now...oh,no-wait then, I have to deal with the parents, their baggage and addictions, huh? Yeah, scratch that, bad idea. But, perhaps to be 8 and be her...now that's better.
Things are just not at their best right now, and I'm growing increasingly frustrated with the fact that I am not in a position to "fix" it on my own. I don't function well in a collaborative setting. Trust if I could talk to myself for 45 minutes minutes get to the root of whatever it is that is ailing me, write a prescription for something that will give me enough energy to have that conversation with myself and get out of this fucking rut, I would.
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