lienne: Craig Olejnik staring in total noncomprehension. (emotion: bewildered)
how did I live before the ability to arrange a post's tags in arbitrary order and create them in arbitrary quantity??

anyway no

what i'm here to talk about is my confusing emotional state

it is confusing, internet

so confusing

i love you, internet, i really do

i want to hug the whole world

i love everything and everyone

...except myself!

myself i kind of hate a lot.

and it's really weird and dissonant being so filled with love and goodwill towards all creatures and simultaneously having this bottomless pit of self-loathing trying to swallow me whole

i don't like it very much.

i would like to live in cuddletopia with the love and the imaginary hugs

not in despairville with the OH FUCK YOU RADIO ADS FOR MOTHER'S DAY PRESENTS

...oh yes and there's also the brief and inexplicable flares of irrational anger

those are a thing too

if this entry had a point, i probably haven't gotten to it, and it's long and weird and i should put it under a cut, and i have my glasses off so i can see neither the screen nor the keyboard right now, but fuck it all, i'm tired, i'm just gonna post this and go to bed.

*leans closer* oh hey no typos how cool is that
lienne: Outer space. (emotion: not in touch with reality)
aaaaaaaaa Keith Olbermann*

I have been slowly destroying myself with this whole #mooreandme business on Twitter

between the emotional impact and the excuse to skip basic necessities like food and light therapy in favour of retweeting like it is going out of fucking style, it has just not been good

but I do it anyway, because some small part of me cherishes the faint hope that my contributions might in some way matter

I should fucking quit that

like I told my mother so many times, you are better able to care for other people if you first care for yourself

I mean look at me, all my punctuation has fallen off

/gets a broom
/sweeps it into a pile
. ... ..



*also my ability to decide if a thing should have a trigger warning on it is not reliable right now, so please consider context and be cautious with your clicking
lienne: Outer space. (emotion: not in touch with reality)
Once upon a time, when my mother and I used to go to the Wal-Mart at Markville Mall, there was a period when they would have employees standing at the border between Wal-Mart and the mall at large holding rolls of green stickers. Upon entry, they would accost you and stick these green stickers onto any shopping bags you might be carrying, holding them shut.

I was a little weirded out by this practice, but Mum was downright offended. She resented the implication that anyone entering the store was assumed to be a shoplifter, and she had at one point suffered damage to a gift she was carrying because the glue from the green sticker got onto it.

As theft prevention, they didn't seem to work very well. It was ludicrously easy to circumvent or tear the stickers if legitimate reasons called for it, and there were no consequences to doing so; if nothing else, the bag with the incriminatingly damaged sticker could be stuffed in Mum's backpack before we exited the store. Mostly they were an irritating waste of everyone's time. Eventually we just started refusing to stop for the sticker ladies, and when they hassled us, Mum would explain about the damaged gift. Often this strategy got us through the door sticker-free.

I leave drawing the analogy as an exercise for the reader.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
Yeah.

Tiny, adorable ceremony. Eight people, of whom I was the only one on what you might call the groom's side. The woman he married is great for him and they are so sweet together; I d'awwed.

I don't think I will start calling her my step-mother, even though "dad's wife" sounds weird and awkward.

I've tagged this post "thinking of mummy", but really, I haven't been. None of this was about her, which is as it should be.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
That G20 thing that just happened in my city?

Here is some of the shit that went down, and the original link. Um. Trigger warning for... I don't even know. Police state bullshit. Inhumane treatment of prisoners.

I know it's selfish of me, but (fuck it, that was the depression speaking, I'm allowed to have personal reactions) one sentence really caught my eye:

We heard stories of at least one person with Type 2 diabetes inside the Centre who had been deprived of insulin and fell unconscious.

Yeah. I'm... just going to cry now. Mom had Type 1, not Type 2, but somehow I don't think that would have mattered.

This is not my city anymore.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
It would've been her birthday today.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
On my way home from class, I was walking down the street with my nose buried in a book, as usual.

Someone started talking to me. I'm sure it took her a few tries to get my attention.

"Are you watching the traffic?" she asked. She was an old lady, blonde, wearing a dark coat. I think she might have had glasses.

"Huh?"

"Are you watching the traffic while you're reading that book?"

I looked up, thought this over, and concluded that in fact I wasn't. Not a terribly good idea, it must be said.

"You should be more careful," she told me. "Your life is important."

I smiled and thanked her and kept walking with an eye on the cars.

It meant a lot to me to have someone say that my life is important, even though it was a stranger, even though I didn't really believe it.



I don't think I'm doing so well these days.

My mother's birthday was Nov 20th. It feels sort of morbid and awful to let it get to me like this, but for the third year in a row, it does anyway.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
I don't feel like doing the whole meme. Here's the short version:

My illness is depression.

To me, this is normal.

Every time I try to figure out what I was like before the illness, I can't remember back to a time when I wasn't like this. I can remember times when it wasn't this bad: before my mother got sick. Before my first boyfriend and I had our first relationship troubles. Before I got whooping-cough in October of grade six and missed the rest of that year. But every time I go back farther, all I see is a smaller, cuter Pyth with a smaller, cuter version of my not-at-all-small and not-at-all-cute problems, being perhaps able to breathe easier for a while in between disasters.

If there are any further points I meant to address in this meme, I've forgotten what they were.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
This didn't really make it better, but I know I'm going to be happy about it as soon as I get a minute to breathe.

See, I found the notebook containing that poem.

The one I wrote at my mother's funeral. )

Okay, so I misremembered those four lines from that other post. Sue me.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
Three years ago today, my mother died.

I can't tell if it hurts less with time. I'm too tired to hurt right now.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
From [livejournal.com profile] jazalove. Edit: Various and sundry kinds of TMI in the comments! *cough*



and here... we... go. )



Anybody who wants the HTML:



Just put your answers after the <li> tags. Feel free to mess around with the colours and shit.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
I was reading this(direct link to PDF), and what struck me was not how foreign the idea of counting out your day's energy was, but how familiar. From the instant the connection of spoon count to energy level became apparent, I knew exactly what the writer was talking about. Not firsthand, but a very close second. You might call it first-and-a-half.

See, my mom had juvenile diabetes. And I've come to realize that I take a lot of things for granted about myself that are effects of living with somebody who has that kind of illness, or of living with a type one diabetic specifically.

I'll take these in the order they occur to me.

I never lose things... )

There's probably more. The point of this stuff is that you don't think about it until something forces you to. I'm sure there are tons of attitudes floating around my brain shaped by growing up with Mum that I still haven't found yet because they're too subtle for me to realize where they come from. There was an entire second side to her illness-- gastroparesis-- that severely limited her diet because her digestion was mostly shot and she couldn't handle fibre in large quantities. The only effect this had on me that I can think of right now is that I recognize certain pills on sight. And yes, they're a very unfortunate shade of brown, and yes, the "poop pill" jokes flew.

I guess there wasn't much point to this entry, other than to say: yes, it is possible for a healthy person to understand what it's like to live with an invisible illness. I just don't recommend it.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
Even after two years, it's strange to remember that I know people who never met my mother.

It's even stranger, somehow, to remember I know people who didn't go to her funeral.

To give you an idea... )

May 26th.

May. 26th, 2008 01:32 pm
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
Of all the days when the water could be turned off in my building and I could have to sit here all unshowered and smelly and unable to go to the bathroom because the toilet won't flush...

Yeah. )
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
Sometimes things are a lot simpler than you'd think.

Yesterday I had something I could really have used my mother's help on, and I was happy enough that thinking it didn't hurt like hell.

I still wish she were here. I don't think I'll ever stop. I hope I'll never stop. But the fact that the wishing wasn't painful, I think, is a good sign.

Of course, it hurts again now. But I'll take that; it's not unusual, and it's not as bad as it could be.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
There's a three-month waitlist and a three-week one. I'm on both. This feels dangerously like an echo of last year, but hopefully I'll be able to deal with my crap more sensibly this time. A girl can dream.

Generally in a cheerful mood and feeling rather like I'm twelve years old again all of a sudden. Which. Good until it starts making me miss my mother, and then not so much with the cheerful. But it tends to cycle back up again, at least today, and that's a good thing.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
November nineteenth.

In half an hour it'll be her birthday.

She'd have been forty-five this year, I think.

Yeah.

I don't think I'll ever stop missing her.
lienne: A fountain pen nib, lying on paper. (Default)
I dreamed I was a certain celebrity*'s... the only word I can think of here is lady-in-waiting. I lived in a room adjoining his and whenever he needed something I would provide it - and no. No, there was no sex. This was completely a business relationship. It was the weirdest job I've ever dreamed I had. I mean, for fuck's sake, I hung fabric on his walls when he had a nightmare and said he needed the world to be greener. Oh, and I started to get so helpful that his... secretary or publicity advisor or something, whose name was Pamela, quit in disgust saying that if I wanted her job so badly I could have it. O_o WTF, brain? (Also, in the dream, he was gay. I have no knowledge of the truth of this. But there you go.)

Then I dreamed about my mother. Specifically, that she was working at a huge shiny museum that I believe was based off the "Jeffersonian" from Bones, and that she was hugely proud of me for becoming that celebrity*'s... personal assistant, or whatever. Hey, it was actually a pretty rewarding job. I got to devote my life to making somebody happier, and was paid pretty handsomely for it, as I recall. I would love to do that in real life. Just... not in the housewife way, I don't think. With that kind of arrangement, involving sex can only lead to badness, at least with me. --But anyways. I'm really getting tired of my brain's tendency to throw shit like that my way. I suppose on some level I should be grateful I still dream about her, but honestly, waking up from one of those is the hardest thing I ever do. And nothing that makes me want to go back to sleep and stay that way forever can be a good thing. It just can't. :/

*Honestly, it shouldn't take any effort to figure this clever ruse out, if you know me. There's a limited number of celebrities I dream about and, from that pool, the ones where I'll admit to it are a shorter list yet. I just don't feel like splattering this poor person's name across my journal page. Nobody deserves to be Googled and have this come up as a result, though I hesitate to ponder what kind of additional search terms you'd need in order to get it.

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