Vagaries

It's an outside job, for me.

Last night I went to bed early, around 10:30, and was feeling as miserable as I can recall. I lay in bed, planning my next blog entry, and while I think I managed to evoke the utter despair I felt, it sounded so dismal that I would have been forced to add a line at the end reassuring you all that I was not, in fact, going to kill myself. I was, however, more than willing to die without a struggle.

Around one in the morning I woke up following some funky-ass dream where I was on a hillside with some people I know (my dreams are frequently populated by strangers), and was unable to get back to sleep. I checked my 'puter and found an e-mail that brightened my life like a thousand nearby suns.

I know, I know. I should be able by now to lift myself up, to stop relying on other people's opinions of me to make me feel good about myself. That was one of the things I felt bad about before sleeping and that I try to justify by seeing it as some sort of evidence that I'm a people person. I may be, but I lack any measure of self-worth and still rely on validation from others.

That, by the way, is not a plug for good karma.

Yesterday I received some mixed news from a doctor. I think my worst fear--cancer and unaffordable operations--is a figment, but other news leaves me feeling trapped and helpless. I don't like to consider my problems are all in my head since that's not something that can be cured with a pill or two. Years of therapy have taught me to fear any more therapy. I think the depression I experienced yesterday resulted from seeing myself as my biggest, perhaps my only, problem.

While my aches and shit may be internally caused, my salvation came from outside. While I beat myself up for not being able to fix me myself, I absolutely love feeling better. Good enough, in fact, that I can look back and laugh at the wild swings of the last twelve hours.

I am so fucked up. It's absolutely wonderful.