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mousmeHad a lovely time at the Parental Units' dinner yesterday. Three of my good friends were there whom I hadn't seen in a really long time, and we all got caught up with each other.
VL (I haven't mentioned her in here in a long time) is off to Austria for the holidays, but I'll be seeing her when she gets back.
NA is off to Morocco, but I'll probably see her on the 26th when her parents will be hosting their annual Boxing Day party at their country house. They've been doing that for as long as I can remember, and I'm looking forward to it.
Poor CA had a nasty case of conjunctivitis, and is spending the holidays here, so we've invited her over, exact date to be determined.
In the meantime, however, I feel like a zombie. I don't know if it's the Clonazepam that's making me woozy, or the increased Neurontin, or the combination of both. Or maybe I'm just starting back down the path to depression again. I prefer the hypomania, even if it makes me crazy. It's better than being unable to function.
*beats head against wall*
I just want to FUNCTION, dammit! I don't want to have the emotional maturity of a three-year-old and be the intellectual equivalent of a rabbit on acid. I can't read anything except light fiction —it took me months to finish Moby Dick, and I've hit a stumbling block with Don Quixote and Proust. I just can't seem to summon the mental powers to actually read complex prose. The best I've been able to manage is C. J. Cherryh and Daniel Pennac, and while they're not quite trash, they're still not quite the intellectual summits I'm accustomed to being able to read.
It's really, really frustrating. Every single thing I do seems to take ten times more energy than it should. My days go by startlingly fast, because even the simplest action takes a great deal of time and concentration. So if I start doing the dishes at 10:00, instead of being done at 10:15 or 10:30, I'll look up and suddenly it'll be 11:00 or 11:30. *sigh*
I get distracted by the smallest things, forget what I was doing before, lose track of my thoughts. It's a miracle that I don't just sit down in a corner and burst into tears. I don't cry very much anymore. I think some part of me has stopped mourning the loss of everything I was before.
I'm no longer an "intellectual" the way my mother told me I was.
I'm no longer the "writer" I always wanted to be.
I'm no longer a "translator" since I have no work.
I'm no longer a "student" either, since I'm not at university.
I'm not much of anything, really. There's no label for me, or no label that I'd want to write down here in black and white.
On a completely random note, I've been making most of my past entries public. I've reached September 2003. Given that I started this LJ at the end of February 2002 and I've written 1,294 entries, this is going to take a while. I've made some of the early entries public too. Eventually, about 80% of my entries should be public. I'll also post a list of my filters once that's all done so that people can be on them if they want.
Okay, I think I'll end this post here before it dies a disjointed death. When I think that about two years ago I wrote a sixty-page paper on Samuel Taylor Coleridge and got a good grade for it... *sigh* Now I can't even put together a coherent LJ entry.
VL (I haven't mentioned her in here in a long time) is off to Austria for the holidays, but I'll be seeing her when she gets back.
NA is off to Morocco, but I'll probably see her on the 26th when her parents will be hosting their annual Boxing Day party at their country house. They've been doing that for as long as I can remember, and I'm looking forward to it.
Poor CA had a nasty case of conjunctivitis, and is spending the holidays here, so we've invited her over, exact date to be determined.
In the meantime, however, I feel like a zombie. I don't know if it's the Clonazepam that's making me woozy, or the increased Neurontin, or the combination of both. Or maybe I'm just starting back down the path to depression again. I prefer the hypomania, even if it makes me crazy. It's better than being unable to function.
*beats head against wall*
I just want to FUNCTION, dammit! I don't want to have the emotional maturity of a three-year-old and be the intellectual equivalent of a rabbit on acid. I can't read anything except light fiction —it took me months to finish Moby Dick, and I've hit a stumbling block with Don Quixote and Proust. I just can't seem to summon the mental powers to actually read complex prose. The best I've been able to manage is C. J. Cherryh and Daniel Pennac, and while they're not quite trash, they're still not quite the intellectual summits I'm accustomed to being able to read.
It's really, really frustrating. Every single thing I do seems to take ten times more energy than it should. My days go by startlingly fast, because even the simplest action takes a great deal of time and concentration. So if I start doing the dishes at 10:00, instead of being done at 10:15 or 10:30, I'll look up and suddenly it'll be 11:00 or 11:30. *sigh*
I get distracted by the smallest things, forget what I was doing before, lose track of my thoughts. It's a miracle that I don't just sit down in a corner and burst into tears. I don't cry very much anymore. I think some part of me has stopped mourning the loss of everything I was before.
I'm no longer an "intellectual" the way my mother told me I was.
I'm no longer the "writer" I always wanted to be.
I'm no longer a "translator" since I have no work.
I'm no longer a "student" either, since I'm not at university.
I'm not much of anything, really. There's no label for me, or no label that I'd want to write down here in black and white.
On a completely random note, I've been making most of my past entries public. I've reached September 2003. Given that I started this LJ at the end of February 2002 and I've written 1,294 entries, this is going to take a while. I've made some of the early entries public too. Eventually, about 80% of my entries should be public. I'll also post a list of my filters once that's all done so that people can be on them if they want.
Okay, I think I'll end this post here before it dies a disjointed death. When I think that about two years ago I wrote a sixty-page paper on Samuel Taylor Coleridge and got a good grade for it... *sigh* Now I can't even put together a coherent LJ entry.
