Corner of Bourbon & Division

Funny how a bout of insomnia can screw up the best-laid plans. Gah.

So here's how last night went:

Me: "Oh, look. 11:30. I should go to bed." *proceeds to do so*

Brain: "HEY! WAKE UP! I'M NOT DONE YET!"

Body: "Shut up. Sleeping." *keeps eyes closed*

Brain: "NO YOU'RE NOT! I'M AWAKE, WHICH MEANS YOU'RE AWAKE! YAY!"

Body: "Shut up. Sleeping." *keeps eyes closed*

Brain: "YOU CAN'T FOOL ME! I KNOW YOU'RE AWAKE! C'MON!"

Body: "Shut up. Sleeping." *keeps eyes closed*

Brain: "HEY! DON'T IGNORE ME! I HAVE IMPORTANT THINGS TO SAY! WAKE UP!"

Body: "Can't hear you. Shut up. Trying to sleep."

Brain: "WAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUP!"

Body: "Can't hear you! La la la la!" *sticks fingers in ears*


Etc. It was really weird. I wasn't sleeping, but I couldn't get my body to do anything except lie there with my eyes closed. I've never had that happen before. I think I got to sleep a little past 3am, but I'm not sure. Now I have a blinding headache and no energy to do anything except drag my sorry self around the apartment a bit.

*sigh*

Meh.

Instead, I'm going to wibble in my LiveJournal for a minute. I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but haven't really been at the computer enough to do so properly. So now I'm going to put off going to bed for a few minutes and just get it over with.

Mostly I'm caught between annoyed with myself and... some other undefined emotion that I haven't figured out yet. Mostly it's the broken arm that's thrown me off-balance, literally and figuratively. It's the figurative part that's more frustrating, though.

I may not come off that way, but I very much like being independent. I like being able to do stuff for myself, and more importantly to be there for others. Being sick, or worse, being injured, brings out the worst in me. I am a terrible, terrible patient. I was brought up by parents who were of the "walk it off" mindset when it came to themselves (never when I was sick, I hasten to add).

I ignore illness. I cure myself by pretending I'm not sick, until it's entirely unavoidable. When I do finally admit defeat, my first instinct is to go crawl into the deepest, darkest hole that I can find until it's all over.

So, breaking my arm basically screwed me over. Suddenly I couldn't do stuff for myself anymore. In the beginning, I couldn't walk or dress or even take a damned bath without pain. And so, characteristically, I got annoyed with myself. I was, and in many ways still am, a walking ball of frustration. The broken record in my head told me that I was, in reality, just making this all up. It couldn't possibly be as bad as I was making out. It didn't matter that I could only walk a few yards at a time before having to stop and wait for my arm to stop seizing up: I was a hypochondriac, I was malingering, I would be fine if I just stopped making a fuss about this.

It's getting worse as my arm gets better. I still can't do anything that involves putting pressure on the arm. Lifting anything heavier than my coat is off-limits (even the coat is kinda iffy), but the broken record is still playing. It doesn't hurt all the time anymore, therefore you must be fine. Quit whining and just get on with it. The fact that it's been a little over two weeks doesn't seem to be a deterrent, either. It just makes me more impatient, as though somehow two weeks was the magical limit, after which the broken arm should have spontaneously healed so that one could never tell that it was injured to begin with.

There's no actual point to this post. My rational brain is losing the argument with my irrational side, is the long and the short of it. I'm frustrated with myself, and I feel as though I'm letting everyone down because I can't do everything I was doing before.

Patently untrue, but the feeling remains.

:::sparked by a comment I made to luvenditti:::

Ever have a problem shutting up?

I don't mean when you're talking at length and intelligently on a topic that may or may not interest your listeners. That happens to most people at any given time. All the other person can do at that point is roll their eyes (inwardly, anyway) and wait for you to finish if they don't give a rat's ass about your topic.

I'm talking about the kind of non-stop babbling that makes your listeners wonder what the fuck you've been smoking. The kind of situation in which you can hear yourself talking and cringe at what's coming out of your mouth, and yet instead of sensibly shutting your mouth and salvaging what's left of the situation, you keep talking, and there's nothing you can do about it.

There's nothing quite as awful as sitting there and listening to your mouth continue to talk, and all you can think is: "Oh God, oh God, shut up. Please shut up. Stop talking. Can you hear yourself? Stop. Stop now. Stop while you still have some shreds of dignity left. You can still salvage this if you stop talking. Shut up. Please please please shut up. Oh God, I can't believe you just said that. For the love of all that's good and holy, shut UP!"

This happens to me all the freaking time. I also happen to have a freakishly good memory, and that means I can remember all the hideously embarassing things that have come out of my mouth in the past twenty-three years or so that have passed since I learned to form complete sentences and interact with others.

I think part of it has to do with the fact that I didn't talk much until I was in my late teens and early twenties, and thus never really learned how to censor what comes out of my mouth. It was either be silent or else talk the other person's ear off. No middle ground.

It can't be only that, though. I know a few people who have the same problem, and they certainly weren't wallflowers when they were in high school. So I have no real explanation for what it might be.

The net result, though, is that I've spent most of my life with the uncomfortable feeling that most people view me as a complete nitwit with no self-control whatsoever. Or at the very least a little weird and creepy.

It's like they say: You can dress her up, but you can't take her out.

There was a twenty-minute argument in my head this morning. It went something like this:

"It's 7:00. You're late. Get up."

"No. I feel like crap. I don't want to."

"You're going to be late. Get up."

"I'm going to call in sick."

"No, you're not. Get up."

"Yes, I am. I'm staying in bed, where at least it's comfortable, even if I'm miserable."

"No, you're not. You have to go to work. Get up."

"No."

"Yes. You have responsibilities, bills to pay, cats to feed. Get up."

"No."

"Yes. Get up get up getupgetupgetup GET UP!"

"Oh, God, fine. Anything to make you shut up."

"Bwah."


I'm beginning to think the wrong voice won the argument.