Sitting here at uni trying to feel less hatred for my abject lack of productivity for the past 4 hours. I've managed to go over some readings and half spellcheck the summary of some book and check my email and facebook about 3 times and eat a whole heap of sugary stuff and have a micro sleep on my desk and drink a pot of coffee and.....
I had 3 days of quality doona time, on the tim-tam meal replacement diet, unable to get the motivation to clear away the clutter of clothes and books and papers that were accumulating around my bed - actually around my body that was confined to my bed while I popped pills, passed out, gorged on books, gorged on chocolate, getting up occasionally to piss. Bribing myself with chocolate in order to force myself out to do basic things, post a letter, pick up some scripts.
Then when I woke up with a dark brown smear over my back and across my pale green sheets, I decided I had to act. fortunately it wasn't shit - just a bit of chocolate that i'd rolled over in my sleep. (really! I promise!)
So I washed my sheets, dragged myself out to yoga and back to bed for another 12 hour slumber. today - I got up, meditated, showered, cleaned and vacuumed my room. Forced myself to walk to uni wiht the promise of 4 tim tams when I got here. I havne't been able to work. Just survive. Just subsist.
Maybe I should have let myself scream hysterically at my friend's funeral instead of quietly self medicating into this slow fug of gloom. Maybe life is just a bit shit right now.
a comment from the cane toad beneath my last post - only added to my dissonant relationship with reality. Last week I somehow replied some sort of light polite response to an email from Abel's mum - who's visiting the compound in 2 weeks.... saying 'yes, I'm in the last few months of the PhD, yes i've been a bit down because a close friend died'... not "your drunken daughter and that vile cane toad she wrecked our relationship for have driven me stark raving bonkers" because it didn't seem *polite*.
Maybe I'm more english than I thought?
Maybe not. I sent some replica turds in the mail to my favourite blighty boys - and have heard nothing since. I thought they'd *like* a festy missive.....
I can see now how academics become complete aspergery freaks.
Bright young thing enrolls in PhD
Life randomly falls apart around their ears. Friends die, go mad or turn turdish
Primary relationships turn turdish
Bright young thing starts hiding at uni, burrowing themselves in obscure theory
Bright young thing decides world is completely scary
Bright young thing loses all contact wiht reality and loses basic social skills from lack of practice
Bright young thing eventually becomes a freak and gets awarded a doctorate.
the last time my life decided to become so intensely shit - I decided that acutally there was a god and I was being punished for sodomy. At risk of making the readers of this blog puke with TMI (helll when has that ever stopped me in the past?) I will now admit that I have been playing wiht pooholes this year - and now fully accept the consequences - and will try to refrain in the future - If I get through the present.
Mar 4: Reading for Migrant Spring
1 month ago
3 comments:
Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak
whispers to the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.
Macbeth, Act IV, Scene 3
Well, everyone can master grief but he that has it
Much Ado About Nothing, Act III, Scene 2
Shakespeare
Roseanne Cash
God is in the roses
the petals and the thorns
storms out on the oceans
the souls who will be born
and every drop of rain that falls
falls for those who mourn
God is in the roses
and the thorns
The sun is on the cemetery
leaves are on the stones
there never was a place on earth
that felt so much like home
we're falling like the velvet petals
we're bleeding and we're torn
but God is in the roses
and the thorns
I love you like a brother
a father and a son
it may not last forever
but it never will be done
my whole world fits inside the moment
I saw you be re-born
God is in the roses
and that day was filled with roses
God is in the roses
and the thorns
from the album ‘Black Cadillac’
In memory of June Carter Cash, John R. Cash and Vivian Liberto Cash Distin.
I don't mean to leave anonymous comments, I just have serious trouble remembering passwords,
Namaste, Carolyn.
It is 5:13am and I have been at Uni all night trying to make some sense, and dare I imagine, a CONCLUSION for this bloody book chapter. It seemed like such a simple task. 7 hours later I have blogged, cried, slept on the couch, said hi to the cleaner, pondered why the heck i am studying lactation whilst being deliberately barren, and wondered why all of a sudden I am thinking of marriage and babies (like, almost desiring). If not for my appalling lack of comprehension of or appreciation for theory, I would be you aspergy phd candidate. Sometimes everything out there is just too scary.
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