If I have learned one thing it’s that we do not get what we want when our objectives are ill-defined. I have found that good luck boils down to having a sense of purpose, to be committed fully to a specific goal or outcome. I have had instances of outrageously goodluck. The kind of goodluck that makes aliens as obvious as pigeons and in every one of those instances I have had a very clearly articulated wish. I want a house. I want a yard for Isadora. A place for Sam to woodwork. I want a yoga room haha The other day Sam and I looked at a house. This is the first house the bank has agreed to fund us on.
The house was not in good condition. In the photos they neglected to show the basement. Even before I stepped foot in the basement I could smell the mold. Once inside there was actually white mold growing on the ceiling! In North Carolina the humid climate makes mold somewhat unavoidable (there has to be a limit though!) but Sweden has a much dryer climate. I rarely even see mold and certainly nothing as heinous as what I saw in that basement. Sam is very handy so he can fix most things. We also have access to a lot of tools, his dad has everything conceivable. What we don’t have is an inexhaustible money tree. If anyone has such a tree and would be willing to send us a few seeds please let me know!
My nose tells me the mold situation is very severe that it’s not just stripping the basement and sticking in a dehumidifier. My nose tells me that it might have gotten into the first floor as well. On top of that they are trying to sell the house super fast and they’ve falsified some of the information. It looks suspect as hell. So we’ve decide it’s a no go on the fungal cloud house. We’ve found another house in that town which seems to be in our range (even a photo of the basement area). I will hopefully take a tour on April 23, a day after my 14 year anniversary (hope that makes it lucky). I really like the house from what I have seen so far. Just to have an opportunity feels good because for awhile there just didn’t seem to be any hope at all. I realize that any house we buy will need a lot of work but that there even exists options at all is a step up from the abyss.
If only I liked to write beautiful things,
Then I could be forgiven inadequacy.
Words that expose paradigm over truth
If I possessed such a vocabulary
Then perhaps even I could be loved
I doubt I will ever know a reception
That does not come with an equal
Or greater measure of resistance.
I am green like death.
The possibilities of death,
How they tempt me
In these dark hours
I do not think I will change,
At least not in the direction
Of my endeavors.
I might sprout horns
Or a forked tongue.
I might become translucent
But I won’t become significant.
I am not even profitable
As a deviation.
The other freaks
Are more interesting than I
With far mightier pens.
I don’t think I can accept myself,
These selves, which are almost
But never quite authentic.
If I can not manage one or the other
(the one which keeps me alive)
Will not welcome me home
I think from this poem my mental state is somewhat obvious. I think it is a combination of factors that has sent me spiraling.
Watching the movie The Hours I have never read anything about Virginia Woolf to be honest how I managed it I am not certain but it is not a good fit for someone so severely depressed as myself. Or it is a good fit I guess but a terrible influence.
Reading more about Sylvia Plath’s life, hearing her recordings. So many poets committing suicide and it has forced me to recognize my own instability.
The death of a local cat whom I snuggle with though she was not my personal cat she greeted me with enthusiasm when I saw her on streets and I haven’t any pets of my own so she was like a surrogate. It feels like my only friend died, how to explain that but I am not talking to anyone in real life except my immediate family. It is quite easy to love animals as you know.
The decline in my popularity? people pulling away, breaking promises, all the lost friendships
I am working on a project which is difficult for me. Frieda Hughes (Plath) had written a book where she wrote a poem for each year of her life and I thought it was quite an interesting idea. So I decided to give it a go. My early life is depressing to say the least. I was trying to remember times of happiness and celebration in my early life. I thought well no matter how shitty it might have been I am certain to have some good memories. I could think of good memories with grandmother and cousins. With my mom but never with my dad no matter who was in accompaniment. Early on I didn’t have many good memories with my mom either as time went on there were more but in the beginning it was difficult and painful. She didn’t just not want me, she actually wanted me dead. I am trying to process so much right now and very little of it is easy to digest.
There is still the worries about the house. I want to buy a house. This is quite difficult to explain. I realize the level of failure if a house does not work may well destroy my life but an apartment I feel is settling, is dream-less, and incarcerating. I can only say this has to do with a sense of belonging not possessing but belonging. In an apartment Sam may well give up wood-working he’s given up so much to accommodate my neuroses already I just can’t let him give up more. For myself too I want to be able to go outside and wonder about, nature brings me a joy and a peace I don’t have the internal means to replicate. Sam is worried I will get lonely in the country and may be I will but I have no friends in the city and I hate entertaining guests in cramped apartments. I actually prefer to be with people outside. Sam insists I am very social but deny myself human interaction and that it is making miserable. I can’t say for certain how social I am, I know I am more social than I allow but not the precise degree. Unfortunately I have an intense fear of abandonment and look to others for validation and this is why I don’t allow myself friends (aside from being too weird to make them). I do not think I am genuine enough in social situations. I sometimes play the clown. I do not like the drama. I do not like me.
I am worried about my inability to understand others when they are speaking to me. I cannot seem to open up properly. Even though not talking is killing me and poisoning my relationships I get so frustrated when I try to talk and it is just side-stepping gibberish. I cannot say what I mean and it is driving me absolutely insane.
On and on it goes.