I got such a kick out of writing the badfic summary challenge. I thought I had a charge of propulsive energy for that which would carry me through the weekend, but as it turns out not so. I had one of those weekends where I don't feel so much a need for sleep as an unwanted sleeping sickness--an inability to shut off the sleep function. I slept Friday and Saturday and most of today away, and now I'm headachey, unhappy, and covered in unattractive sheet creases. I woke up from what was more or less a coma earlier and stared at myself blurrily in the mirror--grey growing out in my hair in its inevitable skunky streak, body lax after tired gymless months, face ageing, and I could barely stand to look at myself. So many wasted hours, life unfed until it became limp and lifeless.
I had bad nightmares last night--the kind where, in the dream, I kept thinking I was trying to make myself wake and get out of bed, and every time the gesture was just a dream gesture, and I was still asleep, and growing more and more confused and tangled and sticky and lost. Finally woke and turned on the light, and got up for a bit, then fell asleep again. Strange dreams followed. Something with a naked honor guard and a Cinderella myth, and my teeth breaking in my mouth, and losing diamonds from my shoes. This morning just before I awoke I attended a Hollywood AA meeting with Kiefer Sutherland and Steve Martin. I talked about myself and people seemed to welcome what I had to say. But the building had terrible bathrooms. Later the whole thing turned into flight, with a pitstop to try and save a mouse from mortal staple wounds, and more flight. I was a Nikita-like, Sydney-like assassin-spy. Very impressive really. But bleak.
I had more Rodney-as-alien story in me, but it may be gone now. I want to write some stuff for people, but it's not coming. I feel constantly like a failure lately for all the feedback I haven't left, stories I haven't recced and given their due, comments I haven't answered. Fandom isn't fun like that, but it also doesn't feel quite as fulfilling when I just consume people's things and not express my gratitude for them.
All this wasted life and failure makes me cry, and the weather here continues to be grey and rainy, and every day's another day of avoiding the gym, or being too tired and spent to drag myself there, knowing it's making things worse; and wondering if I'm getting the right combo of meds. Worrying that parts of me are just hanging on by threads and I won't notice until they break.
But I went shopping for food yesterday, and maybe I'll actually eat the broccoli and some of the fruit. And just now I got myself out of the apartment and down to the cafe, and I'm eating a salad with chicken and maybe listening to Ben Folds and Thea Gilmore will energize me a bit. And I took an Adderall, hoping to get out of this bleak pit for a few hours. My BP has been pretty good the last few times I checked, so it'll just have to deal with this.
And I'm just going to say that I read spike21's latest Rodney/Ronon story and loved it so very much--it's the story for them I've been waiting for in this fandom. I don't know how I can want so much for fictional characters to be happy when I don't invest that much energy in other people's happiness. I think this makes me less evolved as a human being, and I'm doubtful I'll get a reincarnated chance to move beyond that. But some days it's all I have. I just don't want to get to the last day of my life and find out it's just been part of the wasted time. I probably will, though.
I've just about reached my ninth month of not drinking, but days like this it doesn't feel like it. I'm going to hang on to this and what else I've got, though. And try to get work done at the office tomorrow, and to put more bills on autopay this month so that I don't fall behind again. And go to therapy next week. And I'll see what else, I guess.