I have, oddly enough, more problems with cows falling off the bed on my left side rather than my right. I suspect it has something to do with the setup of the bedroom (window is on my right, and safer than my left, which is near the door).
Anyways, I’ve found that with LRC on my right side, she doesn’t roll off. Cozy Cow’s Pillow Form is less liable to roll off, so ze did much better on my left. Overcow stayed in my arms and Ike, as always, stays on the wedge. Although I may have to draft him into army duty alongside Overcow soon.
It’s an improvement, I suppose. Instead of a nightmare about my parents, or one of my blockbuster movie nightmares ((I really hate the ones that descend into the horror genre, especially the slashers. So cliché that I’m concerned about my imagination, I really am. And the sequels are all bad.)), I had a dream about what I now think of as “The Years of Zorn and Tharn.”
People who are fans of Watership Down know about zorn and tharn. ((Here’s the full Lapine Glossary.)) Zorn refers to mass destruction and catastrophe; tharn means “to be petrified with fear.”
Those are a great description for the time between cutting off relations with my parents and finding a new direction for my life. Yes. Years.
I was in an old hotel room. It was a crappy hotel room, circa the time when I was desperately seeking a job (and getting turned down all the fucking time…). There’s the fear of not knowing if your parents have tracked you down and are going to kill you the next day, and the fear of not knowing how you’ll survive if you have no money left. When you’re staring at both barrels and you know that there’s live ammunition in it.
It’s the aching loneliness, too. To know that you can’t trust anyone—because betrayal is too easy for friends to commit, especially if they are ignorant of the depth of the abuse and… some of them didn’t think it happened and that it was all in my head, because they couldn’t conceive of abusive parents existing outside of fiction. Strangers can be just as bad, and your random good Samaritan even worse. Private detectives are a world of bad.
This is the kind of time when you wonder if you should go look up the local train schedule so you can end it all.
And yet, you don’t, and the years become a kind of constant, nightmare torment, not because you believe there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, but because you’re the kind of person who would go out in the night fighting.
Oh, and of course, throughout all this, you aren’t getting treatment for your bipolar (which you don’t know that you have) or your PTSD (which you also don’t know that you have).
“The Years of Zorn and Tharn”… I never wanted to relive them again. But apparently the GM who runs the IRL RPG campaign that I can never escape has decided that, if I can’t be gotten at through nightmares due to the barrier of cows, that I will be gotten at through dreams that cut out the middleman of fear and simply directly eat my soul.
If you don’t know about spoons, please read this. Especially if the following paragraphs make you giggle. Because they sure as fuck don’t make me giggle.
At first I thought I had more, and now I realize that I am down to just three. At best. And it’s not even noon here yet. The doctor’s office—not the bartender or candyman, but my physician—ended up killing two spoons alone through a two-hour wait period in a claustrophobic sterile room after I arrived on time; the screaming in my head took most of the rest; and one careless reply tweet from someone destroyed a spoon. ONE TWEET DESTROYED A SPOON. Oh my fucking gods.
(It makes sense. My spoons are not physical spoons, they are mental spoons. It’s kind of like how if you’re a fighter, Drain Mana will probably not do anything to you, but if you’re of a spellcasting class….)
On the other hand, having counted my spoons, I then realized that going into work would be a bad idea. It would end up being one of those days at work where I destroy the productivity of the rest of the team by falling to pieces in the middle of one of our meetings. Those days happen, I realize now, because I don’t count my spoons as they get eaten by the machine of my PTSD.
So here I am, not at work, and killing a spoon through blogging, because I am stupid that way.
I’m going to go hold the LRC for a while. I need epic hugs.