For example, I'd planned to get online around 3:00 am this morning and stay up all night. I'd planned to have several stiff drinks and maybe write for a while. I'd planned to make stew.

The stew is now working its way to boiling on the stove, carrots added - once it's boiling I can shove the lid back on and forget it for a few MORE hours. I know there's shit what goes into stew that I'm forgetting; I also know potatoes are traditional but so far have been too lazy to even cut up the three I have, let alone PEEL them.

Other things on my mind.

Custom is playing again and I'm realizing that really, if I'd just stop listening to them and about six other bands/artists, my mood would be much more stable... consistantly suicidal, yes, but at least it'd be nice and predictable. That's a good thing, right?

Haven't heard back from Rhett after I sent the twofer - he wrote something and since I had two pretty much exact opposite views on how to respond... I wrote both. Hoping he doesn't just take one as true, and that he figures out that since they are such drastic opposites, such extremes, that odds are good just about everything in between got felt too but there was a limit to how many damned letters I was gonna write... damn. Stew boiling over.

Back in a sec.

Damn, it smells good... right now it's all broth, meat, and uncooked carrots. I put in a bit of flour mixed well with water - I'm hoping that thickens it up. Damn. What goes into stew again? *sheepish* This is why I stick to cooking stirfries and grilled hunks of meat: I know what I'm doing with 'em. It's rarely complicated and usually good.

Maybe it's just this whole 'morning' thing... but I would have sworn stew wasn't supposed to be complicated.

*sighs, curls up*

I've been trying to keep myself OUT of the surprisingly deep depression that is lurking just a few feet (or the wrong song) away... I will NOT be going to see anyone. Not Caleb. Not Kadin. Not Rhett. Not Torian. Not Nick. Not anyone. I've got a zillion and three doctor's appointments, plus Pain Management, plus the naturopath's appointments, plus I need to go actually meet in person with an OHP person, plus I need to talk to my kaiser case worker, plus... have I mentioned I HATE this?

Loaned Scott some cash he needed. Got some more alcohol... I've been drinking a LOT the last few days, it takes the edge off the depression and helps me sleep... and disgusts me. I don't wanna be a drunk. I don't wanna be a lush. I don't wanna turn into a barfly ten years down the road.

I just want to feel like life is worth living.

Sometimes, when I'm talking with Caleb or Kadin on the phone, when I'm playing with one of my online pets, when I'm listening to music and just a bit tipsy and know I've got an hour before anyone interrupts me... I can at least tolerate life then.

But let me tell you, I don't care how it looks from the outside, internally my life is crumbling so damned fast it's not funny. I'm falling apart; they keep running tests and the results are 'normal'.

Great.

A large chunk of my life I've been afraid that all of this, all the pain, all the sickness, that it's just in my head. That it's my imagination. That I'm nothing more than a hypochondriac. I've always worried, always wondered... and now, test after test coming in normal and ok and good, I'm wondering if I actually lost it. Crazy. That's why I'm sick - it IS all in my head, isn't it?

But at the same time I know it's not. I mean, they've gotten PROOF of the bladder infections, the kidney stones, or they wouldn't have given me the medication I've got. They've had proof of the sinus infections, the heavy periods. If it's all in my mind, I have one hell of an impressive mind.

Can't help worrying and wondering and waiting, though... waiting for the doctor to so-politely direct me to a psychiatrist or psychologist. You're crazy, Jax. Sick little fucker, go get yourself some mental help, don't come back and bother us until you're sane, until you're a normal member of society. Oh, and loose some weight and stop sleeping around in the process. Doesn't matter if your body likes this weight, or you do. Doesn't matter you're STD-free, horny, bored, cautious, safe, whatever. Doesn't matter. YOU don't matter. Fuck off.

Yeah, welcome to 'the irritating little track in the back of my head that I'm just waiting for reality to start singing along with'.

"Complicated" by Avril someone-or-other is playing now... the introduction, spoken, is "'cause life's like this... uh-huh, uh-huh... that's the way it is". Sad, damned sad, and apparently true. Nothing changes. Nothing gets better. Every time I think something good is happening, BOOM. Witness my apparent inability to get my arse down to California, up to Canada, or across the water to England or Israel.

Life's like this:
You fall
and you crawl
and you break
and you take
what you get
and you turn it into
honesty
promise me
I'm never gonna find you faking...

*shrugs* Problem being, maybe I AM faking... gods, but I hate self-doubt. It does me no good and all kinds of bad. Maybe I'll have another drink.