and deep down i know this never works
but you can lay with me so it doesn't hurt- Sam Smith, Stay With Me
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Me: "You are the hero of the entire universe."
Catherine: "Thanks for keeping me humble, Christa."
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There are days where I let writing become lost on me.
Sometimes I write because it tempers me.
I've sat here in front of the blog entry screen before, multiple times. I've wanted to commemorate being visited by my childhood friends and my college companions. I've wanted to maybe even update you on the boy with the copper eyes -- which is nothing new, really. I've wanted to write about friends, about work, about bees, about the future, about all the pent-up thoughts and dreams and worries that I've had bubbling up in my head. Yet here I am again, waiting until it counts. Until I write because it tempers me.
Sometimes, writing here calms me down or lets me vent. It's an incredible illusion, but I've sought for the appearance of invincibility. I've had it my whole life. Everyone always laughs, "Christa has no such thing as a bad mood." I take enormous pride in my work, and putting my 100% into my work involves leaving my bad mood at home. I can't expect the people around me to give 100% if I can't. So I always do. Yesterday was a different day. Today was yet another.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, I've seen depression -- or these days rather, the cognitive symptoms of depression served à la carte -- get the best of me. I don't mention it ever (in fact, this is my first time ever admitting it anywhere, albeit cryptically), but I sometimes find myself missing my old poisons, my old haunts. Not even necessarily as an outlet of depression, but more like the way you miss an old friend without needing to pick up the phone. The way you miss the drag of a cigarette years after quitting. It may not necessarily be for any particular reason. But your fingers tingle, longing just for the sensation of a cigarette filter resting between them. In the same way, I feel it too.
When I miss these old "friends," I'm at the good fortune of finding myself at a better place in life. Letting go is much easier than it was a few years ago. In many ways. I have meditation, I have my friends, I have my critters -- although admittedly, much of this gets punctuated with alcohol lately (it strikes me as the lesser evil).
A sin that I've finally been able to quell in my new life -- my life after depression, one of self-esteem and confidence -- is my short-temper to what is seemingly failure. Whenever I was told I was a failure, I would decide, "I'll prove them right." If people critiqued me that I was bad at a task, I would deliberately bomb it as an act of self-fulfilling prophecy, just to prove them right. If I perceived people as thinking that I didn't deserve to be happy, I would punish myself and everyone around me. Just to prove them right. I let that spiral out of control. It was a cognitive deficiency that was growing to threaten my life.
That was the aspect of my depression that I needed to get rid of the most urgently. I've since grown past that world. Thankfully. I tried to touch that world again. I am getting away from it now. It was a haunting reminder that people don't ever really change. I thought it was gone, long gone. But clearly, it still rests inside me.
I think it is without a doubt that this all started with Deuce. I'd go into more detail, but those aren't details to disclose here. In earnest, this already is probably already too much. If I knew better, I'd never even whisper her name.
I'll miss her when I give her to my parents this weekend, but I'll visit her. I have the feeling that Deuce will ultimately end up being the catalyst for me to start talking to my parents more.
There's a lot I regret. I regret meeting Deuce. I regret first laying eyes on her and letting myself fall so instantly in love with her. The moment she sniffed my hand, I was done for. I regret things I've said, I regret things I've written, I regret things I've divulged. I regret many, so many of my recent actions. Somehow, getting Deuce unraveled this incredible chain of events that led to my posting here now. The list is heavy.
Yet, not for a second do I regret Deuce herself. For years, I've wanted a pet rat. A pet rat has honestly been my dream pet, and Deuce is everything I've ever wanted in a rat and more. She snuggles and cuddles and loves sunflower seeds. She squeaks when she wants me to pet her, and she'll get on her hind legs when she wants me to pick her up. And for a week, I get to call her mine. There is so little time that I get to call her "my rat," but nonetheless, I am so incredibly thankful for her.
She's absolutely wonderful, and I love her so much. Even though she started most of this, she's also the best thing about this (although not to neglect all the people that have been supporting me through this whole ordeal -- thank you). I can honestly bitch and whine all day about all the things that have gone wrong lately, but why? Instead, know at least one thing that's gone so very right.
That's Deuce.
