journal entry

December 31, 2008

My feet are cold. It's an easily remedied problem; I just need to get off my butt, got to my bedroom and get a pair of socks. But no, I'm camped out on the sofa with my chilly feet propped up on the cushions with a laptop keeping my thighs warm.

I'm a lethargic slug. No wonder I weigh as much as I do.

Not only are my feet cold, but they're ugly. I can see my toes peeking above the laptop monitor. I seriously need to soak and buff my feet. Dry and ugly they are. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow after walking around downtown in the afternoon. I'm due for a long relaxing soak in the tub.

I had the dream again last night.

The long hallway lined with portraits, the wall fixtures with their flickering flames of gas with little light being cast. I carry a candelabra and walk slowly. The weight of my skirts feels unnatural. I have to lift the front a little to make moving easier.

I pause at each door along the hall and try the handle. As I find each door locked my anxiety is heightened. Glancing over my shoulder I know I'm being followed, but I can't see very far down the hall.

Sometimes I think I see movement in the portraits. Out of the corner of my eye I'll catch a shift of something. I'm tempted to look, but too afraid to stop and look at a painting closely. What if the movement is true?

Nor is there much time. I'm certain whatever is following me is getting closer.

As my anxiety grows, I move faster down the hall. I stop checking doors and focus on running away. I drop the candelabra, hoist up my skirts and flee. I flee from a faceless horror.

As usual, I wake when in the dream I stumble. Last night my dream-self caught a foot on a carpet and fell face down in the hall. I lay there panicking, convinced my pursuer was hovering over my prone form. I woke in a cold sweat, splayed in in my bed in the same position as I was in the dream.

I'm sure my dream is filled with symbols of my personal fears. Blah, blah, blah... I just wish it didn't wake me up every other night.

Here we are on the eve of a new year. At my therapist's prodding I started this journal. Have I seen any improvement in my insomnia? Not really. Have I been able to open up to strangers better? Not really. Have I started any sort of weight loss plan? No. So what the hell do I get out of this? I had hoped that by now there would be change for the better, that I could usher in a new year with a new lease on life.

Maybe there is change. I'm certainly more comfortable sharing my inner demons with Dr. Sheridan. He's kindly and gentle, with a voice of reason I admire. I cry less and consider more. Sure, I'm still an anti-social lethargic slug, but at least I'm reading and learning more than I had. I'm not just sitting and doing nothing; I'm using my mind.

Tonight I visit with Leslie and Mark. We'll ring in a quiet new year in their cluttered apartment, toasting the ball drop with champagne and cigarettes. No, maybe smoking is not the best thing for someone with mild asthma. But it's the New Year! I think it will be okay for me to light one up just for tonight.

I'm sacking out on their sofa, and in the morning we're heading into the city for the parade. I need to remember to wear my comfortable shoes. It's certain to be a madhouse downtown, I'm beginning to get a little worried about the crowds. It will be good for me. I repeat, it will be good for me.

(See that up there? That is an attempt at positive thought. Dr. Sheridan would be proud.)

I haven't seen Leslie and Mark since the funeral. God, that was in May. Seven months have passed in the blink of an eye but at the same time it feels like forever. We're certain to spend some time reminiscing about the old days. I need to try not to drink too much. I don't want to fall into a spiral of tears. A new year should be met with a smile.

I miss you Natalia, we all do.