blarg (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
napoleonherself) wrote2007-01-28 10:18 am
napoleonherself) wrote2007-01-28 10:18 am
Entry tags:
Backlog: Day-To-Day.
This one is going to be the hardest to write because it requires me to feel.
First of all, mecha. The results of one of his medical tests came back and said that, basically, the thing that was wrong with him for so long is now all better. We pretty much know what it was, why it was getting worse over time, though not why it started in the first place. He is still weakened and illish, but he is officially recovering.
Pity we don't get to be gallbladderless buddies, but then, at least he gets to avoid surgery this way.
I'm feeling relatively on top of school, at least so far. Of course, that may just be because as of yet I have had little in the way of assignments and no tests. The test that I expect to be awful is coming up Wednesday, and I guess then there will be either a shaky sense of "okay that is not so bad", or tears and terror. The professor told us that the usual score on his tests tends to be in the 60s, and that he curves "some but not that much". This is potentially worrying depending on whether he's talking about the mode or the mean. All I can really do for now is slog through the horrifically dry textbook and do my best to memorize the couple of hundred definitions of very similar-sounding terms, many of which are actually circular (such as the definition of "information system" starting out as "an information system that[...]").
Huh. That's lovely, that class's website has apparently decided that I am not allowed to log in anymore. Well, that's okay, there certainly haven't been enough things going wrong in my life lately. Let's have some more! Big problems, small problems, it doesn't matter, apparently, as long as I'm suffering.
Which of course leads into the part that will probably make me cry to actually have to think about it enough to type it. I keep throwing myself into various things -- homework and grocery shopping and watching TV and reading and playing games and whatever else -- just to try not to hurt too much, but then every time I let my guard down it's like being punched in the metaphorical stomach all over again. Mornings have been the worst the last few days. I wake up, my brain shifts from whatever I was dreaming to reality, and it hits me all at once -- Chris is dead and I'm alone. I spent the last two years putting our future on hold and now it's lost forever. I will never, ever see him again. It makes me wish I was dead too, so then I have to get up and do something to distract myself.
Despite always expecting that I would be unhappy for my entire life, I nevertheless used to allow myself to hope that someday things would be different when we were together. But no, my first thought on the subject was right. If something makes me genuinely happy, it might as well have a self-destruct timer on it, counting down from about twelve. I don't know why it has to be this way, but I guess I probably deserve it for something. I am a pretty rotten excuse for a human being. Hell, the man I supposedly cared about was in the ground almost a month by the time I bothered to find out what happened to him. What kind of subhuman shit do you have to be to let it go that long? This kind, I guess.
As I go through this whole process, I keep having one thought at a time gain prominence over the rest and drive me mad for a while before another takes its place. Right now what is driving me mad is the thought of him being in the ground. Rotting. All the things about him that I loved, his sense of humor and his way with words and his thoughts and opinions and his entire worldview, a whole wonderful universe that lived in his skull, and now it's just meat. Just rotting meat. The rest of him is there along with his brain, of course, but as much as I did find him physically attractive, I was kind of used to a lack of physical contact. We lived many hundreds of miles apart and were both way too poor to even THINK about another visit any time soon. But for about six years, conversations with Chris were a pretty-much-daily part of my life. We basically had an entire language of injokes and references and words that meant something different to us than they did to the rest of the world. We thought alike enough to get along well, but at the same time differently enough that it was fun just to talk about things and get a little window into his brain and see what it was like in there. And now that's all gone. I used to think about how there were so many things about him that I still didn't know, and then I'd feel happy about how nice it would be to spend all our lives learning about those things. Except no, actually, I never will know. It's all gone now. Meat. Rotting meat.
Unless, of course, consciousness exists beyond the physical brain, and so on and so forth. But hey, if nothing else, that would give me some hope of someday being with him again in some form, which means obviously it cannot be because NO HAPPINESS FOR JENNY EVER
I hate this, I really do. Especially since I know that even if and when I do get "better" from this, I'll still never be really healed. Glue a broken glass back together, and it'll still never actually be back to where it was. It's permafucked. So'm I.
Woo.
First of all, mecha. The results of one of his medical tests came back and said that, basically, the thing that was wrong with him for so long is now all better. We pretty much know what it was, why it was getting worse over time, though not why it started in the first place. He is still weakened and illish, but he is officially recovering.
Pity we don't get to be gallbladderless buddies, but then, at least he gets to avoid surgery this way.
I'm feeling relatively on top of school, at least so far. Of course, that may just be because as of yet I have had little in the way of assignments and no tests. The test that I expect to be awful is coming up Wednesday, and I guess then there will be either a shaky sense of "okay that is not so bad", or tears and terror. The professor told us that the usual score on his tests tends to be in the 60s, and that he curves "some but not that much". This is potentially worrying depending on whether he's talking about the mode or the mean. All I can really do for now is slog through the horrifically dry textbook and do my best to memorize the couple of hundred definitions of very similar-sounding terms, many of which are actually circular (such as the definition of "information system" starting out as "an information system that[...]").
Huh. That's lovely, that class's website has apparently decided that I am not allowed to log in anymore. Well, that's okay, there certainly haven't been enough things going wrong in my life lately. Let's have some more! Big problems, small problems, it doesn't matter, apparently, as long as I'm suffering.
Which of course leads into the part that will probably make me cry to actually have to think about it enough to type it. I keep throwing myself into various things -- homework and grocery shopping and watching TV and reading and playing games and whatever else -- just to try not to hurt too much, but then every time I let my guard down it's like being punched in the metaphorical stomach all over again. Mornings have been the worst the last few days. I wake up, my brain shifts from whatever I was dreaming to reality, and it hits me all at once -- Chris is dead and I'm alone. I spent the last two years putting our future on hold and now it's lost forever. I will never, ever see him again. It makes me wish I was dead too, so then I have to get up and do something to distract myself.
Despite always expecting that I would be unhappy for my entire life, I nevertheless used to allow myself to hope that someday things would be different when we were together. But no, my first thought on the subject was right. If something makes me genuinely happy, it might as well have a self-destruct timer on it, counting down from about twelve. I don't know why it has to be this way, but I guess I probably deserve it for something. I am a pretty rotten excuse for a human being. Hell, the man I supposedly cared about was in the ground almost a month by the time I bothered to find out what happened to him. What kind of subhuman shit do you have to be to let it go that long? This kind, I guess.
As I go through this whole process, I keep having one thought at a time gain prominence over the rest and drive me mad for a while before another takes its place. Right now what is driving me mad is the thought of him being in the ground. Rotting. All the things about him that I loved, his sense of humor and his way with words and his thoughts and opinions and his entire worldview, a whole wonderful universe that lived in his skull, and now it's just meat. Just rotting meat. The rest of him is there along with his brain, of course, but as much as I did find him physically attractive, I was kind of used to a lack of physical contact. We lived many hundreds of miles apart and were both way too poor to even THINK about another visit any time soon. But for about six years, conversations with Chris were a pretty-much-daily part of my life. We basically had an entire language of injokes and references and words that meant something different to us than they did to the rest of the world. We thought alike enough to get along well, but at the same time differently enough that it was fun just to talk about things and get a little window into his brain and see what it was like in there. And now that's all gone. I used to think about how there were so many things about him that I still didn't know, and then I'd feel happy about how nice it would be to spend all our lives learning about those things. Except no, actually, I never will know. It's all gone now. Meat. Rotting meat.
Unless, of course, consciousness exists beyond the physical brain, and so on and so forth. But hey, if nothing else, that would give me some hope of someday being with him again in some form, which means obviously it cannot be because NO HAPPINESS FOR JENNY EVER
I hate this, I really do. Especially since I know that even if and when I do get "better" from this, I'll still never be really healed. Glue a broken glass back together, and it'll still never actually be back to where it was. It's permafucked. So'm I.
Woo.