I have absolutely zero clue what the fuck I’m doing. For all of the time I spend telling everyone else that “it’s all going to be okay”, I’m panicking on the inside. I know what I want. Whether I’m going to get it is an insane fucking mystery. I don’t even know where to start. The last time I tried putting one foot in front of the other, I fell down the stairs. “It’s normal to experience some confusion.” That’s what they tell you when you hit your head. 6-8 weeks, they say. Somehow, I have a feeling it will go on for a lot longer than that.
Signs and symptoms of a concussion may include: Some symptoms of concussions may be immediate or delayed in onset by hours or days after injury:
Signs and symptoms of a concussion may include:
Some symptoms of concussions may be immediate or delayed in onset by hours or days after injury:
Has a pretty righteous ring to it.
It’s funny the things that being sequestered with a post-op toddler for five days will cause you to ruminate on. And it’s even funnier the things that come spilling out with a simple suggestion and an hour to kill. It makes sense. The whole thing started with a decision to be myself again. And there really isn’t a whole lot more to me than great hair and a predilection toward verbosity.
I was asked the other night what I was writing. So I shared. The character in question responded with: “So you’re writing about us.” Charmed, I’m sure. I love the level of self-centeredness that was required to make such an assumption. Pomposity makes me twitch. Even when it’s unintentional. I was writing about me. I’m ALWAYS writing about me. I was taught at a very early stage of development that that is the only thing one should ever write about. I don’t know shit about shit. But I know me. I know that I can’t currently determine when the wrong thing becomes the right thing, or how. I know that I recently found something I needed, and that I’m going to have to give it up. I know that I’m completely fucking sick of ambiguity, and that I can’t be trusted to be alone with my thoughts. I know that what makes me happy also makes me sad, and that I’m losing a battle that I wasn’t even prepared to be fighting. I know a lot of things. But they’re all about me. I don’t honestly believe that you can ever really know another person. Everybody hides. Life teaches us all the hard way that it isn’t safe to wear your heart on your sleeve. I still do it anyway, sometimes. I don’t know that I really have anything to lose anymore. Broken, whole, whatever I am, I’m still just Amy. The least I can do is be honest. It may not come out in my favor, but at least I can say I tried. I’m trying. I’m taking my chances and I’m writing them down. I should have been doing it all along.
I fucking *hate* feelings. Not as in, “I’m afraid to feel, so I’m going to collapse in on myself and die a lonely old emotional cripple”. I don’t mind my own feelings. I know how to identify them, place them in neat little manageable categories, understand what they mean to me, and move on. It’s part of what makes me so fucking awesome. I don’t experience moments of abstract rage, where I blow up like a fucking water buffalo. I walk through life with what ought not to be referred to as poise, so much as perhaps apathy. I just don’t care. People *HATE* it when you say that. “I don’t care”. They fucking. Hate it. Because the world is used to crazy passive-aggressive bitches who say it all of the time, but NEVER really mean it. I mean it. Where should we eat? Don’t care. What time do you want to see that movie? Doesn’t matter. Which pair of shoes should you buy? I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck. And it maybe isn’t so much that I don’t care, as it is that I have other things to care about. Important things. REAL things. And we’re all different. If that shit matters enough to you to take up a perfectly good hour of your life, that’s okay too. But leave me out of it. And when I tell you that I don’t care, don’t look for what’s underneath it all. I’m probably just busy thinking about Batman. We don’t need to talk about my feelings. Just go have a beer and deal with your own.