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9:20 p.m. - 12/06/03
or if you're just trying to get by.]
Things feel more strained between my mom and I than they have in awhile. She says she's tired, and I'm tired, too; I haven't managed a night's sleep free of nightmares in so long I can hardly remember how it feels. I'm exhausted from waking up feeling so powerless, powerless as I am in the dreams, slowly pulling myself into the reality, reminding myself of the truth about my world. Then every night, I go to sleep again and the nightmares persist. They don't recur; I don't remember them well enough to try and catch the message. Occasionally, I do a little symbol decoding, and a character disappears or a certain aspect changes. But I'm tired of feeling defenseless in my sleep. I'm tired of each night compounding my phobia that my weak heart can't take the hammering. And I'm tired of wondering if the pounding of my heart causes the nightmares or the nightmares cause the pounding of my heart. If they were ordinary nightmares, I'd guess the former, easily. But they're not at all ordinary. They seem so tame, but they might as well be filled with monsters. I look over the images I can remember and there isn't anything that's not G-rated, by the standards of what bothers me. I don't understand why they're continuing, night after night. I don't understand why I can't stop them, and I'm tired of going into my mom's room just so I can convince myself to go back to bed. It's inherently reinforcing; every night I have another nightmare, I expect to have one again the next night. And nothing seems to keep them away: food, no food, music, reading... Even my stuffed animals can't manage to guard me, and that's breaking their hearts; I know it.

I wonder if I'm not fighting subconsciously something that would require too much energy on the surface. The nightmares aren't staying the same, and I have very little luck with them in the daytime, but if the little thoughts I do manage are altering them slightly, maybe something in my subconscious mind is working itself out. I know there are issues of power involved. I've been busting my brain cells trying to figure out why the hell a certain teacher is such a standard villain in these dreams, when she would have won, at best, the bronze medal in evildoing. When I realized she was connected to my voice (she was my chorus teacher), she disappeared from the dreams. The night before I thought of this, I dreamed that I kept gathering the emotion to scream at her, and I would start to do so, but I would run out of air. I would fade like an instrument as the musician turns redfaced and loses air. My voice would go to wheezing, and then it would disappear completely. I would try to keep screaming, but the voice had disappeared.

And the heroes...? I don't understand them either. I've gone over every detail I can think of - meaning in their names, meaning in their positions, meaning in their relationships with me or my perceptions of them...nothing seems to matter. They're hardly heroes anyway. They only manage to foil the villains in a literary sense; I'm left to my own for survival. They're classically heroic, characteristically, they're kind and good-hearted...but they don't do me an ounce of good in the battle.

I was talking about my mom, and here I am completely gone from it. I didn't write last night because the time seemed better spent sitting in the living room having a quick conversation with her about nothing important. She's had this workshop - today and last night - and so when she came home, I guess she expected me to want to spend time with her; I'd actually gotten very little done with my day. My aunt and uncle (from California) are in, and the four of us went to my favorite bookstore, which is not getting enough business. I wish the fact that my uncle is friends with the people who work there, and therefore, we've been introduced and they recognize me, didn't raise the stakes so much in terms of challenges to illness. I've gone in there so much less since I met them. (To make things even more wonderful, they're lovely. I mean, they're really lovely people.) Anyway, recovering from the acute anxiety that came up while I was out had left me worn and not working at the pace I'd hoped. There's so much I want to do right now - partly to stay away from thinking, to stay away from feeling idle as an invalid - but also sincerely, for the merit of the deeds themselves. I've been feeling better about myself as I realize that the seemingly minor tasks I accomplish in my days - a little cleaning or writing or decorating, etc - really do mean something. This is perhaps the easiest place to be idle; if I'm compelled to do things, then the illness has not altogether overtaken me. Granted, I've had moments of blankets over my head this past week also, but it's a give and take sort of deal; I honestly believe that. Up and down. If I'm going to take on the truth of this (facet of the) illness - this agoraphobia - then I'm going to need some respect for the efforts necessary in fighting it. Aunt Sue will surely have more than enough to say on that subject, but as far as I'm concerned, I'd rather think the doctor's way. It's the funny thing about believing; sometimes it's best to believe something just because it makes you feel the most peaceful. I know enough to know I don't know everything. I understand that I do not understand. So I might as well have the false (though true to me) perspectives that bring me joy, right? Joy is underrated.

In some quick news, I've decided Jenna has until Wednesday before she receives a phone call for breaking the terms of our agreement. I promised to keep some distance if she kept some contact, and I'm intent on doing what I can to see her do that. I'm willing to move to a place that may seem too close to her long enough for her to move from a place that seems too distant for me. She needs to know I don't want pretty promises anymore. She runs deep that girl, and hollow promises do an injustice to her substance, to all of her I love. ...Also, last night Sara sent an e-mail from the hospital (now there's a surprise) - and signed it Sara Brave. I still haven't cried over that, but I very well may. I very well may not be able to help it. I love all of my chosen family, and I believe in what Julian said to me once - that it doesn't need to follow the pattern of my genetic family. I don't need to share names, and I don't need titles like aunt or sister or cousin - though I can certainly enjoy them when preferred. It seemed to me last night that the name Brave is, in the majority of my family members, like a silent letter in their name. A word that goes unspoken, but is nevertheless there. The r in sarsaparilla - except important. And Sara has chosen to pronounce that r, Sara has chosen to take the name, and there's something really beautiful about that. Maybe I'm starting to understand something I never thought I would: why certain individuals are so emotional over whether their name is changed after a marriage. I feel the love of it now. Maybe this is why Sarah felt so cut off when I claimed the name. Maybe she was able to feel that connection in Lastname. I feel it there, too - to some extent. With Lastname, I need to know that the relationships, the connection, and the love exist independently of that commonality; Sara using Brave is simply a confirmation of a connection I already believe. So I guess I'm venturing, still, away from Lastname so that it can have that same meaning, can be that same confirmation, when I do use it. And I've decided that I want to use Brave more often than I have been...so, as a heads-up, if I start signing letters or e-mail with the surname, or doing some other silly thing, don't think it's a forced formality. I haven't backtracked out of loving anyone. Dela's comment about my story having my name all over it was simply one of the best treats I've ever tasted. And I want to have a fifth grade notebook cover that I can vandalize thoroughly with M. Brave, Miss M. Brave, Miss Mary Brave, Ms. Mary Brave, Mary Brave, Mary Alice Brave, Mary Alice Lastname Brave, and I.

In other news: a travesty at diaryland. There's a limit to the number of diaryrings a member can create! I was not informed of this! I've been thinking the time to journey to a new journal might be approaching...and this is a fact in favor of that...but seriously move or no move, that rule just sucks. Even if I delete the two diaryrings I can consider destroying - joannegreenberg, which has one member other than me, and atomfolk, which is somewhat gratuitous, I can't promise I only have two more rings I feel compelled to create. A limit! Imagine! Next thing, there will be a limit to the number of words I can have in an entry. And then I'll cry because rambling does not cooperate with limits. And I like rambling.

I'm sure there's a very practical reason for this limit. Nevertheless, I find it uber-sugent.

...Tomorrow, I need to tell of broken things.

chord

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