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7:05 p.m. - 01/05/02
```if you lived here you'd be home now.''`
Life isn't completely awful, no matter what I would have told you yesterday. For some unexplained reason, I was not meant to update and detail the horror of that day. Either that or my dad is just silly and disconnected the Internet. But we have a new provider now, and it took far less time to make that happen than I would normally have expected from my parents. I'd like to say, "Maybe they really are changing." But I don't feel optimistic right now. I don't feel much of anything positive, but I will say: life isn't completely awful.

After all, I have sticky-tak, which means I can reattach my Rogers-poster to the wall, and even put my Tori poster up. And I posted at sf for the first time in a long while, (I reply; I don't post much)...and two people already responded. Plus, I only just e-mailed Chas (my first "real" e-mail to her in some time) and I already have a reply. Not that I've read this yet, but I opened my inbox, and I know it's there. It's there, and I can read it, and maybe I won't completely break apart tonight. Maybe I'll postpone breaking down completely.

I had a really rotten Saturday. It involved losing the Internet and not seeing the doctor and being let down by every bookstore in the entire area (even my absolute favorite bookstore.) On the last count, I must take some responsibility; I made the mistake of going into a (really wonderful) used bookstore with an agenda, with knowledge of What I Wanted, when everyone knows you simply can't do that withe really good used bookstores. Even if What You Want seems to fit the scope of What They Sell. You go into used bookstores to be selected by a book, not the other way around. I forgot this, and thus had to suffer the consequences- otherwise known as not having "Morning in the Burning House" as soon as I wanted it. I did find an alternate book of her poems, however- at the third store we went to. I suppose I was a bit determined. I've currently infatuated with Margaret Atwood, and I needed to have a volume of her. I remember Julian saying something about this phenonmenon in the very-early Elfling days...about how the Internet can't entirely take away the necessity of books because it still means something to have binding and paper and glue between your hands. It still means something...

Obviously, not seeing the doctor was probably my hardest blow. I've never not seen him when I was supposed to see him. It doesn't happen. He has, in the past, been running so late it was nearly the next day before I saw him. He's been double-booked and had to shift the time around. He's never just flat-out not been able to see me. And his secretary (who has a new haircut and these black hoop earrings that were unfittingly funky) was painfully apologetic (so much so you could tell some large woman with frizzy hair and flared nostrils had beaten her up before)...I felt bad for his secretary, but mostly I felt bad for me. I really do survive on the awareness of How Long I Have Until I Can Talk. I really am aware that he is the one person in my real-world life that I can honestly discuss things with. And I'm aware that he's a huge part of the whole "I'm better" idea which I am currently terribly impatient about. I'm cranky and tired and feeling crazy, and I need therapy, damnit. But the hour was double-booked, and I was not the one on the roster. The hour was double-booked and the Doctor Who Always Makes Time had to leave at five to spend time with his family, who are in town. And even though I understand that, and I accept it, and I don't blame him, and he gets extra points because one of said family members was a little sister, so on and so forth...I was really disappointed. I really hope I don't cry tomorrow when he apologizes. Because I don't want it to be a big deal...but it was. I'm desperate right now for something stable to hold onto; I'm desperate for something reliable, and he promises he won't leave, but it's so hard to believe. It's so hard to believe when I've never known that with anyone.

Everyone on-line- the fishies, for instance- is being so incredibly encouraging, but I don't feel encouraged. I'm scared because my sort of wistful nostalgia for the sickness isn't passing. It's still here. I'm still eating meals and thinking about how comfortable my finger in my throat would be. I just want something that familiar. I feel like I'm in odd territory, and I don't know myself here. I don't know how to be myself here. And it doesn't really make sense because I've lived in D!@#$%^ for over a year, and I've lived with my parents for seventeen of them, and there's really no reason to feel I don't know where I am...except, suddenly, it feels like too much. I feel like I can't possibly live here, and school starts again on Wednesday, and as always, I stay because there's nowhere to go. But I want to go. I want to go; that doesn't change. I just can't ever find somewhere to put at the other end of the ticket. And that makes me sadder than anything else, I think. It was a horrible feeling- to not want to come home and not feel I could ask anyone to help me with that. Not feel I could crash anywhere. Maybe I am just scared and people would have let me stay with them, and I would have been ok...or maybe I was just holding out for a real home, not a place in between. I don't ever want to move into somewhere like where I am now, and certainly not somewhere worse (I do believe there are worse places.) I just feel like I don't know what to do. I miss myself. I've done all this work, all this terribly difficult work, and I can eat now and I like myself- sometimes, I even love her...and what's more, I love *being* me...but I can't do that here. I just can't, I don't know how, and I don't know how to get out of here, which means I feel trapped. I feel trapped, and the city only sells Margaret Atwood *novels*- never poems- and my therapist can't keep track of his own schedule.

I'm so tired and so tired and so tired. I don't send the letters I write to Rogers people because if I lose the possibility of them, I don't feel like I'll have anything, and as much as I'd like to take the risk and move on...I don't have any concept of how I can move on. So why the hell is this happening? Why do my friends bail, and therapists double-book, and my colleges defer me? Why can't someone just say, "Here. This is what you can do. This is the step you can take toward being you. This is what you can plan on, count on, be."

Why can't someone just give me the space I need to be the girl I've grown into? D!@#$%^ doesn't fit, and I want to be free now. I want to be free, and the only thing I can think of to keep me over is a cage. A fucking sickness that will take it all away. I won't. I won't do it. I won't do it, but I just wish the alternative weren't waiting. I'm no good at waiting, and I'm already too exhausted to stay still.

chord

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