Thank you, everyone. My last dreary LiveJournal post elicited a plethora of telephone calls and contacts in various forums. I am deeply appreciative of efforts to cheer me. Now shut up, willya? You think I haven't thought of this shit before? You're the ones that have told me all my life I'm fairly bright. I need ideas or I need left alone. Oh. Sorry. No pressure, y'know? While I'm ranting, the next person that tells me "You seem to be handling it pretty well " gets their liver turned into paté and their spinal fluid frappéd. What do I have to do to communicate that however I'm "handling" it isn't going anywhere?
Shall I curl up in a fetal ball and whine? Let myself be committed? Climb under my desk and refuse to come out? Climb up on the roof and start sniping? I've reached my limits. Not functioning is not how I express distress. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry that I can't accommodate the Perils of Pauline soap-opera view of the world in which I gasp, clutch at my heart and faint dead away waiting for somebody else to fix it, but that just ain't my way. I can't stand by and wring my hands while everything I own goes down the toilet and everyone I know dies off tragically. Must I have an inoperable cancer? Anthrax? Isn't a sudden blindness with an undiagnosed cause suitable? It's that "undiagnosed" shit isn't it. "Can't do nothing for you if you can't tell me what' wrong!" Isn't it pretty obvious that I don't know what is fucking wrong? Is it necessary for me to be homeless and an emotional cripple before I hear, "Gosh! I guess you're not handling it all that well. Maybe you could use some help?"
There's so much crap in the world. Why do the purveyors of same all want to be my friend?People I love (you know who you are) please take no offense.