dclarion: (Default)
I'm still exhausted.  My crying often tends toward screaming.  The neighbors must think that I'm having some really great sex.  I wish.

Marie, your question is not at all rude.  Over the last 23 years, I've been on nortriptyline, amytriptyline, trazodone, Zoloft, Paxil, and currently Prozac.  All I really need is a friend.

Please

Feb. 16th, 2012 05:47 pm
dclarion: (Default)
Would someone please visit me and pretend that you like me?  I can't afford to pay you, but perhaps I have something here that could constitute a meal that you would deign to eat.  I have no television -- I just don't like it, I'm sorry to say, and can't afford it, anyway -- but I could connect to some radio station's Internet feed for some heavy metal or something.  You don't have to converse with me; you could just occasionally nod your head while I babble on about the different sizes of infinity.

I know that it is a lot to ask, but I just need some human company.
dclarion: (Default)
I must have cried myself into total exhaustion last night, because I just woke up.  I remember the pain in my diaphragm, like a hand gripping and crushing my torso.  I remember the feeling of total vacuum, of a universe consisting of absolutely nothing.  I remember wishing that I could die, and I remember my disappointment at seeing the light of day.

Another day.  There are dishes to wash, cans of food bank fare to put away.  Why?  What does it matter?  There is only emptiness; even emptiness that is pretty is still empty.

Why do I continue?  Why am I such a coward?
dclarion: (Default)
It is, perhaps, a good thing that my Abit-based machine crapped out on me, a couple of days ago (I believe that the CPU died).  Perhaps, it is time to begin consolidating things, to begin scaling down.  It is not that I want to do less, but perhaps I can use less to do more, or even rearrange my priorities.

There are things that I'd like to do: I still want to learn how the standard UNIX job scheduler (cron, for those of you who know it) works; I might be able to use the core code for another, somewhat similar, purpose.  There are things that I need to do: I've had sketches of a trio sonata laying around for at least twenty-five years; the piece is wanting a dedication, but before I can dedicate it, I have to finish it and be satisfied with it.  Most of all, I have to finish myself, and be satisfied with that.

Throughout my life, most of what I have tried to do, I tried to do in order to be acceptable to someone; when I would be reminded that I can be acceptable to no-one, everything would fall to pieces, and I would ultimately do nothing, and even be nothing.  It is difficult for me to do and be for myself.  My world-view requires that life be shared to have value; consider that an ingot of the purest gold is worthless unless someone wants it.  What I am and what I can do are not considered desirable; how, then, do I imbue them with value?

The Studio is finally becoming reasonably pretty, but what good is that unless another can find beauty and warmth here?  I have had to live my life in barest isolation.  I can continue to do so, and cry for want of more; pictures on the walls and music in the air are not necessary for that.  Where is the mind of the scientist and soul of the artist who might find a place here?  Where is the tongue that might taste the bread, find it pleasing, and make it worth the baking?

How long will it be before this collapses in on itself once more, and I scale down to nothing?

dclarion: (Default)
I've taken some so-called "family" off of my Facebook list.  One cares only about her Amway-type home business; another has no idea of who I am or what I'm about, and has no desire to learn, and a third was collateral damage.  To some, this may not seem to be very much, but it only shows me just how isolated I am.

Last Night

Feb. 6th, 2012 09:41 pm
dclarion: (Default)
Last night, as I lay in bed, I cuddled with Celia.  She lay on my chest, her head nestled under my chin, my arms around her.

And I cried.

Celia, I love you dearly, but how I long to feel another human's touch, hear another human's voice, know another human's presence.  To exchange ideas, to share experiences.  But it cannot be.  I am Wrong.  Hyperintelligent, deeply sensitive, gender-variant, Wrong.

To those who will surely claim that "It will come," and "To be loved, one must first love oneself," realize that these are merely ways of saying "There, but for the grace of God. go I!" without uttering the words.  Know this crushing isolation, then speak!
dclarion: (Default)
Would you quit nosing around Celia and making her growl?  She just doesn't like you.  Come to think of it, neither do Miranda and Ariel.  Seems that you're just not very good with the ladies.

I know the feeling, dear boy.  *sigh*
dclarion: (Default)
I remember.  I was in the ICU, having undergone cranial surgery the previous day.  I knew what the place was, I knew why I was there, but that wasn't the point.  Around me, there was nothing.  There was only the hospital bed with me in it, in the midst of a dark, silent vacuum.  I curled my arm on the pillow, trying to find a way to lay my head upon it such that the pain might be a little less.  It wasn't the searing pain of a burn or a stab wound; it was hollow, it was crushing.  It was the most intense pain I had ever known, yet it was nothing.  How could nothing hurt so much?  I heard the sounds around me.  They were distant, light-years away.  I knew that, periodically, I was receiving codeine injections.  I also knew that the codeine might as well have stayed in the vial, for all the good it was doing me.  Nothing.  There was only nothing, the most painful nothing I had ever known.

I remember it.  That is what my spirit feels today.
dclarion: (Default)
I want to love and be loved.  Why is that so much to ask?
dclarion: (catlady)
About six weeks ago, at the Waterfront Target, I happened to see Lynnie, the sister of Michele, who is the best friend of my ex-fiancée, Anita (anyone for six degrees of Kevin Bacon?).  During our conversation, Lynnie mentioned that Michele was working at the wine shop on the other side of the shopping area. Just yesterday, as I was coming home from an appointment with my neurologist, I realized that the bus route home ran very near that wine shop, so I went there to pay Michele a visit.

It was quite nice to see her again, after more than a few years.  When I had known her years ago, Michele was the alcoholic's alcoholic, with a list of problems that would stretch from here to the Moon.  The Michele with whom I spoke yesterday seemed more at peace with herself.  When Lynnie had told me where Michele was working, I must have had a look of concern upon my face, because Lynnie assured me that Michele was doing much better, that she had been off the sauce for years, after it had nearly killed her.

We spoke of Anita.  Before we were engaged, Anita had been twice married and twice divorced; the way I understand it, after we had split, Anita had married a third time, to her first husband.  This troubled me greatly, because Hubby #1 had been horribly abusive; allegedly, when he was stationed in Germany, his nickname in his Army unit was "Wifebeater" (I won't even begin to comment upon the connotations of the glib assignment of that epithet).

This got me to thinking, and it is a fact well known that when I get to thinking, I am dangerous.  I wondered what Anita was seeking; I wondered if she was looking more to alleviate loneliness than to share her life with someone.  I wondered about myself; had I been trying to do the same?  I was married to Sandra for eight years, I was in a committed relationship with Melody for eleven.  Even though I had not been looking for a romantic relationship at the time -- or, at least, this is what I would have myself believe -- I had met Ron on a search for a friend, someone to talk to, someone to help alleviate my own loneliness.  Have I also, then, been looking for an animated plush pillow?

Loneliness is not an enjoyable state, but it is possible that it is the state that awaits many of us.  Perhaps it is the state that befalls all of us, for as lucky as some may be to have legions of friends, it is only we, ourselves, who are constantly with us, in the end.  I need to come to terms with the fact that I will spend most of my life alone, for as much as I am a very public figure, I am a very private person.  My world-view differs substantially to the world-views of almost everyone I know; this world-view defines me, this world-view also isolates me.  What is most important about this world-view is that I have spent fifty-four years building it, I hold it for no other reason than my ability to justify it, and I cannot modify it for the sake of any person other than myself.

I have earlier written of Homo segregatum, "Isolated Man"; I wonder if H. segregatum is not a subspecies at all.  To those who argue that the defining characteristic of Homo sapiens is his ability to think abstractly, to reason, may I offer the putative counterexample of Felis sylvestris catus, the domestic cat.  I am had by three, Miranda, Winston, and DC.  DC, my youngest, is quite the alpha male, and spends much of his time chasing Winston around my apartment.  Many times has Winston, while being chased through the Studio, disappeared around a corner into the kitchen; and many times has DC responded by halting, reversing his direction, and heading around the other entrance to the kitchen in order to head Winston off.  That may be habit now, but at some point, DC must have realized that the best way to his prey could be backtracking, a route that would surely be counterintuitive to a creature of lesser intelligence.  On the other hand, I know of no social species other than Homo sapiens whose members can live for prolonged periods in emotional isolation.  Perhaps, then, H. sapiens is H. segregatum; perhaps evolution has condemned all of us humans to carry the burden of loneliness.  If this is the case, then all I can do is learn to deal with it.
dclarion: (Default)
I've had some leftover turkey and dished out a cup of chocolate ice cream.  Perhaps, I should install my dentures and make a sandwich with some of the Thanksgiving bread I baked.  I'm still cleaning up; most of that is the dishes.  I love cooking; washing dishes is another matter.  Still, washing dishes is one of those things grownups have to do, even those who never really grew up.

Raien and PJ, I hope that you won't take this out of context, but one of the consequences of an absolutely awesome Thanksgiving with you is being reminded of how abjectly lonely I am, the rest of the time.  It is being reminded of my status as Homo segregatum, "Isolated man".  Even as it is painful, though, it is a good and necessary thing to be reminded of this; I need to learn how to deal with it, as this loneliness is a consequence of the person I am.  By "the person I am", incidentally, I do not exclusively refer to my status as a transwoman, though that is surely a part of me.  I refer, instead, to all of the things listed on the bill of materials that describes this entity called Diana Athena Clarion, not the least of which is my hyperintelligence.

I am remembering a scene I once envisioned, about forty years ago.  Shortly after Xmas, my mother had just finished informing me of what a rotten piece of shit I was, at a volume approaching that of a Saturn V launch as heard from the press site.  Part of her tirade consisted of "You can just take that fruitcake you gave me and have it yourself!"  I did not do that, of course, but into my mind came the scene: me alone, siting on my bedroom floor, fruitcake in hand, crying inconsolably while I took bites from it.  I am crying now as I remember, as I write this.  This is what I have to learn to deal with.

Raien, PJ, this is why I did what I did on Thanksgiving Day.  I had to relieve the loneliness and isolation, I had to reach out, I had to share.  This surely does not mean that you were mere tools; I think that I somehow knew that you were the good and honorable people you showed yourselves to be, and I hoped that I could be good company to you.  I hope that I was, and can continue to be.  This is where the learning begins, learning how to drive Homo segregatum into extinction.

May 2013

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