Not repressed anymore

Journal policy regarding:

respectful discussion of abortion issues

---

Fanfiction recommendations

Original fiction recommendations

Joined a personal finance community on Livejournal. I'm already glad of the support and sensible advice I've had throughout my life. It could always be worse.

That was a great children's book. I wish I could remember who wrote it, or even what it was called.

...

The list so far:

Write something
Tidy up a smidge
Wake before three
Eat breakfast, lunch, AND dinner
Write something else
Surf job sites
Surf used car sites
Not panic

...

Breakfast now. Toaster Strudel sounds marvelous.

By the looks of Metafandom, it's time to give my favorite TV ladies some love -- no, not like that, although I'd love to see Beckett from Castle get drunk with Reese from Life. Anyone? :-)

( In no particular order... )

And that's only part of my list.

Who do you love?

Maybe, I thought, it's the method rather than the madness.

Every time I sat down with my ninety-nine cents of promise, I came up blank; ditto for a vast white screen on either computer. I had ideas. Why weren't they flowing?

So I tried other ways. I wrote the beginnings of fiction in an email to myself, as if I could collaborate with me. I used the improbable second-person to tell my own stories, and did not dwell on what a memoir ought to be.

You wouldn't believe how well those little shifts have worked.

I had a much longer rant here, but I'm better now. Just had to get a couple of things worked out with Dad.

Tomorrow, I rest!

Solid pass, too -- only ten points off (failing is thirty).

I did a lot of visualisation this weekend. Over and over, I put my bad experiences into little mental wine bottles, and Bad Examiner himself in the freezer. I tried tapping ("I will not fail my road test"; "I will keep my anger under control"; "I will not throw up"; "I will be okay") and it seems to have calmed me down long enough to deal.

At the very last minute, when it was almost time to go, I envisioned perpet sitting in the back with cieldumatin and -- of all the bizarre mental pictures -- a white-clad Rubens Barrichello on one shoulder arguing in Portuguese with a red-clad Felipe Massa.

If nothing else, the thought made me laugh.

I even had a sense that the car was looking out for me. Is that so strange?

So here I sit, a licensed driver who gave her examiner a hug. Thank you to everyone who's been thinking of me; I know you have so many more trying circumstances than a road test to conquer, but I do appreciate you all for being with me through this.

with much love
C.

For those who have died, and those who mourn them --

-- for the dying, and the living-with --

I give my love and my hope for a better future.

K., a Boston-area YA writer, needs your help. Her aunt has ovarian cancer, and from where she sits now, it's terminal. She and her family are running out of resources fast.

K. is running a blogathon, all proceeds to benefit the Tricia Reardon Benefit Fund; you can donate by the post or hour, or give a lump sum when the PayPal link goes up. If you're short on cash, please pass the word along. Every effort counts.

I went to pick up my meds today -- the prescription got here Tuesday, too late; Wednesday was chaos; Friday I will be travelling. Today was the day. Not, mind you, the ideal day. I'd had nightmares, and for some reason, felt myself really dragging. But we do what we must.

Twenty minutes into a thirty-minute wait at Wegmans, I was walking past some of the registers, the ones with little refrigerators full of soft drinks. I thought perhaps it was a Pepsi day, when caffeine is actually the lesser of two evils (the other evil being this chronic exhaustion and pain). While I was weighing the choices, out of the blue, I heard this strident voice remark, "Everyone's walking around like zombies today. What's up with that?"

I wilted inside. Then I got angry -- but my "angry" is everyone else's "indignant". I looked around: a pair of yuppies, baby in cart, trendy tee-shirts on. Unemployed, most likely, but able-bodied and able-minded enough to stand there passing judgment on the rest of the weary masses.

I said to the man, "Dude. I have CFS. That's why I look like a zombie." And I walked off.

The woman wasn't having any of it. She shouted, "Bitch! We weren't talking about you! I didn't even see you!" as I limped away to the shelter of the magazines.

Shame washed over me, warring with frustration. I bit back tears as I asked myself the hard questions: why did she feel the need to scream obscenities at me for correcting what I saw as a hideously ablist assumption? Even if she hadn't seen me, where did she get off making those kinds of remarks too loudly to be ignored? Would she have reacted just as viciously if I'd been carrying my cane?

She didn't even see me. Who did she see? Anyone more than two feet from her nose?

I cried on my father's shoulder, because words hurt, and those words cut me like knives between the ribs. I didn't ask to resemble the undead. Anyone who's weary, despairing, and possibly chronically ill will tell you how much energy it takes to look alert anyway. We don't have wheelchairs, hearing aids, or special glasses. We are not obviously disabled. We catch hell whether we can "pass" for fully able or not.

I am tired of catching hell.

We paid for my medication, as well as a bag of crisps, and got out of there in a hurry. I didn't want to risk being unseen by them again.