Feeling lost when you're not really lost is a very confusing period of time in life. You're lost inside, but everything outside is poised to show you ways to go. Though. I think maybe it is possible to be lost without being lost. It's like that iconic image of standing infront of a crossroads, watching the roads go in different directions. With the wooden pole in the middle with the tired wooden pointers with somewhat still readable place names. But, if you take one of the roads presented. How do you know it's the right one? What would be the downsides? Would you miss out on something good down another road? Is the road you're about to take going to be good for you? Or is it gonna be bad for you. You've been hurt in the past so it's not like you're eager to take another road just to end up with the same result. That's the same concept as banging your head against a brick wall and expecting a different result. Only shorter, as you don't have to move much. And we all know what a very smart man once said about actions such like these. So if you take that, along with choosing roads, actually the action of choosing at all and put it together. The only conclusion could be that we are all insane. So, to sum up so far, we're not lost, we're stalled. But if we do move, we're insane. I could be happy with being insane and moving, as opposed to stalled and ... bored.
So. Today was a strange day. I got up early because I absolutely loathe to be late and it makes me extremely anxious, naturally I was late anyway because I got to the tram just as it had left. So that added nine minutes to my time. I got on the tram, almost missed my stop because I'm tired. Then I have to wait another five minutes for the tram that will take me to where I have to walk the rest of the way. Finally I'm standing at the bottom of what seems to be an endless road upwards, looking at my phone I have five minutes to get there. I start to panic because I know there is no way I'm making that walk in five minutes. Thank goodness for my boyfriend that manages to encourage me to get up the damn hill. So by the time I walk into the doctors office I'm three minutes late and loosing my mind. of course it turns out like it always does. My being three minutes late doesn't matter even in the slightest. My doctor is kind enough to turn off the lights in his office for the sake of my eyes and immediatly picks up on the fact that I'm not having a "good" day. He asks me if it's a bad day to which I answer that it's a bad day, but not the worst. He nods in understanding and sits me down. He tells me that after reviewing my tests and the previous session there is no doubt of the diagnosis of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. My doctor defines it as level three. Severe. My world goes blank for what is probably a shorter time than I think it is. I find myself nodding, I knew this was the likely result, but somehow, hearing it from the doctors mouth makes me feel relief on a level I haven't been relieved since I was a child, I'm not insane, it's not all in my head. On the other hand I find my world falling, there is no "cure" for this. All I can do is keep living and try to find ways to save my strenght and keep taking pills to reduce my pain, that won't work properly because it's on a neural level so unless it's heavy opiates it won't do much. My doctor tells me there's light in the end of the tunnel. A new drug is being developed and might be on the market for ME/CFS patients next year. I nod. He tells me that I have to register for the national Myalgic Encephalomyelitis association. I nod. He tells me that he will sort the paperwork so I will receive 100% disability. I nod. I put on my sunglasses, there's no sun, and walk out of the doctors office after thanking him profusely. A doctor that truly cares, who would have thought. My boyfriend is immediatly angry at the system for wasting nine years of my life. Two meetings with this doctor and it was obvious to him what's wrong with me. I agree of course. But there's very little I can do about that fact. The relief is still strong in my mind, I finally know. I feel an unfamiliar feeling of being vindictive, everyone doubting me, telling me to "walk it off" so to speak. I want to call them immediatly and say a big fat "HAH!" into their ears. That is so unlike me. And then there's the fear, the fear that I will never get better. My boyfriend talks to me as if it's a battle. A fight. "We will beat this." As he says it I feel myself getting exhausted by the mere thought of having to fight something I've already been fighting for the better part of fifteen years. That has no "cure". We go home. And as I get inside the door, the exhaustion that's threatened to overwhelm me since I walked out of the same door finally sets in and I have to lie down. I fall asleep. When I wake up the world has changed. There is good in this. I just have to take my time. Respect my own limitations. Knowing that it's not in my head. The day the world got better and everything fell at the same time.
She just stood there. Breathless. There was a small part of her that was fighting against the total paralysis that held her rooted, but it wasn't strong enough. She felt the warm tears on her face only after they started trickling down her face, the pain felt unreal, like somehow it was something alien squirming inside of her, but at the same time it was integral to her. So much a part of her it was in her core. It was agony, absolute and unequivocal. By any logic it should have torn her apart right there, ripped her to shreds. But it didn't. it was just there and wasn't going away. The small part of her that was still fighting roared pathetically in defiance, Anxiety sneered, completely aware that he was in full control. Lachlan scrunched her eyes closed, making small wrinkles around her eyes, her forehead frowning deeply. She had gotten wrinkles there from the amount of time she spent tensing her brows in thought. The part of her that was fighting was weakening and Anxiety knew it. He tightened his grip and Lachlan found herself falling over into her bed, her breathing erratic, her whole body spasming, the tears going from a trickle to a waterfall. She heard a low keening and realised the sound was coming from her. Somehow, impossibly the pain doubled and time disappeared. She wasn't just crying, she was howling. Her nose clogging up from the strain adding to the breathing difficulty. And then, after what felt like a millenia the pain loosened. Anxiety sneered at her again. "That's what you get." he shrugged as if it was out of his control, giving her a last wink he pulled down his yellow fedora, the red feather gracefully bouncing in the black bound, he turned to walk away. The last thing she saw was the flip of a coin with her face on it, the gentle wooshing as it fell through the air and landed in his palm, the slight derisive chuckle and a whisper of "See you soon." as his black and white shoes made a clicking noise as it hit the cobblestones. Lachlan opens her eyes and takes a long shuddering breath. It was over for now. She didn't have the strenght to move. Her mouth felt dry but there wasn't anything she could do about it right now. She felt cold and exhausted. Her tired eyes closed again and she fell into restless sleep. (Clumsily written and likely a lot of typos.)
So, I haven't written here for a long time now. I sunk so low into my hole of depression that I wasn't able to focus on anything, much less write it down. I have decided however, after a successful visit to a CFS specialist to try and introduce some structure to my life. It's felt like there's no point at all in even trying, but after this meeting with the specialist I feel a small glimmer of - as clishe as it sounds - hope. Here was someone that talked to me as one who genuinly tries to understand and help instead of pushing pills and saying "Have patience, just pull it together." So, in an attempt to introduce some structure I will again try to write here once a day. At one point I will gather the courage to actually post from my book, but I don't feel like it's the right time now. I've got an ongoing writers block so I'm still stuck in the same spot I was when I wrote here last. Sheesh...
It's another bad day or well... I should say week. It started yesterday evening when I woke up. I got four hours sleep before I woke up again exhausted, my entire body seems to be working against me at the moment. I'm so tired I can barely make it out of bed. My place is trashed, I don't have the energy to clean or do the dishes. It will get better at some point, I know that. But right when you're in the moment it's really hard to see. I keep flashing back to horrible times in my life, and I beat myself up for letting myself go there. But there's nothing I can do to stop it. I realised something odd the other day. My mother came to visit me a couple of days ago. We talked a bit about things I've not been able to talk to her about before and it was sort of a relief, but also disturbing. But I realised I couldn't look her in the eyes. And when I thought about it, the day before when I met my father for our weekly conversation. I hadn't been able to look him in the eyes either. I've always been able to look people in the eyes when I talk to them. I've even gotten complaints about it because apparently it's too intense. I've always preferred eye-contact. Much because you can actually see people then. But now. I'm not able to. Victim. That word is so negativly loaded.
So, I wanted to write here everyday. And then I missed one! So I'm gonna write two pieces today. I already wrote the short story, and here is the daily rant. Missing days isn't forreign to me. Last month I managed to loose two whole days. I was wholly convinced it was Monday, while it was Sunday. And the a Wednesday just up and left...I had no idea where it went. And I still don't. I gave up on the "Crossing Lines" series. I mean, it's a good series but it didn't engage me that much. So now I've moved on to "Criminal Minds". Ive seen it before, well some of it. But I love it. As I've harped on about before, I love how the minds works and why we think like we do. Of course none of these shows are likely to be 100% accurate, but it's still interesting to watch. The characters are engaging! My situation seems to slowly start to solve itself, well... not by itself. It has help from me and some of the people who care a lot about me. Now will follow a waterfall of doctors appointments and a stream of people who seem to have gotten their diplomas at the back of a milk carton that want to tell me what's wrong with me. I have high hopes that this time will be better though. So here's to hoping. Rant over!
This is part of my project. It's very scary for me to post it, but here goes. Pain helps. Not the kind where you cut yourself, she didn't like the idea of the scars being therefor the rest of her life. But the pain of having a part of her body pierced by a needle. Putting in a piece of jewlery to fill the piece of ugly. Or having a different type of needle push into her skin fifty times a second to reveal a beautiful image or meaningful words. It was a relief to feel the pain on the outside instead of the inside, and wtch it become something productive, something to serve a purpose. Like a tattoo or a piercing. For the duration of the process she could let the pain wash over her freely, without it breaking her. Anxiety was grumbling in the back of her mind, it was a loophole he hadn't counted on. Lachlan was more than a little smug about that, and inwardly grinned at him. She might pay for that later, but she didn't care. It was worth it. She mindlessly fiddled with her new piercing while mulling her thoughts over in her head. The bus and Anxiety both jerking her from side to side in the turns. She's on her way home to her tiny flat in the east of town. As far as capital cities in the world go, Oslo was fairly safe and a good place to live. But the part of town she resided in currently was admittedly, dodgy. She had been pretty sure she had stepped in some blood on her way home the other day. But that might have been Imagination playing tricks on her since she'd been on the phone with her mother some minutes before, she'd been kind enough to inform Lachlan that there had been reports of gunshots in the area Lachlan lived. But she was still convinced it had been blood. Imagination grinned innocently at her while Anxiety scoffs. Norway being a very small country, mostly filled with mountains and forests, has a population of about six million people. And so statistics for things like murder is fairly low. About one point five murders a year in fact. Lachlan takes a moment to wonder how that works before shrugging off the thought. Anyway, she thinks to herself. Her area of town might be a little dodgy. But it's a place to live. A place that's hers. Blinking she realises two things at once, One, she's not supposed to touch the new piercing and two, next stop is hers. Getting up she makes sure to hols on tight to the handgrips hanging from the ceiling of the bus. The Oslo busdrivers have been known to send little old ladies flying when they realise it's time to push the pedal next to the gas. Grunting a little as the bus jerks to a stop, the brakes whining loudly, like they're really annoyed, she gets out. The doors squeak shut behind her and the Italian designed bus drives off towards it's next destination. Lachlan wraps her thick brown winter coat around herself and starts making her way down the path towards home, gently avoiding the spot she thought she saw the blood while thinking vaguely of the idiocy of the government getting busses from Italy, which is no where near the same climate, to Norway that has been known to be well below -30 degrees celcius in winter. It's only the beginning of winter now, but she can already feel the rime in her nose from the cold air. Heralding another eight months of cold and darkness.
So... I woke up, looked at the time and then I panicked and then I calmed down. I hate the feeling where you think you've missed something. Thankfull I hadn't. So I went down to the shop, got some nuts and walked my dog. It's been a wholly uninteresting day. Utterly non-happening. And I think I fried my brain yesterday. So I'll try again tomorrow! Maybe I'll have something more interesting to write. Bah, humbug.
So, I finished the "Scorpion" series. Rather... I've seen all I can see. The next season starts in October. And of course, it ended on a cliffhanger. So I started a new one, it's not as good but it's interesting. Called "Crossing Lines". Basically it's about a bunch of police officers from different countries with different specialties working together as a European "FBI". It's kind of ironic, watching this series, cause we're currently working on getting my Russian boyfriend to the country that I live in. It's proving to be a massive effort and a giant headache, I'm pretty sure that if we put all the papers together it would reach me to my neck. The country I live in is a part of a trade deal made between a lot of different countries called "Schengen" and is also a part of but not a part of the EU. So I can pretty much travel anywhere I want within this area just with my passport and/or ID. It looks like the best way of getting him here to me is to marry him. Of course, this was a nonspoken agreement between the two of us. That it would happen eventually. We just never thought we'd have to do it so... coldly. I used to be a hopeless romantic before I met him, but now... I'm a romantic full of hope. Marriage was never a huge deal to me. Like it is to a lot of women. There's nothing wrong with that of course, not at all. It just never was to me. But now, I find myself liking the idea of being surprised with an engagement ring and all the girly stuff I never bothered with before. All that's ever mattered to me is love. It's starting to get colder outside, Autumn is definetly on it's way. Soon it'll be October again and that means I've been living here in my flat for a year. Time blew past me without me noticing. Funnily enough I'm still living out of boxes. Well, no. That's not stricktly true. I still have a lot of stuff in boxes. But I like my place. It's small, but more than enough space for me and my little Jack Russell Terrier, Han Solo. He's the rock in my life, always happy and ready to play. When everything is so dark and scary that I can barely move, he comes over and licks my face and wags his little tail. He's like a plushie really, his coat is unreasonably soft. Man's best friend indeed. He's affectionatly known as the "love dog" because of his wonderful personality and the fact that he has a heart shaped spot on his side. He's tricolour. Black, white and a tiny bit of brown. Now I'm going to try to get some sleep.
I'm watching "Scorpion" again. They are in the Arctic trying to set up an antennae for the military. Two of them are freezing! I'm eating a sandwich with melted tomato cheese and ham feeling vaguely guilty for being warm. It's the nice kind of cheese that doesn't get greasy and icky, and melts perfectly without getting hard crusts. I've been thinking about people lately. The ego in particular. People don't necessarily make sense all the time, and some seem to thrive when they think they are being mysterious. There isn't really anything wrong with that. Of course not. But I do take issue when these people can't handle it when their game is called. A lot of them talk a big game and get angry or worse when someone is more clever than them or question them. But then, on the other side of that, there are people who thrive on "dismantling" these big talkers. Feeling it's their duty to take them down a notch. Both these type of people display some... meglomania. I usually avoid interacting with either type. I'm confident in my own self and don't need nor want to poke the proverbial bear. Though I enjoy thinking and trying to figure out human nature. Not to mention my book is very much about rebuilding a destroyed human being. I've written a whoooole half page today, and I'm not at all confident in the little I wrote. I'm at at a bit of a tough spot with where my main character is going right now. I mean, I know where she's going, I just don't know how I'm going to get her there. It feels to me like writing is basically holding a giant ball of rope, with knots in it. Your job is to find one of the endings and start working your way along the rope, loosening and untying the knots as you go. But... if the knot stumps you and you get stuck then you'll be stuck till you figure it out. I'm at a tough knot. And so, my ranting is over for today. Eaveah. Edit: I can at times be an insufferable knowitall and fantabulously stubborn. So don't mistake my rant about people and ego to mean that I think I'm above it all! Cause wow... Not at all.
We have this expression amongst writers in Norway, "pøse text". This translates to "splash text". There's very likely an english equivalent, but I can't think of it right now. Not to mention I like the feeling of "Splash text". Basically what it means is that you just start to write, and when the words don't come out anymore it's done. The goal is just getting it out It's hard to explain.. But you get what I'm mean, I'm sure. You're all writers and readers. This is such a splash text I wrote when I was sitting on my mothers porch in Autumn, some years ago: Deep down under all the layers of superficial things. There is a tiny spark of something almost forgotten. Placing a name for such a spark is nigh impossible, one would have to think up a whole new word. Interesting isn't it, how you can talk about something that is and something that isn't all at the same time. But then, how do you speak of something that isn't? Wouldn't it be something if you talk about it? Think about it? Musings that lead nowhere will always lead somewhere. The question is wether that somewhere is a place you want to go. And sometimes it's better to be somewhere, than where you are right now. It's the trip there that's the problem. Or solution, depending on your point of view. Point of view however is an entirely different matter. From my pont of view I'm sitting on the doorstep of a house writing things that won't necessarily make sense in a year. But makes perfect sense to me now. From someone elses point of view I might be a crazy person that will be concidered a genious in someone elses point of view in a hundred years. Or maybe I'll just be someone that lived once, and will be forgotten then. October 29, 2014 - 03:11 I have a problem. Sometimes when I try to say something I can't think of the words to explain it. I know perfectly what I mean and what I want to say, but I'm unable to get it out in words. This doesn't always happen of course, and never in text. Because I'm able to organize my thoughts when there's no pressure to speak immediatly. At least that's my theory. This of course speaks to my being more comfertable communicating over text. Then again, I rely very much on body language, tone of voice, facial expressions and so on to be able to communicate effectivly. Yay. Being bilingual is as much an advantage as it is a disadvantage. My first language is English, the second is Norwegian. Languages have always facinated me. One of the special things about Norwegian is the inflection in the language, it's not so much what you say that matters. It's how you say it. The inflection is like gesticulating with your voice. That's enough ranting for today. Until next time. Eaveah.
I literally have nothing to write about. My head is empty, drawing a blank and any other ways of saying that.
So... For once I have very little to say. But I promised whoever might read this and myself that I would write here once a day. So here we go... I'm very tired and watching a show called Scorpions. It's a good show and I've watched it once before. I'm really picky with series. If I can't properly connect to the characters of the concept, I get bored and my interest drifts. And now I'm so tired I have to go lie down... maybe I'll update this when I wake up! Until next time. Eaveah.
Third time I write, and it's going good so far. It's about 4 in the morning here and I'm listening to a wonderful band called London Grammar (fully aware of the irony). I'm preparing for tomorrow. Tomorrow is Wednesday, well. I call it tomorrow because I haven't slept yet. Not entirely sure if I will yet either. But it won't be tomorrow before it's light outside for me. So at 13:00 I will meet my father for coffee at a place not far from where I live. Since may of this year 2016, we've had these meetings once a week at 13:00. To me it has been an immense help for my writing process. We talk about everything from heaven and earth, mostly we try to focus on things that are relevant to the book I'm writing and oddly enough. Most things are relevant. It's a good feeling to be able to air ot ideas and learn new things about a certain subject or idea. Somehow in these meetings I am able to formulate an idea, run it by my father and be able to see it clearly. My father and I have been... estranged, for the most part of my life. By all accounts he hasn't been much of a father to me. I was angry at him for a very long time but I realised there is no actual point in anger over a long time. I mean sure, if someone bumps into you on the street making you spill the entire contents of your bag all over the pavement and then yells at you to watch where you're going when it was his or her fault. Then anger is good. It tells you that there is an injustice in progress and you won't be stepped on. But as far as anger over things that happened in the past goes, anger isn't useful. If anything it's a hinderance. At least in my opinion. So I reached out to my father. I knew he had intimate knowledge of a lot of things I was now writing about. So I thought, why not take advantage of that knowledge if he's willing to give it. And he was, and I am now the richer for it. So here we are in August. These past 3 months have been very helpful to me and I'm proud to say I've been able to write my prologue and most of three chapters. I have the baseline and structure for how the book will work. The story however is a different matter. The story seems to be running a little bit on it's own accord. I write the words but the words guide me to what will really be happening. For instance, I had this character that I was absolutely sure would lead my main character to a conclusion that was important for the progress. But... She didn't. I sat there after writing this with a distinct feeling of "what the f..." but in the end it turned out to be the best for the story anyway. And so I'm often taken by surprise with what my mind comes up with. If I have a muse I would very much like to thank her. I realise that statement might be full of my own hubris, but I think I'm confident enough in my own work by now to say it's not, shit. So, I'm preparing for tomorrow. Gathering my books and the copious amounts of loose worksheets where's I've scribbled something that's evidently important. Not to mention post-it notes. I found a couple in my bathroom a while ago that I had written while half asleep. It made me laugh when I read them. To any one who's not me, this wouldn't make even a little sense. I often giggle slightly at the thought that if anyone were ever to find me with my little "tower of pisa" notebook and flip through it I'd be committed. I have always had a love affair with words and how things fit together on a page. This notebook is basically a gathering of my thoughts on what I'm writing at the moment. Which I would imagine most writers notebooks are. It might the the one most private and sensitive possession we have apart from our minds. And I love it. Lately I've started to ask my friends if they will read through what I've written so far. To get feedback and be sure that I'm making myself understood and that what I'm writing translates the way I want it to. For the "message" to get through etc. It was sort of a shock to hear from these people that they find it enganging and want to know more. When I've been a member here for two weeks I have the choice to put my own things up for other members of this site to read. This makes me more worried. On one side because of what I said in an earlier blog entry, the first one. That I'm paranoid that my ideas might get stolen. I realise that's a little silly, but it's still a worry. On the other side. The people who will be reading this don't know me, there's no incentive for them to read it apart from it well... being here. So of course all of these scary thoughts pop into my head. What if they just focus on the grammar, and not the actual content. What if no one likes it. So on and so forth. Of course I know that this is inevitable, if I want to be a successful writer then I'm gonna have to share my work. There will be people that will hate it, there might be people who will love it and everyone is a critic. And most of the people who might read my book, will not know me. Of course this inspires the concideration of wether or not I should use my own name as my pen name or if I should use a pseudonym. I've never really liked the idea of being a known person. It seems a massive invasion of privacy wether you accept it or not. This is all speculation and if's, maybe's and possibly's. But one can't help but wonder... In conclusion... I'm looking forward to tomorrow. Our meetings has been put on hold for about three weeks as it's holiday season in little Norway. So of course when it's finally warm for two months in Norway all the Norwegians flee the country to go to places like Spain, Grand Canaria and Key Largo. My father took one such trip, I'm happy he's back so we can resume our meetings. Now it's about 5 in the morning and I'll continue transcribing some of my notes into my computer so I can hand them off for others to read. Until next time. Eaveah.
I got woken up today by a clap of thunder, so loud that my dog was half way under the duvet, shaking. I was triggered. All I could do for the next half an hour was to hug my dog and tell him, rather than myself, that everything would be alright. It helped a little bit. I looked at my phone that stated it was 17:28 and managed to slowly get out of bed. I went to my computer to see if there was any messages or notifiations that needed my attention. There wasn't. I jumped violently as another thunder clap hit, it seemed a little weaker than the first that had felt like the whole building shook. I open my internet banking service and see that my payment has come in and I busy myself with the paying of the rent and a bill that comes later than the others. All the while trying to keep my impending panic at bay. I keep flashing back to the moment in my life where I felt the least safe, when there was actual danger to my well being. Oddly enough it's just the first time it happened that comes to my mind, the other time that was arguably more serious is something that makes me shudder sure, but it's not as bad as the firs.t Maybe because I had some forewarning, that I knew what was about to happen. But the first time it came out of the blue. I was sleeping. I was woken up harshly by a openhanded palm slapping me so hard between my shoulder blades that the air was pushed out of my lungs. The initial shock was followed by yelling, then physical punishment. It's been so long since it happened. Why can't I just get over it, why does it still haunt me at moments like this. I berate myself but it doesn't help. Not that I was really expecting it to. I know better, really. There's no use in getting angry with myself. If anything it will only make it worse. I finish paying my bills and look at my phone again. There's a text message on this app I use with my long distance boyfriend. I'm glad to see it, but when I read it I immediatly grow worried. He has a temprature he says. I text back asking if he's alright and telling him I woke up from a loud sound. I hope he knows what I mean. He doesn't answer me for a little while and my worry grows, I send another text telling him I need to know he's alright. It probably seems a little panicked but he's so far away and this is the only way I can know wether he's alright or not. He finally answers after what feels like an eternity, which in reality is mere minutes. He says he's ok and asks if he can call me, of course I say he can. When he calls me he sounds good, I breathe out in relief. I was worried he'd be in one of his black moods, the ones which it doesn't matter what anyone does, he just feels horrible. His voice sounding like he's drugged and tired. Not the normal kind of sleepy tired, but the kind of tired that say he's tired of life itself. I hate it when he's like that. It's not his fault of course, depression is a cruel mistress. I should know. But I want the best for him. Of course I do. I love him. He sounds his normal self now, the happy, cocky, teasing boyfriend I breathe out in relief. We talk a little of the normal things, I show him this site and how it could be beneficial for him too. My Russian poet. And still in the back of my mind there's the uncertainty, the feeling of not being safe, the feeling of having my core being disturbed, a long rusty nail being dragged down the lenght of my soul, like a fingernail on a blackboard. I stave off the panic as best as I can but I can feel it rising to the surface. The boyfriend picks up on there being something wrong, as he always does, I have in my own way tried to tell him what's wrong. I can hardly blame him for not picking up on it. But it's hard for me to talk about. I try to tell him that I'm fine, gently dropping that I was triggered. I don't know why I'm trying to make it seem less than it is. But I do. I always do. I have some theories of course. But none that are easy to form into a coherent thought. Much less put down in writing. I don't think he understands. I don't blame him for it either, it's not like that. It's one of those things. We continue talking about this and that, how his work is going. Whenever he speaks about his work I get angry. What he earns isn't even minimum wage where I come from. Beggars on the street earn more than he does. Which is bullshit. He works hard, at break back hours and there's nothing I can do. I feel helpless, but I know it won't make him feel any better if I keep telling him this. He tells me he's talked about me at work today, my heart warms and the panic feeling sinks a little deeper, but it's still like a barbed ball in my stomach. Whenever I move it reminds me that it's there. Again he asks me what's wrong and this time i can't take it. The barbed ball shoots up to my throat and the pain is bad. I don't want to let him know I'm in pain, but of course being who he is, he knows. The connection of our call becomes bad, to me it almost seems like a sign. That I'm not supposed to share my pain. That it might send him back into the black sea again. But I can't help it. My eyes start to sting and the treacherous tears push their way out of my eyes. Of course he knows. He asks me why I'm crying and I struggle to answer him. He can hear me, but I can't hear him. I tell him again that I was triggered, and what that means. Or rather, my best theory of what I think it means. The connection stays bad, and I can't make out anything he says, so he types to me instead. I think maybe he's annoyed at the connection and thinks he's not helping. So he says "I think I should get some sleep.". I panic. The fear rises to the top of my head like a tidal wave and before I know what I'm doing I ask him in a scared voice "Are you gonna leave me here like this?" I immediatly regret this. I've made him feel bad. I try to take it back, of course he should try to get some sleep. He's sick and not feeling well at all. I plead with him to just go and I'll talk to him tomorrow, but my voice betrays me. I vaguely concider mutiny, to mute myself and just type back. But he wouldn't have accepted that and would likely feel worse if I did. I start crying openly, my body won't allow me to keep it inside anymore. I can almost touch the worry coming from him, I'm still occasionally trying to convice him to go and sleep. Even if I really don't want him to. I don't want to be alone. But I don't know how to tell him that. So this is what I did. I wrote this and then I sent it to him.