Honest to God there are days I feel like I am punching myself in the face.

Absolutely stupid morning, which started with my drinking the wrong of two lattes (I realized after half-way through I had the one with the nutmeg, and I hate nutmeg!), and just got heavier and heavier as it progressed into a tail-spin of even stupider.

I am usually quite good at keeping my shit on lockdown, and my emotional static clung to my dresses at home, rather than taking them for a twirl into the office. But not now and definitely not today, because while I can maintain that on the regular, the heaviness and solitude of this static cling buries me once about every two or three weeks, and it turns my ass inside out. And not in the fun kind of way, either.

Now. Because I can’t talk about this thing, this is why you amazing Readers have been watching me dance around like a loser for a while, without any of you actually knowing whether I’m dancing to Blues or Funk, or Britney or manic classical.

Because I can’t talk about it. And I can’t write about. I am struggling because I am a talker and a writer and no subject is off bounds, and I am the one among my friends about whom everyone will say I am stupidly fearless when it comes to honest conversation. Even the most difficult subject, I navigate like Not The Captain of The Titanic Does Anyone Know His Name, Anyway?

But not anymore! I have found a wickedly taboo subject that I must gobble up and wear on my insides when what I need to do is wear my heart on my sleeve and fucking be done with it.

But I can’t. I CAN’T. Because it’s a t.a.b.o.o. Weren’t you reading, my love?

Anyone who is sensitive and tapped into me sees it on a day like today. They are seeing the static cling because my hair is standing straight up looking for a radio signal, and I am quiet and detached because if I crack? If I crack a mm, there will be a tsunami rolled into a sandstorm rolled into that-winter storm-the-name-of-which-I-can’t-recall-maybe-it’s-a-Chinook? of epic proportions that is entirely beyond my control. And I will be That Crazy Girl.

But the secret is: I love That Crazy Girl, because that’s who I have always been. Fearless. Stupidly so, and without worry for human consequence and human words (though she is always tempered where the pain of others is at stake). If my morality is in check, I have never given a shit what people might say. That Crazy Girl, is someone I am missing so deeply because I have placed her in a cage not of my choosing but that of circumstance’s.

Maybe I should start again on-line dating and make that my profile? Weed out the pussies from the men instantly. On a normal day, I roll over and crush the former in an instant (then write about it); on a day like today, the later would need to let me bounce all over his head and know it will end once we have talked about my internal static cling which is handing me my ass and we would be okay and maybe even better than yesterday (then I’d write about it).

For a girl who has never ever coloured inside the lines (no fun!) and who revels in her own intensity and fuck-off to those who don’t revel in it too, I have chosen to cage That Crazy Girl because she is something fierce right now.

Today was the day out of every few weeks where wearing shit on my insides threw itself up all over my outside. And tomorrow and for the next few weeks, I will be alright and normal until my insides lose their mind again. This is my cycle. An amazing cycle which I loathe, but which I am apparently wearing well, though I am surprised to hear that voms is my colour.

Near the end of my day, my keyboard (the bastard) snagged my fishnet stocking. I am typing on my berry, and I am too tired to Google stalking vs stocking. I nearly undid and took off the left leg, heavy was my state of mind. Imagine? Because when in the shit did DIM start making such gentle fishnets? Anyone? Fishnets are meant for durability, no? They are meant to be handled anything but gentle and yet. And YET, my keyboard faced off with my left leg and won the battle.

Worst of all, my friend asked me if I wanted to talk about it and I had to do everything not to sob like the NOB above, because I could feel That Crazy Girl rattling her cage. Screaming. Because, I mean, I didn’t even know where to begin. Do I begin back in October? Or this morning when I tasted the nutmeg?

==========
The image is a Victorian pendant from this Etsy collection.