The Last Train to Rochester

Today is the day I leave for Rochester. I will arrive at Rochester early in the morning tomorrow and then go over for Berra's shower. Yep, they are the same day. I am planning on staying for one week, though I might just end up coming back earlier or perhaps later.

It feels awkward to be leaving S behind, like I am leaving the warmth of my heart here, in Madison. The further this gets, the more difficult it is going to be for me. My mom in Rochester and S back here. I am going to be terribly divided between the loves of my heart.

I had never felt this way when I was leaving M behind. I guess this is what makes this relationship so different and unique then my previous ones. Everything ends and begins again with S. His own personality and the value he attributes to me. The sheer willingness he possess to make things work and his way of showing his emotions, emphatically, affectionately without reserves, limitations or restraints. Free and deep. It's like a cloak I like to wear at all times. His love has become my second skin, I can't seem to do without.

The last time I went to Rochester it was with S and IL, which was an adventure by itself, different than my travelings before. This time it feels hollow to be traveling by myself--something I've done dozens of times. It feels lonely, for the first time. Time just won't go by.

Getting on that bus, I was a slushy, teary mess. It felt like I was leaving him for eternity, that's how long the upcoming weeks felt like to me.

Pack Up

I will be traveling soon and have been packing up my bags for my upcoming traveling to Rochester via train. Train again, because well simply I couldn't be bothered to look for tickets before due to the severity of my depression once again. Now, I have to pay for that by traveling with the train, go through the strenuous activity of baggage claim, luggage carrying, and putting up to be in the train for 12 hours. The wounds of my heart tell me this is a bad idea, perhaps it is. For now though, I am looking forward to seeing my mom in her cheery spirit and warm embrace. Her magical way of making me feel better, without realizing it.

Packing up here like this has particularly brought specific images from a while ago when everything about the past came to the surface. Like this, frantically, I was packing everything into my suitcases, as much as I could fit it in there, just wanting to get away from here, these actions that have tempered with my feelings and walked all over my pride that I have so highly regarded all of these times. This time the reason why my bags are being packed is different. I am not looking forward to getting away from all of this. A time off, might be nice though. A good test to see the truth and depthness of feelings on both ends, all around for all of the parties involved.

I am not going to lie when I say that I am not relieved to see the differences between packing my bags. I don't think I could go through the same reason, ever again. My heart has never been fragile one, but it will be for a second repetition of that. It's taxing of my body, of my soul and mind. It's time consuming and a hatred seed that flames all the unholy feelings within a vessel.

It's also good to see that the person I have chosen is decided, enduring and is ready to make sacrifices and ready to pull the weight if necessary, by himself. It's just as important to see that he is understanding, kind and generous. His warm heart is where my soul can comfortably nestle in when it needs to be rested and protected.

Upcoming Travel To Rochester

Berra's shower is coming up. I have to travel to Rochester. In a way this is going to probably set me back as I will have laxer conditions, no ability to go whatsoever to the outside world without the handy car of my mom, which is always with her due to her own business. It could be conducive to start reading seriously once more. It would give peace to my inner world once more, at least enough to quell it.

Though I am afraid to travel. I don't want to travel in this condition, thought that might be the best thing I need yet. Have the ripples settle down and come in to some sort of understanding, mutual exclusivity that holds my heart down. Some contact with the outside world might me what I need to realize the truth and accept reality, after all.

I don't want to be in Rochester in this condition, but I don't want to miss this opportunity to be there for my mom, for Banu and Berra. It is also going to be the first time I am going to be leaving Salih at home, by himself for a long time, without being able to see him. I don't know how we're going to react to these premises. I am a little nervous, a little excited and a little sad.

Rochester, wait for me.

Strained

It's really straining to write here like this. Without being thoroughly sincere. Without having any kind of muse to write about what it is that I should be writing about. I am so afraid of what will come out at the end of any kind of writing exercise that I stick to blogging and blogging only. Even at that, I am horribly failing. It's like the Gods have set this tennis match with me being against blogspot. Blogspot is winning and I am in my corner, perspiring like a pig and knowing there is no chance of winning, I've given up, doing it for the sake of some sort of regulator in my mind.

It really is straining to do this. My eyes have nearly closed, the lines are blurry, and my fingertips hurt from pressing on the key board and deleting everything. They find their way without a hitch, so carefully. I like the sound of the keyboard as my fingers press on them. It feels comforting. I don't like the sound of the enter though. It's too hard, too rough. It's like the barbarian I have become. In any minute, I will regress back to being a neanderthal.

Why do I even do this anymore? It's clear that I have nothing constructive or of value to say. Or even when there is, I skip over it and get stuck over the depressive and mundane. I can't seem to be able to write anything good. I can't seem to be able to write anything necessary, important and of note worthy. Something that would actually draw an audience. I keep babbling on and on, about, I don't even know what.

I need a wake up, I keep getting it. Though I can't seem to release myself of my own nightmare demons, I've created myself and in it, the biggest devil is still me. I'm sick of this. It's a repeating cycle.

This is straining. Trying to fill in my word count, and always failing anyway. What's the point? What's the point of writing, of this blog, of filling my daily word count goal. What's the point of talking about things that don't matter?

It's straining to be talking about something, anything at all.

Vomitting

I haven't been sick like this before. Is vomiting so horrible? God.

No, I am not really going to talk about vomiting, I promise. Today, I learned the word sincere comes from Latin, meaning without wax. It used to be that people who would dilute wine with water or other sort of a thing would seal it back with wax. Since that, it is obvious the word has gone through some evolution to mean what it means today. It has come to mean pure, and true.

Here's the tidbit of the day.

Already

It's March, already? I haven't done anything. Where did it all of it go? The time? The books I was supposed to read. I feel like a bleached, dirty mop. The wondrous feelings of joy, of enjoying being engaged socially, officially and into the nights. The celebrating phase, where we're supposed to be partying it up at dinners, get-togethers, parties and what not. Where did all of that go? Oh, right, because I just couldn't get myself to do anything as we returned from Rochester and learned of our devastating news. I've slumped and although I want to get out of this slump; at the very least change the circumstances of my slump, it just feels too draining to even decide. My hair follicles hurt, my arms feel heavy and sleep  has this torturing grip on me that it's just never enough, but it further erodes my soul.

What do I do? It isn't just easy to get up, open the blinds and let the fresh winter air come in. Sometimes I wish I had that much energy. Getting up to shower feels like a chore to me. I don't see the point, I'll just get dirty once again. Sleeping, waking up, going to bed, anything.  I feel out of touch and such incoherence is taking in my soul and mind separately that the ripple effects are astounding and gives me concussions. I am afraid to take a step back, I am even more afraid to take a step further. Action feels the worst. Taking that next step will change my life forever; whether for best or for worst is unknown at the moment. But I am afraid of what's to come when I do take that action. Such incomprehensibility that I just don't know what's going to happen. Not knowing, how this would effect me psychologically  terrifies me. And all of that horrid feelings of horror, fearing of the change, fearing of what it would make me and being cloaked in sin that I've seem to be immobilized by what is going on in between my mind and heart.

But  I have to get out of this. This hole of abyss that is leading me into hell--inevitably that is where I will end, but at least until then, I must see the world once more.

Hello March,

Hello March,

Will you be good to me? Will you lend me an ear and hear my revolt, will you join hands with me and unite against this scream of anti capitalism? Will you come and aid my suppressed emotions and thoughts so that I can be free once again, of any real substance, any real truth, any real responsibility and revert back to being a semi adult? I'd like that.

March, bring me promises of good behavior and an the signs that this illness will be cured, relieved of its nasty symptoms and I will be fully prepared for the upcoming battle of spring.

The crazy woman in me wants to disappear within myself, bring a little house forth, with everything in it. Have it all to myself, enjoy it thoroughly, to all the way to the end.

The other end is ashamed of such thoughts and the glimmering hope of that future.

So be kind to me, will you?