Run Away, Run Away!

(In which I discuss my fear of the not-so-distant future and then tangent into hope for the more distant future.)

Oh god this is really happening.

My year in which I need to become independent and able to support myself begins tomorrow. For months now I’ve been telling myself just to focus on keeping depression at bay, managing anxiety, and reaching my move. Not to think about all the other stuff that needed to happen so I wouldn’t get overwhelmed.

This morning while making coffee I thought about how a year from now I’ll probably – hopefully – be living alone and making coffee for just myself. How I’ll need a teapot for boiling water and a french press of my own. (Fell in love with preparing coffee via french press when we broke out one we’d been given after a 2nd coffee maker bit the dust.)

A part of me just wants to stay with what I know. At least it’s a life I know how to navigate. Wednesday, breaking down in my therapist’s office, she said I’d jumped off the cliff and was in free fall. (Not to imply that I was going to hit the ground and splat, though my brain certainly went there. It was not the most comforting thing I’ve ever been told.)

It certainly does feel like free fall at times. I’d better have a pair of wings waiting to unfurl, and that had better happen sooner rather than later.

I think other people see me as far more capable and competent than I feel. They have no idea how often I feel like I just want to find a hole, crawl in and curl up. Bare my teeth and growl at anyone that tries to stick a face or hand near me.

My life has remarkably few accomplishments. No, producing four children isn’t an accomplishment. My body grew them and then expelled them and I was just along for the whole miserable, vomitous, bloody ride.

I suppose I did keep them alive once they were out, though. And that actually IS an accomplishment. Meat suits are fragile, and meat suits being guided by impulse with no knowledge of what is dangerous and what is not are constantly imperiling themselves. Maybe that’s something I can tell myself when I need to feel like I’m somewhat competent. I kept five meat suits alive and generally unharmed. (I’m including my own meat suit in that count.)

Speaking of meat suites, A, H and I were chatting last night and I expressed frustration with the necessity to eat and sleep, because the former is a chore unless I actually feel like eating and have something on hand I enjoy, and the latter just sucks away my existence. H said that’s why when he can upload himself to a synthetic brain he’ll be leaving the crass necessities of blood and bone behind. A and I promptly responded ‘same.’

Now I’m picturing A and I as old lady hellions in robot bodies, dragging H, our respectable robot companion, along on our shenanigans. H would be constantly dismayed by our excesses and flamboyance, which is exactly what we would need because where’s the fun in excess and flamboyance if there’s no one around to be disapproving? Meanwhile H would express disapproval while secretly living vicariously through us.

Apparently a lot of people react with visceral horror to the idea of replacing the meat suit with a robot body. I wonder how they’re not reacting with visceral horror to daily existence in the meat suit. I mean, they know what this thing does, right?!

Anyway, I need to get back to scrubbing Trash Panda Palace. Writing has helped me feel calmer, at least.

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