I’ve been bargaining with myself all day.  Trying to make it through the work day and all the unpleasant tasks that it held.   Stalling all day.  Trying to avoid all the dull things that must be done today.  I managed to kill a lot of the work day putting up pictures.  Now there are 50+ framed and hanged in the apartment.  It’s starting to look decorated.

I’m still struggling to get started on anything creative, but I figure hanging the pictures is a good start.  More inspiring environment or something like that.   I’m planning on filling my hallway with pictures of friends and the happier pictures from my family — mostly ones of my brothers and me. I’ve been going back and forth on whether I’ll put up any pictures of Dad. Part of me thinks I should do it, after all, he did love me and I did love him and I know he cared about me even though he behaved like a monster.  Part of me thinks I don’t need to have any reminders of him in my home. Part of me thinks the omission of photos of him will act as a reminder, still.  Maybe my grandmother had the right idea of just hanging up pictures of people in their coffins.  (Seriously creepy, right?) Maybe I should just focus on pictures of friends and my siblings in the mean time.

Doctors appointments this week made me get nervous again about my longer term well being.  Sometimes I get really afraid for myself with my weight and health.  I can delude myself and tell myself my health is OK, because my blood sugar, chlosterol, etc have usually been OK, so far.  A little high some years, but not enough for treatment.  But I know that doesn’t last forever.  I think my overeating and weight gain is very related to the abuse and how I handle stress.  It’s complicated — it’s not just a coping mechanism, it’s also intended to sabotage myself, I think?  Let’s put it this way: there have been many times in my life where I consciously was glad that I (think I) am unattractive. I pretended it saved me from danger, or at least hassles.  Sometimes it’s good to feel invisible.  But sometimes it doesn’t feel good. It feels lonely.  I would say I can’t remember the last time I had a relationship, but I can. It was in 2004. Since then, the others have all just been “friends with…” or one time things.

That hits a nerve, to type that out.  It hurts to admit that I am the reason for my own unhappiness. Surely, others contributed, even started it, but I’m the one keeping the house of cards propped up now.