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Dec. 11th, 2007 04:11 pmWell, the whole family's been out today, doing various things, so I had some quiet to rest and fret and everything. I don't really know what to talk about anymore. So much has gone so wrong in such a short amount of time, and now that Bernard's home for the Christmas break it's like having some kind of violent thief in the house. He lies constantly, continually, and we never know when some new surprise is going to be sprung on us. Is he going to try to get a cab to the airport tomorrow morning while I'm alone in the house with him? Is he going to steal a credit card or any cash or valuables he could sell? Is he going to disappear in the middle of the night? Is he going to attack us or hurt us so that we don't try to stop him? These are very real possibilities. Normally I would never attribute violence to him, but I wouldn't have believed he was capable of some of his recent behaviour, so I have no way to predict any of it anymore. That's perhaps the most terrifying thing of all.
I try not to think about it, but there's so much else to think about caused by it that it makes me sick. I have difficulty eating, and when I do eat I regret it pretty much immediately. I can't focus my mind on television or internet diversions or job-searching for more than five or six minutes at a time. I did get some writing done, but it was literally physically painful when I had to drag myself off the airship to answer a phone call from Mum. I do a lot of crosswords. I can't even concentrate on the work I have to do for my internship -- everything I try to remember just slips away. I've rarely been so completely nonfunctional, and I'm past the age where this kind of thing is an excuse for poor performance. You're expected to fall apart when you're twenty; when you're nearly thirty your authority figures are a lot less forgiving than a liberal-arts professor and a workstudy employer.
I don't know what I'll do until I leave, and when I'm back home I don't know how I'll manage expecting every minute to get a telephone call that my brother has disappeared.
I know it's frustrating to read these entries and either 1. be very tired of them, which I comprehend completely, or 2. feel that there's nothing you can do to help someone who's in pain. If anyone needs to filter me off or unfriend me, you have perfect amnesty to do so. I love journaling because I can put my thoughts out into the world without worrying that I'm forcing them on anyone, and I never want anyone who reads the Cafe to feel that they have to keep me on their list.
I'm okay. I'm just very, very tired.
I try not to think about it, but there's so much else to think about caused by it that it makes me sick. I have difficulty eating, and when I do eat I regret it pretty much immediately. I can't focus my mind on television or internet diversions or job-searching for more than five or six minutes at a time. I did get some writing done, but it was literally physically painful when I had to drag myself off the airship to answer a phone call from Mum. I do a lot of crosswords. I can't even concentrate on the work I have to do for my internship -- everything I try to remember just slips away. I've rarely been so completely nonfunctional, and I'm past the age where this kind of thing is an excuse for poor performance. You're expected to fall apart when you're twenty; when you're nearly thirty your authority figures are a lot less forgiving than a liberal-arts professor and a workstudy employer.
I don't know what I'll do until I leave, and when I'm back home I don't know how I'll manage expecting every minute to get a telephone call that my brother has disappeared.
I know it's frustrating to read these entries and either 1. be very tired of them, which I comprehend completely, or 2. feel that there's nothing you can do to help someone who's in pain. If anyone needs to filter me off or unfriend me, you have perfect amnesty to do so. I love journaling because I can put my thoughts out into the world without worrying that I'm forcing them on anyone, and I never want anyone who reads the Cafe to feel that they have to keep me on their list.
I'm okay. I'm just very, very tired.
