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Super Shuttle vs. Terrible Tuesday
Jul. 23rd, 2006 03:41 amSince the roommate has to get to work before the bus lines start running on this half of town, and she doesn't drive, she takes Super Shuttle. This means that they call when they are here to pick her up at the appointed time (3am) and she's not already out and waiting.
After the initial startled reaction the first day, it's become far less of an issue for me. After all, what else are they supposed to do? It's perfectly logical. I'm not such a poor sleeper that a routine disruption is going to make it so that I can't get back to sleep. I get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom; I can become used to getting up in the middle of the night to tell Super Shuttle to chill out, the redhead is on her way.
And it's an excellent way to condition me out of the panic-fear-flight-fight reaction to the phone ringing while I'm asleep. Ever since 1996, if the phone rings while I am asleep, unless I know there is someone else ready to pick up that phone, unless I am so exhausted it doesn't break through, unless I am too tired and confused to find the phone, unless I make the conscious decision not to answer, I will pick up that phone. And I will be ready to do battle with someone or something, or dive halfway across the country and get my loved ones to safety. A wrong number at 8 am on a day when I'm scheduled to sleep until 11 can leave me awake getting rid of the cold shakes of reaction for an hour. A call earlier, especially while I'm sound asleep, is worse.
Today, the only reason I'm still up after they've called is that I needed to use the bathroom anyway, and I needed to get this out of my head. No shakes. No panic. No residual urge to teleport myself to the side of my beloved. It might be finally over.
It was ten years ago, and all parties involved in that ongoing summer of extended emergency are grown and gone. It's about time my body started catching up. Hooray desensitization therapy with Super Shuttle.
After the initial startled reaction the first day, it's become far less of an issue for me. After all, what else are they supposed to do? It's perfectly logical. I'm not such a poor sleeper that a routine disruption is going to make it so that I can't get back to sleep. I get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom; I can become used to getting up in the middle of the night to tell Super Shuttle to chill out, the redhead is on her way.
And it's an excellent way to condition me out of the panic-fear-flight-fight reaction to the phone ringing while I'm asleep. Ever since 1996, if the phone rings while I am asleep, unless I know there is someone else ready to pick up that phone, unless I am so exhausted it doesn't break through, unless I am too tired and confused to find the phone, unless I make the conscious decision not to answer, I will pick up that phone. And I will be ready to do battle with someone or something, or dive halfway across the country and get my loved ones to safety. A wrong number at 8 am on a day when I'm scheduled to sleep until 11 can leave me awake getting rid of the cold shakes of reaction for an hour. A call earlier, especially while I'm sound asleep, is worse.
Today, the only reason I'm still up after they've called is that I needed to use the bathroom anyway, and I needed to get this out of my head. No shakes. No panic. No residual urge to teleport myself to the side of my beloved. It might be finally over.
It was ten years ago, and all parties involved in that ongoing summer of extended emergency are grown and gone. It's about time my body started catching up. Hooray desensitization therapy with Super Shuttle.
The gift that keeps on giving
Nov. 11th, 2003 05:03 pmOne would think that after I'd survived Hell Summer, I'd have been done with it.
Hell Summer was one of the bad ones. First, my best friend was going out of state, for three months until forever. I didn't know what the situation he was going into was like, and from what little I could piece together out of what he said, it sounded bad. Him sending me a letter in Klingon-language, saying that he was in Rura Pente and had a phaser and was planning to escape, was not very reassuring. I had a job from hell, I wasn't getting enough sleep, and then something went very wrong. I got sick, and my best friend tried to kill himself in the middle of a drug-induced psychotic breakdown -- without telling me what, actually, was going on. This led to the breakdown and collapse of my engagement, and my family was none too thrilled with me for being friends with my best friend to start with, and kept giving me helpful advice like, "Tell him to go to hell, then everything will be just fine."
But no.
It's seven years later, and I think I'm finally over the worst of it. I can tell the story without stuttering. I can have a friend announce that they are moving almost without panicking.
I can mention heroin with only a slight stutter. I can say 'Milly's name without weeping.
But when something unconsciously reminds me of that, my brain still goes into a bit of a tailspin. Ohmigod, I'm not going to lose another friend. I'll do anything, just not lose another friend. For those months, I thought I'd lost him. I knew he was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.
It influences my attitude on friendship. It influences my feelings about memory. When he lied to me, and told me something that he considered important, then had forgotten all about his lie a month later -- I panicked. No one should forget something evidently that integral to them.
Bad communication panics me. If there's no apparent reason for lack of communication, my brain makes one up. He doesn't care about me. He has a girlfriend. He's dead. He moved and forgot to tell me. He moved and didn't tell me on purpose. It isn't because I don't trust him. It's because I've been betrayed before, by someone I loved just as much, and even though he's given me no reason to doubt him, I still associate betrayal with love.
If I love someone, they'll turn out to be a psycho who will hurt me. If I give all of myself to someone, he'll twist it out of recognition. If I trust someone, he'll call me psycho and choose someone else who will hate me for loving him. If I love someone and they don't love me back, I'll turn into a psycho and they'll hate me and I'll deserve it.
Those aren't the middle-of-the-night fears. Those are the broad daylight fears. Those are the reasons why I marvel at Darkside actually being friends with me, actually being trustworthy, actually allowing me to love him even if he doesn't understand it. It never happened that way and stayed so, in my world. Me loving was a constant; me loving being a good thing -- never.
Hell Summer was one of the bad ones. First, my best friend was going out of state, for three months until forever. I didn't know what the situation he was going into was like, and from what little I could piece together out of what he said, it sounded bad. Him sending me a letter in Klingon-language, saying that he was in Rura Pente and had a phaser and was planning to escape, was not very reassuring. I had a job from hell, I wasn't getting enough sleep, and then something went very wrong. I got sick, and my best friend tried to kill himself in the middle of a drug-induced psychotic breakdown -- without telling me what, actually, was going on. This led to the breakdown and collapse of my engagement, and my family was none too thrilled with me for being friends with my best friend to start with, and kept giving me helpful advice like, "Tell him to go to hell, then everything will be just fine."
But no.
It's seven years later, and I think I'm finally over the worst of it. I can tell the story without stuttering. I can have a friend announce that they are moving almost without panicking.
I can mention heroin with only a slight stutter. I can say 'Milly's name without weeping.
But when something unconsciously reminds me of that, my brain still goes into a bit of a tailspin. Ohmigod, I'm not going to lose another friend. I'll do anything, just not lose another friend. For those months, I thought I'd lost him. I knew he was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.
It influences my attitude on friendship. It influences my feelings about memory. When he lied to me, and told me something that he considered important, then had forgotten all about his lie a month later -- I panicked. No one should forget something evidently that integral to them.
Bad communication panics me. If there's no apparent reason for lack of communication, my brain makes one up. He doesn't care about me. He has a girlfriend. He's dead. He moved and forgot to tell me. He moved and didn't tell me on purpose. It isn't because I don't trust him. It's because I've been betrayed before, by someone I loved just as much, and even though he's given me no reason to doubt him, I still associate betrayal with love.
If I love someone, they'll turn out to be a psycho who will hurt me. If I give all of myself to someone, he'll twist it out of recognition. If I trust someone, he'll call me psycho and choose someone else who will hate me for loving him. If I love someone and they don't love me back, I'll turn into a psycho and they'll hate me and I'll deserve it.
Those aren't the middle-of-the-night fears. Those are the broad daylight fears. Those are the reasons why I marvel at Darkside actually being friends with me, actually being trustworthy, actually allowing me to love him even if he doesn't understand it. It never happened that way and stayed so, in my world. Me loving was a constant; me loving being a good thing -- never.
