I can't sleep. The evening just slipped away from me and I like the utter sound of a quiet house, with quiet people sleeping and nobody nagging me. I like that the only thing awake besides me is the puppy, and even that's debatable.
I'm in an odd mood this evening. It's a mix of self-loathing and a few other things all trickling around in my psyche.
Eighteen days until I go to Halifax, if I end up flying out on the date I want. Eighteen days. And at the same time I'm both happy and excited...and downright scared. Don't get me wrong, I love Patrick dearly, and he's earned my trust ten times over. And I don't think meeting me in person is going to change his love for me...but the self doubt is always there. Staring at myself in the mirror, and seeing all my flaws. I'm fat and there's no hiding it. The beard's starting to come back with a vengance (maybe we're throwing money down the tubes to get it to stop growing.) My hair is too long. My eyes have this extreme sadness. Nobody would call me beautiful, at best they'd say cute.
And I wonder how in the hell that anybody could love this shell. And the answer is the simple fact that in this horrible ugly shell holds a keen mind and a sensitive soul. And I'm not a horrible person, as much as some people would like to make me out to be one.
But it's a hell of a lot easier to hide behind a keyboard.
My life has been focused on the flaws. I got from my mother, "You'd only be beautiful if you would..." and those words echo through my soul. Perhaps I rebelled towards tomboyishness against these words. Perhaps I simply gave up. Because I was never good enough. My mom's got high exacting standards and I'm never going to live up to them. So why do I care? Because somehow, those words, spoken once upon a time, have become engraved in my memory, taunting me. Beautiful? Me? Bullshit. But it's another standard I can never live up to, another way I feel marginalized and will never live up to expectations.
I'm large-boned. I have glandular problems; that's why I'm fat. (PolyCystic Ovarian Syndrome really sucks the big one if you ask my opinion.) And if they knew when I went off to college what they know now in terms of that disorder, some of my problems would probably be slightly more managable. But as it is, I'm fighting a losing battle to take the weight off. Add in my obvious depression issues (I'm manic-depressive, for those of you who didn't know that) and it leads me to this point.
Because it's the first time in a damned long time that I've felt secure in a relationship, and I don't want to lose that.
The song picked for this entry has always brought me to near tears. A day without rain; a day without sorrows, perhaps? Not possible. But yet, that strange melancholic hope bubbles out of the deep. Maybe tomorrow will be that perfect day. Maybe tomorrow I can stop hating myself; maybe tomorrow I can grow a backbone and tell off a few people who so richly deserve to be told off; maybe tomorrow I will finally feel safe and secure within my own skin.
But I don't hold out much hope for that.
And all I could really use is the tactile sensation of a hug. From anybody, although Patrick is probably the best. Eighteen more days...and it feels like a goddamned eternity. A long time to wait, when all I really want is a hug.
And that's about it. I think I'll go to bed now, it's damned late, and the cheery song my mp3 player cued after A Day Without Rain is driving me nuts.