(no subject)

( Gaeilge )

Oof. Sometimes I forget that emotional stress leaves me exhausted and needing more sleep as much as physical stress, and I should allow for that. Not much done this morning, but at least I'm kind of muscling through, and now the weekend's almost here. And then I can rest.

Still no real plans as far as the main cause of all the upset, but I've got some good advice and some good thinking to do. And I've got stuff I can do in the meantime, like, um, all that writing I need to finish up. Catch up on TV shows, I'm all caught up on Haven now and A;FDGHDF;AGJHDF;AGJKDFHAG;KJDFAGHD'FGIAG. I want to knock the two main boys' heads together. And then give them lots of hugs. Also, the Rev's a psycho. I mean, we knew that from his first appearance, but damn. Psy-cho. So, watching. Rewatching. I've hit the weird headspace where everything's sort of floaty and I'm coasting along on routine and things I know I should do but have to put all my focus to doing. Languages. Exercise. More focused exercise may happen tonight, this morning was sort of drifty.

So was the conversation on the way in about my mother's family, which I share with you now, as it is mostly more distant and more along the lines of 'oh, interesting' than 'augh my formative experiences based on WHAT?' Mother's mother's father, I think it was, is from the Ukraine? (or Lithuania), and was hid under a butcher's shop in a group of about fifteen kids while the pogrom went through. In the end, after everyone was shuttled onto ships over to America, only three to five kids survived. Mother's mother's mother married young, but then her husband died of tuberculosis and she moved back home only to discover that her father died and her brother had taken over as head of household, whereupon she was so incensed by this that she went after him with a kitchen knife. Wacky fun. And this explains quite a bit about my mother's mother's female relatives, really, considering that when I was very very little and they were still alive they all struck me as very, very scary and very angry people. I only saw them maybe twice, maybe a few times more? But Grandmaman took me to visit them in the nursing home/hospice/thing and we wheeled her around in a chair and she scared the crap out of me. I don't remember if it was mother's mother's mother, or mother's mother's mother's sister who spent most of someone's wedding ranting that the family was trying to kill her. I have such a wacky family sometimes. But again, this is more distant past stuff. I put it here to remember it. I think I've even mentioned this before, I know I've mentioned pogrom stuff.

(Hah, okay, looking back on some of these tags, yes, I did.)

And since the universe is not in the habit of handing out breaks, I get to deal with more personal shit today. No, nobody's hurt or sick or dying or anything in my immediate sphere, but there is emotional upset from the boy for perfectly understandable reasons, I'm not sure how much I'm supposed to tell and how much I'm not. We'll leave it at, emotionally rough stuff is going on at work that is no one's fault and just tragic and hard. A couple of days where nothing significant happens and we all get to sit around and watch TV would not go amiss, world. Just saying.

(no subject)

( Deutsch )

According to news article implication, Herman Cain came up with this ridiculous 9-9-9 tax code based on a video game. Okay, maybe not, but apparently it resembles the tax codes found in Sim City. Not Sin City like I first read. And, you know? I don't care if it's true or not, but that should become political fanon. Just because it implies he's so incompetent he can't come up with a sound economic plan based on real economics, he has to go after VIDEO GAME ECONOMICS.

I wrote that somewhere between at 10 and 11 this morning. By 11.30 I was exhausted again. I keep forgetting at the most inconvenient times that emotional stress is almost as bad as physical stress, and in some cases worse, and I will need more sleep. The end result being that I am taking forty five minute naps in the middle of just about everything except my day job. I really, really am getting tired of this, universe.

On the very dubious plus side, I doubt the boy is in any shape to run game either this weekend, so we will be doing nothing but curling up, watching television, reading books. Making food. I'll be doing writing, he's off work too, so we can just hide in our apartment and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist. And sleep. A lot.

There was a Metaquotes going around on LiveJournal a while back about people dying, the folks who stay with them, and whether or not it is noble to say, I can't do this, and back off. And a lot of people arguing that yes, it is good to know your limitations, and a lot of people arguing that you should suck it up and stay with your friend/loved one in their last hours because otherwise you're a terrible person. And as this has become an abruptly personal issue for me in the last 12 hours, as personal as it can get for me at the moment? Fuck. I have no answers here, just, fuck. Sitting with the dying is hard. It is draining, it is exhausting, it is debilitating and painful and hard. All on its own, no arguments needed about who's suffering more, I hate those arguments. There does not need to be a bitching contest about whose suffering is worst, as though there are quantitative or qualitative degrees of suffering and if you only make it to a 7.6 on the Pathos scale, no whining for you. Fuck. That. I don't know if it's nobler to sit with the dying or to know your limitations and when you'll be more of a wreck and a burden on the dying than a help, I don't know if there's a solution and I doubt that if there is one it can be summed up in a sentence or even a few paragraphs of a Metaquote. People are complex creatures. What I do know, did know and do know again now, more abruptly than I wanted to, is that sitting with the dying is hard.

Fuck. Just... fuck. I'll be under my blankets if anyone needs me.