DKLOD

You may take away my accusing eyes.
You may steal my scolding tongue.
You may rip away my claws that I cannot with them deface you,
and surgically remove any part of me that offends you;
But short of killing me,
you won't be free of the mind that sees your treason for what it is
and judges you, Guilty.

Bed Bug Alert

Today just went from dull but more or less average to very stressful.

This isn't due directly to the fact that there were signs of bedbugs in my dorm room. It's the process for dealing with it that's causing me more tension. I was ambushed on my way back into the shelter, not allowed to access my locker, but asked for the key so that staff could do so, and presumably wash, and/or process everything in there. I was given a set of clothes from the clothing room, a towel, and some shampoo and conditioner (one in a hotel bottle, one in one of those little paper cups for condiments with dinner) and told to go shower, and put everything I had on me that was washable in one bag, and double-bag it, and everything that was not washable in another, and double-bag it. I did, with five exceptions:

1) The key to my locker's lock

2) My keycard to this shelter

3) My library card (I go to the library almost every day to use the computers, and if it takes more than a day before I get my things back, I still want that with me)

4) My glasses (though I removed the tassel that always hangs off them and tied it to my washable backpack instead)

5) A single hair tie, for its intended use.

I am already really, really wishing I kept Damon's iPod, or at least just the earbuds attached to it, too. I swear, I'm going to go crazy having no access at all to my diary, my music, or even the ability to listen to Savage Lovecast online, which I often listen to while stressed or bored to laugh a bit and calm down. My stationery, my wallet with all my ID and what little moneys I had, my passport, my writing, my bag... is all in double-bagged plastic in a dorm-room with everyone else's stuff and no-one can tell me exactly when I will be able to access it again. If I don't get everything back whole, intact and just as functional as it was before, I will be very, very, very upset. For now, I'm blogging just to put off the stress of not being able to do what I usually do when I'm stressed: listen to music, or comfortingly familiar voices, or watch Let's Plays on YouTube. Technically I could watch them, but couldn't hear the commentary that makes them interesting, and makes them Let's Plays.

So here I am in ill-fitting high heeled shoes without heel enclosure, a white t-shirt and grey stretchpants. At least after I complained I got a bra. It's too tight, but it's better than nothing. Without one, I felt disgustingly floppy and unpresentable, and was extremely conscious of my prominent nipples. Don't get me wrong, I love my nipples. I love my breasts! But I do not love wearing a loose shirt with no support for them. It feels as though everyone must be staring at me for being so hideously underdressed.

I don't know what I'm going to do for the evening, or indeed the next few days. If I'm lucky, I may be able to get access to some better fitting shoes, and perhaps a pair of earbuds. In the mean time... Oh, gods, the hours are just going to drag, right, on.

To make my stance perfectly clear: I am glad they're taking the bed bug thing seriously. I am. I really am. But the method is a huge inconvenience, and it is going to be making me quite miserable until it's over.

To Do what I Must; While I Am who I Am

No, I do not bring happiness with me wherever I go. Not always.

To my love, my presence is sorrowful; It confronts him with the guilt of having done me wrong. It puts a pressure on him that prohibits, rather than enabling and encouraging him to open up to himself, to be open and vulnerable enough to question, probe, consider, and discover, the deeper reasons for his own restlessness. I know it is hard enough for him to find that vulnerability within himself alone, let alone before the image of a sad love, a person he has hurt and cannot heal. I feel (I fear) it might be better for us both not to bear this painful, wistful company, full of the flashing glimpses of regrets and roads not taken.

I read a guide to interview planning and etiquette. It's all tips I've heard before. And I feel an instinctive despair, a familiar objection from my very core: "This is not who I am!"

"It's only what I do." The second voice rises like an ocean over a desert, like rivers into the sea. It brings with it a rightness, a freedom. And perhaps it brings the problem well into light. Is it not a beautiful, distant dream? To be able to Do what I Am, rather than live a dichotomy, in the left hand the truth of Who I Am, and in the right the truth of What I Do, each clumsily struggling to tie separate knots, or, may all goodness forbid, the one constantly undoing the other's, rather than forming a graceful bow of mutual effort between them.

And yet, having not come to that place, the separation is a forgiveness. I may do What I Must Do, and this does not override Who I Am. I need not be fundamentally changed or overwritten to fill a less natural or fitting role. My capability is a fact, and my quirks flavour and enhance it, but while I Do other than what I Am - at the behest of others, to feed myself - my secret self is not deleted, but lies in wait like a spy waiting for his opportune moment to strike, or a caterpillar for his wings.

Even as I write this, every letter feels like a lie, the mere thought of the act is uncomfortable as deceit, and the excuse that I "have to" tastes bitter and hateful in my mouth. But perhaps, I can consent to Do even in service of my enemies, and to Do with my fullest capacity for excellence, while waiting and growing and stowing myself carefully away, preparing for the chance to Do what I Am, and bowl the world over at just the right moment.

Now if only I could believe it.

I must find some way at least for the two not to be in open conflict, or I shall tear myself apart...