Carry my joy on the left, carry my pain on the right

Maybe I should've known, dancing my limpy dance to "Who Is It?" in my apartment in 2008ish, that Bjork's lyrics were a truth in my own life...

Carry my joy on the left
Carry my pain on the right

That's how my pain is now.  I get glimpses of how little pain there is on the left.  I know it best when I insert/remove a tampon and I feel pain only on the right.  I want it to be wonderful, but it is confusing.  The pain is still bad all the time even though it's smaller now.  I can't tell the left side is quiet because the right side is still so loud.

I can't look back on bad events in my life and see the good.  My last relationship, my time in college.  I only see the bad.  I wonder if the mind does it to keep the body from tripping again into the same situation.

I am dating, but if I sniff my ex-boyfriend in someone, I jump ship immediately.  It is probably better to do so, but I have never had such a primal aversion before.

I am dating a guy who is many good adjectives, but I am not swooning because I'm afraid I'm wrong.

Dating him is like trying to get a Rube Goldberg device started against a wind.  And I think it is because I am a chaotic pendulum, carving out a system predictable from above but not from inside.

I've always preferred night, but for several winters I've been terrified when the sun goes away.  That it will never come back.

My psychiatrist told me to take Vitamin D, that there's no point in getting a Vitamin D blood level because new research is showing that what is normal by lab standards may not be good enough for the brain, especially in winter.

"Are you going to take it, or are you just saying you're going to take it?"

I'm taking it.

My psychiatrist in college told me that there is little depression in Iceland despite their being so far north and it's because they eat so much fish.  She told me to take fish oil.

I'm thinking a bell dress would be a better antidepressant.

I would wear it all the time.  It's amazing the things people don't tell you.  I am getting better at not imagining what they might think.  Like how they might say to each other that I never seem to wear anything but my bell dress.  That my bells keep getting stuck in the janitor's vacuum but there is no bureaucratic recourse for the accidental dropping of bells from one's dress.  That they are convening a weekly meeting to amend the company's conduct guidelines to exclude bell dresses.  That their initiative has run aground when a kind-hearted soul likens my dropped bells to the pearl earring she lost down the drain in the ladies' room, requiring maintenance to disassemble the plumbing in that half of the building.  That they are now considering limiting staff wardrobe to items permitted to those under 5, i.e., to everything that no one can swallow.

That the head dinging is getting creepy.

I admire Bjork because she vents herself so efficiently through her art.  She shows me that I can vent efficiently too, that if I am worried about the sun I should scream that worry into the universe instead of reprimanding myself for being nonsensical.

That if I am a pendulum with two legs, I should relish being jerked around by my tether because my tether is the reason for my swing.

I have forever been a bundle of nonsense.

I believe sometimes that I am wordless.

I believe sometimes that my only language is the incessant whip of the nonsense inside me.

One more picture of the chaotic pendulum:

Graph of the time for the pendulum to flip over as a function of initial conditions.

Resemble much?