I've been putting off writing about this for multiple reasons that will rapidly become clear. But it finally caught up with me yesterday, so I know if I don't go on and do it, it's going to dog at my heels 'til I do. Not that this will necessarily make it better, mind you, but it's damn sure not going to make it worse.
Last Tuesday night, my mother sent me an email, asking if she could come up Wednesday. (She only works half-days on Wednesdays.) This isn't exactly something unusual for her, so I just told her "sure" and didn't think anything else about it. I met her Wednesday afternoon at the appointed time so that she wouldn't have to drive all the way across town to pick me up or whatever. I asked--out of curiosity, not douchiness--what brought her up that day, and she kinda dodged the question. I didn't think too much about that, either. I figured she just didn't really have anything better to do but didn't want to come right out and say it. So I let it go.
Anyway, we went to eat, and when we finished and got back in the car, she told me why she'd really come--to drop this bit of bad news.
Last Sunday evening, after Daddy'd left to go back to work, she got a call from (someone, I forgot who) saying that one of our horses was down in the pasture. So she went out there, and sure enough, Fergie was down. She called a couple of people, and they were able to get him up, but he went back down shortly thereafter. She said he was lying funny, not like horses usually lie when they're uncomfortable, but on his back with his legs splayed out awkwardly.
More help arrived. It was determined that my baby boy had had a heart attack--or possibly more than one--and wasn't getting back up. Because of his age, the decision was made to put him down.
Luckily, my parents have wonderful friends because all this was taken care of for my mother, and he was buried in the pasture immediately afterward. Also luckily, he was found within an hour of going down the first time, so he wasn't out there suffering an inordinately long amount of time before he was found.
That is literally the only good news about this situation.
Fergie--who also had an incredibly stupid name he was registered under, but we always called him Fergie--had been with me since I was in the 9th grade. I'd had one of my show horses (Bubba--yes, we like to give our horses stupid names, shut up) for a couple of years, and we'd decided that it'd be cool if I had another one, too. Daddy found an ad in one of those Trader's Helper/Bulletin Board/whatever type of papers about a 5-year-old registered Tennessee Walking Horse gelding for sale for a reasonable price. So one Saturday in March, Daddy, Mother, Crazy Trainer #1 (yes, I've had more than one), and I went to bumfuck Beulah, Alabama, to check out said horse.
This was 1999, but it seems like so much more recently than that. Weirdly enough, I remember that that morning, I was changing the sheets on my bed when my trainer called to say we could head down to see the horse that would become Fergie later that day. I only had it half-done, so the quilt and comforter were lying on the floor when the phone rang. I tripped over them on my way to answer it and broke one of my toes. So when I met Fergie for the first time, I could hardly walk because my broken toe hurt so bad. Funny what sticks out in your memory. (Although me breaking toes--then and now--was hardly anything unusual. I've broken all of them at least three times apiece because I'm clumsy and have a propensity to gravitate toward things that induce bodily harm.)
Anyway, when we got there, the dude, who was a horse trader, pointed to a terribly dirty, pitifully thin horse standing in the middle of a muddy field. Seriously, he was so skinny that I was afraid to test-ride him and could only be persuaded to do it for a couple of minutes. Daddy said later that he had serious doubts about buying him because he was afraid he'd be dead before summer.
But there was something about this poor, ragged, filthy, scrawny-ass horse. And I was a sucker for hard-luck cases (which is something that hasn't changed a bit, incidentally). So in a day or two, we went back down there, picked him up, and carried him home.
We ended up being right about him. When he got healthier and shed his raggedy old winter coat, he was a gorgeous blood bay. "Bay" doesn't so much describe a color as a pattern; a bay is a horse with a black mane and tail, black legs, and a black nose. Most bays are a kind of dull brown color, but Fergie was a slick, fiery red (hence, "blood bay") with the aforementioned black points and a mane and tail that grew insanely long. He topped out at about 16.2 hands (which is about 5 feet, 6 inches at the top of the back) and somewhere in the neighborhood of 1200 pounds. He was a big boy.
On the other hand, he was built really funny, so he wasn't exactly a majestic steed, the poor thing. His head was about two sizes too large for the rest of him, and his ears were too long, and his (lovely) dark eyes were too big. Otherwise, his front end was built more or less correctly, but his back was too short, his butt too cramped, and his lower legs and ankles much too thick. But I didn't care.
He was pretty if you didn't care too much about conformation, but in the summer, his slick fiery-red coat and sparkling black mane and tail made up for his weird build, God love him.
It became obvious pretty quickly that he'd lived a rough life on top of the near-starvation. He was nervous, high-strung. But he'd been trained as a show horse, you could tell. Apparently, he hadn't made the cut at whatever trainer's barn he'd been at, and they sold him, which is how he ended up half-starved to death in a shithole in Central Alabama.
He may not have made it there, but he was the first "real" show horse I ever had. Bubba, I had made into one. But Fergie was bred to be one, born to be one, trained to be one. So to my 15-year-old self, he was, of course, the second coming.
I'll spare you all the stories of the things we did together. But I will say that even though he was high-strung and would never be the kind of horse you could plop a beginner on safely, he was also uncannily intelligent for a horse, and he never once lifted a hoof to hurt anyone. (Well, except for that one time when he ran away with my college boyfriend who just knew he could handle Fergie and nearly decapitated the dumb bastard by running under a clothesline, but I think he was just trying to keep me from suffering said idiot's presence any longer.)
He'd do anything you asked him, and he was never afraid of anything. Seriously, I used to take him for rides down the side of the road. My other horses would spook at oncoming cars or other people's asshole dogs coming out to terrorize us, but he never batted an eyelash. I knew that when I was riding Fergie, I never had to worry about anything extraneous because he had ice water in his veins in that regard. He'd even terrorize people's asshole dogs back when I let him. You have no idea how much fun it was to chase them on this massive red horse and listen to them yelp and run, after they'd chased and snapped at my other horses who'd shy away from them. (Still hate fucking dogs to this day, by the way.) I always secretly thought that we must look like the First Horse(wo)man of the Apocalypse to those fucking asshole dogs, with me on the giant red horse, bringing War to other people's shithead canines.
I also may have been entirely too prone to flights of fancy...which is something else that hasn't changed.
I had all kinds of insane mishaps on other horses, but I owned Fergie-man for 16 years and never once even thought that I might fall off of him. He was a fucking rock.
We eventually became the terror of show rings in our part of the country for awhile, too. My parents never had the money to really finance a push toward the big-time for me (even though if you had asked anybody at that time, they'd have told you I had the talent--this isn't bragging, just observation), so I had to settle for the small-time.
And the greatest moment of my life took place on Fergie's back. I was...17 maybe? We were at a horse show somewhere near Sylacauga, and we'd made the (frankly bizarre) decision for me to ride in the Championship because fuck it, I guess. Fergie performed even better than usual that night, and in the middle of that thick, hazy summer night in a show ring on the other side of the middle of nowhere, everyone fell in love with us. The whole crowd, every single fucking one of them, was on their feet...for us. People I'd never met before in my life, people I'd never see again, they were standing up, cheering, screaming, applauding, shouting my back number to the judges, and every time the announcer called for a gait change, it just got louder.
That had never happened to me before, and it has never happened since. We won the Championship class (and I've still got the giant ribbon they hooked on his bridle for our victory lap). And there was a guy there who had, just earlier that week, basically told me to my face that my horse and I weren't shit, watching every minute of it. According to my father, this dude looked at my trainer (Crazy Trainer #1) and admitted that he was painfully wrong.
(Well, naturally. It couldn't have been the greatest moment of my life if I hadn't been able to spite somebody in the process. I just hate I didn't get to see it.)
Every moment of my life since then has been nothing in comparison. Nothing.
Eventually, Crazy Trainer #1 ended up ruining him--show-horse-wise, I mean, not life-wise. Crazy Trainer #2 only made it worse when he claimed he could fix it. So for the last ten or so years of his life, Fergie never saw the inside of another show ring. But it was ok because he'd been amazing in his day, and it wasn't exactly his fault that my parents entrusted my horses to idiots. I just rode him at home, and it was fine.
I've had lots of horses come and go since then. He and Bubba were the only ones I couldn't bring myself to sell. (Bubba and I have done plenty of crazy shit together, too.) And even though he was a couple of years younger than Bubba, I always knew that Fergie would probably be the first to go because he'd had such a hard life before he came to live with us. Baby boy never forgot going hungry when he was young because he would absolutely eat his weight in food and never slow down. But, hell, I don't blame him. I'd have done the same.
I hadn't ridden him in years, but that was fine, too. He deserved his retirement. And when I was down there at Easter, I went to go visit the horses (which is not something I do often anymore because it's a reminder of things I always wanted and could never have). Now I'm glad I did because I don't think I'd seen them since Christmas at the time. I'm glad I got to see him one last time.
Anyway, Mother had come that day because she didn't want to text me or email me or call me to tell me what had happened, and she knew enough people around home knew, so she didn't want me to accidentally find out some other way. So she came to tell me. And she was so upset, both at what had happened and having to be the bearer of bad news, that I did my best to not act completely devastated. I didn't want to make it any harder for her than it already was, and it wasn't like it was her fault. Say what you want about her--and I will--but nobody can ever say that she was cruel to the horses. I know that whatever decision she made, she did it with his best interest in mind.
He'd gotten sick a few times over the winter. I'd told her then that if something happened, and I wasn't there, to please, please, please not let him suffer. I didn't care if she had to call someone to come shoot him--which, while she didn't come right out and say it, I'm almost sure is what ended up happening because they'd have had to wait so long for a large-animal vet to get there (assuming you could find one who'd even come to start with)--I just didn't want him to suffer. I could stand anything but that. So she knew how I felt about the issue. And while I wish baby boy could've stuck around a little longer, there was no way in this world that I could have possibly insisted that she keep him alive and in pain just so I wouldn't be sad. I'm selfish, but I'm not that selfish.
He died just a few weeks short of his 22nd birthday.
Baby boy lived a (relatively) long life, and I'd like to think it was pretty happy for him, for the most part. It was only right that he got to go out with some amount of dignity. He deserved that much at the very least. I hate that I didn't get to see him and say goodbye, but I don't hate my mother for that, either. She was trying to spare me, I know, and I wouldn't have wanted them to wait while he was in pain just for me to get there. That wouldn't have been right, either.
I guess the only good thing is knowing that, since he was never afraid of anything in life, he wasn't afraid in his last moments, either. He was always fearless.
I tried to hide how fucked up I was over it when my mother was here because, like I said, she already had enough to deal with. And afterwards, I just kinda tried to bury myself in my work and other things. I made it a grand total of four days before it broke me. I lost my shit yesterday, and I'm still mostly losing it now. It just doesn't feel right to be referring to him in the past tense.
You know how people always say that they don't have a favorite child or whatever, but secretly, they always do? I love all my horses, but Fergie was the one that I loved the most. I tried to not treat any of them differently, but he was the one with the special place in my heart, and I like to think that he knew it, too.
I've had animals die before, never a horse. And I don't care what anyone says, it's different. I guess it's because they live so much longer and remain in your life so much longer. I had him for 16 years. That's more than half my life. And while I knew he (and Bubba, too) were getting old, I guess I never wanted to think that one day, they might be gone.
So, yeah. I'm not ok. And I probably won't be for a very long time. And this on top of the fact that my father fell at work a few weeks ago and broke his wrist/arm in three places (and narrowly avoided having to have surgery)...well, it's just a lot to deal with. (And also knowing that Bubba, too, just turned 25, so I'll end up going through this again in the next few years. Fuck.)
It just doesn't seem right that the next time I go down there, there will only be four horses in the herd instead of five....
God, I miss my baby boy. This is so much rougher than it has any right to be.
Rest in peace, Fergie-man. You've earned it, my precious baby boy. You've earned it.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Friday, March 20, 2015
Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Writers....
....'Cause they never leave home, and they're always alone, even with someone they love.
It occurred to me that I haven't written anything here in a while, so I figured I probably should. Not that there's a whole lot to say, but eh.
I managed to push my way through yet another year of the winter depression bullshit. It lifted a little while back (but I'm not exactly sure when because my memory is atrocious). Spring officially begins today, and y'all have no idea how happy I am about it.
It was a long winter.
Oh, and I coughed my brains out from that cold I had at Christmas until, like, the end of February. That was lovely.
So how am I coming along with the handful of goals I had for the year?
Well, I finished the entirety of the DuoLingo Spanish course tonight. Yeah, like, the whole thing. I've been working on it for several months, so it was nice to finally finish it. I'll review a little every day, of course, because if I don't, I'm going to forget. Oh, and I started doing the "English for Spanish speakers" course a little while back, too, and I'm about three-quarters of the way finished with it. Yes, I realize I'm an English speaker, but the reverse course teaches some things that the "Spanish for English speakers" course doesn't, and that's what they recommend you do if you're serious about it.
In addition to my progress in Spanish, I'm about a quarter of the way through the Dutch course. That doesn't sound too impressive, I know, but I started with literally zero knowledge of Dutch. At least with Spanish, I was able to test out of about a third of it. I had to start from the very, very beginning with Dutch. I like it, though. It's kind of batshit, but I like it.
Also, now that English-to-Spanish is done (and Spanish-to-English is mostly done), I think I'll add a new course at some point. Probably not until I get farther along in Dutch and finish Spanish-to-English, though. They've currently got a "Russian for English speakers" in the works, and it's supposed to be ready in...August, I think it is? Anyway, I've always wanted to learn Russian because I have this really bizarre fascination with Soviet and Russian history and culture. (So much so that FangBunny periodically threatens to get me a Russian mail-order husband. Or husbands, actually. Plural, because she knows me well.) And I suppose I'm a glutton for punishment because that shit's supposed to be hard. But you know what? I kinda like challenges. So, yeah, I'm hoping to pick that up when it becomes available (and I should be finished with Spanish-to-English) by then, too. (And after that, I have no idea. I haven't thought that far ahead yet. And who knows? I may be bored with by then, anyway.)
Also-also, I'm on a 70-day streak on DuoLingo now. So yay?
So that's how it goes on the language-learning front. How goes it on the writing front, you ask?
Well...there's a reason I've been talking about language-learning for the past ten minutes: I've actually made progress there. *Eyeroll*
Actually, I've kinda decided to put writing on hold for a little while (with the exception of a project FangBunny and I are trying to get off the ground) to get my work shit together a little better. I let all my websites go about a year or so because I couldn't afford to keep them all running anymore, and they weren't making me any money, anyhow. I have two new ones now--one of which just launched this week--and I'm trying to start taking this shit seriously again. Luckily, this is the time of year that people are a bit freer with their money than they normally would be, so it's a good time to try to do it. It'll slow down around June or so and then slow way down in August. Maybe by then, most of the things will be running on their own (and I will be making a reasonable amount of money again), and I can write.
I mean, probably not, but maybe.
As far as mental stuff goes...I'm ok. Spring is a good time of year for me. The biggest problem I've got at the moment is a completely fucked up sleep schedule (hence me writing this blog post at 4:30 in the morning).
Um, let's see. What else?
Oh, yeah, pretty sure I'm going mostly vegetarian. There are multiple reasons for this, but the biggest ones are that meat is fucking expensive, and I don't like most of it, anyway. I've never liked *much* of it, but the older I get, the less of a taste I have for it. (Meds probably have something to do with this as well.) So why waste what little funds I have on something I don't care for that much, anyhow?
Well, that's pretty much all I can think of now. I will end by saying the same thing in three languages and wowing everybody with my fantastic (haha) language skills.
"Hi, I'm Bunny. I speak English, some Spanish, and a little Dutch. I also can't sleep, and that's why I'm writing this."
"Hola, me llamo Bunny. Hablo inglés, un poco de español, y un poquito de Neerlandés. Tambien no puedo dormir, y eso es por que estoy escrito esto."
"Hoi, mijn naam is Bunny. Ik spreek Engels, sommige Spaans, en een beetje Nederlands. Ik kan ook niet slapen, en dat is de reden waarom ik ben aan het schrijven dit."
Dazzled yet? You totally should be.
It occurred to me that I haven't written anything here in a while, so I figured I probably should. Not that there's a whole lot to say, but eh.
I managed to push my way through yet another year of the winter depression bullshit. It lifted a little while back (but I'm not exactly sure when because my memory is atrocious). Spring officially begins today, and y'all have no idea how happy I am about it.
It was a long winter.
Oh, and I coughed my brains out from that cold I had at Christmas until, like, the end of February. That was lovely.
So how am I coming along with the handful of goals I had for the year?
Well, I finished the entirety of the DuoLingo Spanish course tonight. Yeah, like, the whole thing. I've been working on it for several months, so it was nice to finally finish it. I'll review a little every day, of course, because if I don't, I'm going to forget. Oh, and I started doing the "English for Spanish speakers" course a little while back, too, and I'm about three-quarters of the way finished with it. Yes, I realize I'm an English speaker, but the reverse course teaches some things that the "Spanish for English speakers" course doesn't, and that's what they recommend you do if you're serious about it.
In addition to my progress in Spanish, I'm about a quarter of the way through the Dutch course. That doesn't sound too impressive, I know, but I started with literally zero knowledge of Dutch. At least with Spanish, I was able to test out of about a third of it. I had to start from the very, very beginning with Dutch. I like it, though. It's kind of batshit, but I like it.
Also, now that English-to-Spanish is done (and Spanish-to-English is mostly done), I think I'll add a new course at some point. Probably not until I get farther along in Dutch and finish Spanish-to-English, though. They've currently got a "Russian for English speakers" in the works, and it's supposed to be ready in...August, I think it is? Anyway, I've always wanted to learn Russian because I have this really bizarre fascination with Soviet and Russian history and culture. (So much so that FangBunny periodically threatens to get me a Russian mail-order husband. Or husbands, actually. Plural, because she knows me well.) And I suppose I'm a glutton for punishment because that shit's supposed to be hard. But you know what? I kinda like challenges. So, yeah, I'm hoping to pick that up when it becomes available (and I should be finished with Spanish-to-English) by then, too. (And after that, I have no idea. I haven't thought that far ahead yet. And who knows? I may be bored with by then, anyway.)
Also-also, I'm on a 70-day streak on DuoLingo now. So yay?
So that's how it goes on the language-learning front. How goes it on the writing front, you ask?
Well...there's a reason I've been talking about language-learning for the past ten minutes: I've actually made progress there. *Eyeroll*
Actually, I've kinda decided to put writing on hold for a little while (with the exception of a project FangBunny and I are trying to get off the ground) to get my work shit together a little better. I let all my websites go about a year or so because I couldn't afford to keep them all running anymore, and they weren't making me any money, anyhow. I have two new ones now--one of which just launched this week--and I'm trying to start taking this shit seriously again. Luckily, this is the time of year that people are a bit freer with their money than they normally would be, so it's a good time to try to do it. It'll slow down around June or so and then slow way down in August. Maybe by then, most of the things will be running on their own (and I will be making a reasonable amount of money again), and I can write.
I mean, probably not, but maybe.
As far as mental stuff goes...I'm ok. Spring is a good time of year for me. The biggest problem I've got at the moment is a completely fucked up sleep schedule (hence me writing this blog post at 4:30 in the morning).
Um, let's see. What else?
Oh, yeah, pretty sure I'm going mostly vegetarian. There are multiple reasons for this, but the biggest ones are that meat is fucking expensive, and I don't like most of it, anyway. I've never liked *much* of it, but the older I get, the less of a taste I have for it. (Meds probably have something to do with this as well.) So why waste what little funds I have on something I don't care for that much, anyhow?
Well, that's pretty much all I can think of now. I will end by saying the same thing in three languages and wowing everybody with my fantastic (haha) language skills.
"Hi, I'm Bunny. I speak English, some Spanish, and a little Dutch. I also can't sleep, and that's why I'm writing this."
"Hola, me llamo Bunny. Hablo inglés, un poco de español, y un poquito de Neerlandés. Tambien no puedo dormir, y eso es por que estoy escrito esto."
"Hoi, mijn naam is Bunny. Ik spreek Engels, sommige Spaans, en een beetje Nederlands. Ik kan ook niet slapen, en dat is de reden waarom ik ben aan het schrijven dit."
Dazzled yet? You totally should be.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Something, Something, Slings & Arrows, Something About Fortune...Whatever
I've been mostly useless for...weeks now, I think it is.
I caught a cold right before Christmas and spent the whole time from Christmas Eve 'til nearly New Year's Eve feeling like death. At its worst--which, I think, was the day after Christmas--I wasn't able to sit up for longer than about an hour at a time...and nearly passed out more than once because if you're going to be ill, why do it in half-measures? (*Sigh*)
As an aside, this is why I hate hearing people complain about their "weak immune systems" and how very sick this always makes them. The cold virus doesn't actually cause any tissue damage, so any symptoms you have are just immuno-responses. And as I'm multiple autoimmune disorders on legs, my symptoms--of anything, not just colds--are disproportionately bad in comparison to whatever bug I've got. So while the people who whine about their "weak immune systems" sneeze and sniffle a little and manage to go on about their daily lives, I'm laid up in bed like I'm dying. (And, yes, it was definitely just a cold or something mild like that, not the flu. The flu hits me even harder than that. Ugh. I don't even want to think about it.) So kindly don't ever mention your delicate constitution around me unless you want me to shove my foot right up your poor, delicate little ass.
*Eyeroll*
Oh, well, it was still a better Christmas, illness-wise, than last year. Last year, my daddy and I had to take my mother to the emergency room in the middle of the night the day after Christmas because she'd gotten some godawful stomach virus from my aunt and was so sick that she was getting worryingly delirious. (Somehow, miracle of miracles, I managed to not get that particular illness, for which I will be eternally grateful.)
Even now, though, post-cold, I'm still coughing and have that weird warped-sounding voice you get after you've been sick, along with a still slightly-stuffy head. It's not enough to really impair me, just enough to annoy me and make me feel like I'll never get enough to drink.
Still, though, even as the great respiratory virus of 2014 moves on (thank God), I'm left with a sort of bone-deep exhaustion that's not readily explained away. Well, not readily explained away if you're not batshit crazy, I should say. It's the kind of tired that can only come from my illness. The first symptom is the feeling of moving through molasses (and the second is apparently the use of needlessly poetic language of the "terrible" variety).
In addition to feeling like I'm trying to move with cement blocks chained to my limbs (and talking like I've stepped right out of some third-rate Shakespearean rip-off), I've got that "looking (and thinking) through a haze of cotton candy and Quaaludes" feeling, too. Oh, and I'm losing time, too. I have no idea how it got to be 11:10 at night.
All in all, I've been pretty unproductive. What I really want to do is sleep for about a hundred years, but I also know that won't help. (But, lord, is it tempting.) What I really *need* to be doing is sleeping considerably less because that would probably make it better. But curling up in bed has pretty much always been a favored activity for me when things get too loud in my head to deal with, and sleep, when it'll come, has always been a refuge that I'm loath to give up.
See? Bad Shakespearean rip-off. I can't even do iambic pentameter.
I'm going to have to do it, though, or the world will be at risk for once again being subjected to my crimes against the English language.
Nonetheless, I'm going to bed. Maybe falling asleep early (for me) will lead to getting up early (for me). Or something.
I caught a cold right before Christmas and spent the whole time from Christmas Eve 'til nearly New Year's Eve feeling like death. At its worst--which, I think, was the day after Christmas--I wasn't able to sit up for longer than about an hour at a time...and nearly passed out more than once because if you're going to be ill, why do it in half-measures? (*Sigh*)
As an aside, this is why I hate hearing people complain about their "weak immune systems" and how very sick this always makes them. The cold virus doesn't actually cause any tissue damage, so any symptoms you have are just immuno-responses. And as I'm multiple autoimmune disorders on legs, my symptoms--of anything, not just colds--are disproportionately bad in comparison to whatever bug I've got. So while the people who whine about their "weak immune systems" sneeze and sniffle a little and manage to go on about their daily lives, I'm laid up in bed like I'm dying. (And, yes, it was definitely just a cold or something mild like that, not the flu. The flu hits me even harder than that. Ugh. I don't even want to think about it.) So kindly don't ever mention your delicate constitution around me unless you want me to shove my foot right up your poor, delicate little ass.
*Eyeroll*
Oh, well, it was still a better Christmas, illness-wise, than last year. Last year, my daddy and I had to take my mother to the emergency room in the middle of the night the day after Christmas because she'd gotten some godawful stomach virus from my aunt and was so sick that she was getting worryingly delirious. (Somehow, miracle of miracles, I managed to not get that particular illness, for which I will be eternally grateful.)
Even now, though, post-cold, I'm still coughing and have that weird warped-sounding voice you get after you've been sick, along with a still slightly-stuffy head. It's not enough to really impair me, just enough to annoy me and make me feel like I'll never get enough to drink.
Still, though, even as the great respiratory virus of 2014 moves on (thank God), I'm left with a sort of bone-deep exhaustion that's not readily explained away. Well, not readily explained away if you're not batshit crazy, I should say. It's the kind of tired that can only come from my illness. The first symptom is the feeling of moving through molasses (and the second is apparently the use of needlessly poetic language of the "terrible" variety).
In addition to feeling like I'm trying to move with cement blocks chained to my limbs (and talking like I've stepped right out of some third-rate Shakespearean rip-off), I've got that "looking (and thinking) through a haze of cotton candy and Quaaludes" feeling, too. Oh, and I'm losing time, too. I have no idea how it got to be 11:10 at night.
All in all, I've been pretty unproductive. What I really want to do is sleep for about a hundred years, but I also know that won't help. (But, lord, is it tempting.) What I really *need* to be doing is sleeping considerably less because that would probably make it better. But curling up in bed has pretty much always been a favored activity for me when things get too loud in my head to deal with, and sleep, when it'll come, has always been a refuge that I'm loath to give up.
See? Bad Shakespearean rip-off. I can't even do iambic pentameter.
I'm going to have to do it, though, or the world will be at risk for once again being subjected to my crimes against the English language.
Nonetheless, I'm going to bed. Maybe falling asleep early (for me) will lead to getting up early (for me). Or something.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
The Year In Review & All That
I suppose it's time for the obligatory "year in review" post, hmm?
About the only thing I can say for 2014 is that it hasn't sucked quite as bad as 2013. Anything beyond that would probably be too generous.
I spent roughly half the year--from March until probably September--in what was, in retrospect, a really severe depression that took a turn toward suicidal ideation there at the end. I fought it for six months, and all it took was a doctor's visit and a med adjustment (and a few weeks afterward for everything in my head to settle down) to fix it. Hopefully I'll remember that the next time this happens and not screw around so long before I seek professional assistance.
Hopefully.
The only real thing I wanted to do at the beginning of the year was to write. And I did. Not nearly as much as I wanted, of course. But I think I've probably written more, quantity-wise, this year than I ever have, despite the bullshit depressive episode that took up half of the year. (I've currently got a stack of poems that need editing, several short stories, and roughly one-third of a novel.)
Yes, I would've liked to have written more. (I posted some on my writing blog, but the majority of it has never seen the light of day beyond my computer, except perhaps the few I sent to FangBunny.) But even with what little I've done, I can tell that it's getting better. My prose is tighter. My narrative style is crisper. And despite the fact that something in my subconscious must think I'm Faulkner, given the length of the sentences that I tend to write, I'm getting better about not wandering around the point so much. My narration is less ADD now, I suppose you could say.
Still, my writing's not anywhere near good, mind you. It's just...less shitty than it was. So...progress?
The only other thing I've really managed to make much progress with is improving my Spanish. It's also not anywhere near good yet, but it, too, is less shitty. (Bless you, Duolingo and YouTube videos.)
So there's my year in review in a handful of paragraphs.
What am I expecting for 2015? Nothing in particular, really. I learned my lesson in 2013 about being like "ZOMG, THIS IS GONNA BE MY YEAR!!!!" or whatever, so I won't be doing *that* again. Instead, I'm just hoping to do some more writing--maybe get a good bit more done on the aforementioned novel--and brush up some more on my (not so great) Spanish. Oh, and I think I'm going to pick up Dutch, too, because fuck it. It's not like I have anything else to do with my life. (Bless you, Duolingo.)
So those are my plans. We'll see how well they work out, I suppose.
Adios, 2014.
About the only thing I can say for 2014 is that it hasn't sucked quite as bad as 2013. Anything beyond that would probably be too generous.
I spent roughly half the year--from March until probably September--in what was, in retrospect, a really severe depression that took a turn toward suicidal ideation there at the end. I fought it for six months, and all it took was a doctor's visit and a med adjustment (and a few weeks afterward for everything in my head to settle down) to fix it. Hopefully I'll remember that the next time this happens and not screw around so long before I seek professional assistance.
Hopefully.
The only real thing I wanted to do at the beginning of the year was to write. And I did. Not nearly as much as I wanted, of course. But I think I've probably written more, quantity-wise, this year than I ever have, despite the bullshit depressive episode that took up half of the year. (I've currently got a stack of poems that need editing, several short stories, and roughly one-third of a novel.)
Yes, I would've liked to have written more. (I posted some on my writing blog, but the majority of it has never seen the light of day beyond my computer, except perhaps the few I sent to FangBunny.) But even with what little I've done, I can tell that it's getting better. My prose is tighter. My narrative style is crisper. And despite the fact that something in my subconscious must think I'm Faulkner, given the length of the sentences that I tend to write, I'm getting better about not wandering around the point so much. My narration is less ADD now, I suppose you could say.
Still, my writing's not anywhere near good, mind you. It's just...less shitty than it was. So...progress?
The only other thing I've really managed to make much progress with is improving my Spanish. It's also not anywhere near good yet, but it, too, is less shitty. (Bless you, Duolingo and YouTube videos.)
So there's my year in review in a handful of paragraphs.
What am I expecting for 2015? Nothing in particular, really. I learned my lesson in 2013 about being like "ZOMG, THIS IS GONNA BE MY YEAR!!!!" or whatever, so I won't be doing *that* again. Instead, I'm just hoping to do some more writing--maybe get a good bit more done on the aforementioned novel--and brush up some more on my (not so great) Spanish. Oh, and I think I'm going to pick up Dutch, too, because fuck it. It's not like I have anything else to do with my life. (Bless you, Duolingo.)
So those are my plans. We'll see how well they work out, I suppose.
Adios, 2014.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
If You're Wondering Where My Head Is Now, Pt. 2
I saw this on Tumblr and reblogged it there, but I know it'll get lost in the flood of shit I reblog there every day, so I'm putting it here, too.
I have my pen--or, more accurately, my keyboard--and I've jumped.
Y'all motherfuckers can just stand and watch.
But me? I owe nobody anything.
He who jumps into the void owes no explanation to those who stand and watch.
~Jean-Luc Godard
I have my pen--or, more accurately, my keyboard--and I've jumped.
Y'all motherfuckers can just stand and watch.
But me? I owe nobody anything.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
If You're Wondering Where My Head Is Now
This is my current desktop background. Click to enlarge if the words are too small to read.
I leave it without further comment.
I leave it without further comment.
Monday, September 22, 2014
The Laundry List Of Bullshit
I'm back to not being able to write--again.
I know, right? Surprise, sur-fucking-prise.
FangBunny says I have a mental block. She's probably right. She's always right about everything else, so I suspect she knows what she's talking about this time, too.
She suggested that I try to think--to really think--about what's holding me back. My knee-jerk response is always "laziness," but she said she'd stab me if I said that again, so in the interest of keeping all my blood on the inside where it belongs, I'm going to try to puzzle through it here. In theory.
(I'm aware that every bit of this is the very definition of First World Problems, and for that, I apologize.)
First problem is that, once again, I'm having to ration meds and will rapidly be out completely. That turns me into a bigger mess than I already am. I don't know when I'll be able to get refills, but I hope it'll be soon.
That, at least, is easily remedied--or it would be if I weren't broke. So we'll set that one aside for now.
The rest of it is just a big fucking quagmire where each part of it feeds into the rest until it becomes practically insurmountable.
If I were the main character in some sort of classical or Shakespearean tragedy, where the lead character's downfall is because of some flaw within him/herself, then mine would be my complete inability to follow through on anything. Macbeth's was his ambition, Hamlet's was his indecisiveness, Julius Caesar's was either his own hubris or his terrible taste in friends, depending on how you want to look at it. Mine is paralysis in the face of...well, anything. If it can't be finished in a single fit of passion, it's not going to be finished--at least not by me.
I'm pretty sure there are multiple reasons for this. The truth is, when I was younger, I never really had to try. (Yes, I realize that's not going to get me much sympathy, but it's the truth.) For the most part, I was able to half-ass my way through everything because I was surrounded by people so stupid that I looked fucking brilliant in comparison, even when I didn't really even try.
But even that's not the whole of it. When I was very, very young, I tried hard. At everything. Even if I was bad at it. I remember hours upon hours of practicing softball in my parents' backyard because I was shit at it when I first started playing. (To this day, if you run your hand up my lower legs, you can still feel all the knots in the bones from where I got nailed in the shins a million times.) I'd say I wonder where that sort of determination and ambition went, but I don't. I already know.
Again, I know some of this is not exactly going to win me any friends here. But that's not the point, is it?
At some point--probably around the age of 15--I flat stopped fucking giving a shit. Why? Several reasons, really. Some of this probably won't seem like it has anything to do with anything, but I think it does...eventually.
All my life (up until that point), I was never really allowed any autonomy. I was almost never let out of my mother's sight, and even when I was, there were always people around spying. I couldn't have friends. The only times I really got out of the house were to go to school and to be dragged various places by my mother. I was a good child. I made good grades. I never caused trouble. I didn't drink or smoke or do drugs or any of that shit (partly because I was never anywhere beyond prying eyes and partly because I'd been bullied and terrorized into fucking submission before I was even old enough to start school). I never gave her any reason not to trust me, but it didn't matter. My phone conversations were eavesdropped upon. (I don't mean she listened outside my door. I mean she would go into another room and pick up the phone and listen to all of it.) My shit was regularly ransacked, in search of some evidence of what a horrible person I supposedly was, under the guise of "cleaning." If I liked a boy and he happened to express interest in me, something I would never find out about would happen behind my back, and he'd inexplicably stop speaking to me. (This happened on more than one occasion.)
This isn't me just talking shit. I had no idea what was going on until my granny took pity on me and told me when I was 15 or so. I was treated like a prisoner, and I'd never done anything whatsoever to justify it. Even now, at my age, I still have violent knee-jerk reactions to people looking at my stuff without my permission. It's not that I have anything to hide. It's just--touch my shit, and I will cut your fucking nand off. It's not yours; don't touch it.
It's the principle of the thing.
So, naturally, I made very few decisions myself. In addition to living with the equivalent of the CIA, I was also driven hard for years and years and years. No matter what I did, it wasn't good enough. I was terrorized, bullied, back-stabbed, and gaslighted until I couldn't even trust my own perceptions anymore. I was either yelled at or given the silent treatment for weeks on end over nothing. What was ok yesterday was completely unacceptable today. It was mostly my mother, but my father knew what was happening, and he did nothing to stop it. It was easier on him to just sit back and keep his mouth shut, so I was the one who suffered for it. That's one reason I have a hard time summoning up any sympathy when he complains to me about how terribly she treats him now. Not so much fun when you're the one on the receiving end, is it?
Anyway, I was pushed so hard for so long that it just broke me. Between having to watch my back constantly, having everything I did belittled, and struggling with the yelling and/or the silent treatment bullshit, I couldn't do it. I was fantasizing about suicide by the time I was 12 years old. It might not have affected most people as deeply as it did me. Surely, a tougher kid wouldn't have been so petrified by it. But I was a sensitive child, and it didn't take much to destroy me, I guess.
I had no agency of my own. I lived my whole life backed against a wall. And because I was not a stupid child, I eventually realized that if it was going to be hell, regardless of what I did, it'd be a hell of a lot easier on me if I just didn't bother. If you're going to be terrorized whether you do something or not, why waste your time doing it if your actions will have absolutely zero effect on the outcome? Fuck it, I'll just lay in bed and read.
(As an aside, I once came into the possession of a "how to torture prisoners and suspected terrorists" guide--don't ask how--and I realized that about 90% of the shit that was being recommended in that particular guide was shit I had lived through until I fucking left my parents' house. Hell, who am I kidding, I still go through some of it now. Is it any wonder that my particular form of psychosis tends toward paranoia when my illness gets out of my control?)
So I learned not to trust anyone, not to ever give anyone any kind of ammunition that could be used against you, how to lie and manipulate my way through the worst situations (Truth: I'm actually a terrible straight-up liar, but I'm really goddamn good at the "I have no idea what you're talking about" or "No, I haven't heard anything, but if I do, you'll be the first one to know" bluffs.). But worst of all, I learned that nearly everything was out of my control, and if I was going to be treated like I had failed no matter what I did, it was just easier and less painful to duck out of responsibility altogether. At least if you get yelled at/hit/silent treatment-ed for not doing something, you sorta deserve it, whereas if you did your best, you didn't really. Negative reinforcement at its finest.
It just so happened that I was smart enough that when I stopped giving a shit in school, I still managed to coast my way through with no problems. I coasted through high school, coasted through college, and half-assed my way through grad school until I lost my mind and couldn't do it anymore.
I'm a classic case of external locus of control and learned helplessness. I know this, but I'll be damned if I know how to fix it.
In addition to that whole crock of shit--or perhaps because of it--I'm also terrified of failure. Again, it's better to not fucking bother than to do it badly, at least in my world. So people think I'm lazy (and maybe I am). I'm not nearly as good at writing as I'd like to be, and while I understand intellectually that the only way to fix that is to keep writing, something inside screams every time I try and fail.
I have only ever wanted to write, but I tie myself up in knots and make myself sick even thinking about it most of the time, much less actually trying to do it. So I don't. Textbook escape behavior.
Another thing is that, at some point when I got older, I realized that one of the only ways I could have any control in my life was through what I suppose is some kind of weird innate sensuality. I didn't know what it was at first; it was something that came naturally. Then, I learned how to harness it and use it to my advantage, and I did it so much that it became second nature. So it went full circle, I guess, and I have no idea how to turn it off.
It was nice at first, knowing that I could make men make absolute fools of themselves for me. For someone who's never had any agency at all, that kind of power is heady. And it probably would've been ok if I had the ability to say "no." But I didn't. It was bullied out of me before I was even old enough to walk. I got myself into shitty situations that were entirely my own making, and then one day, I woke up and realized that all the "power" I thought I possessed was false. I wasn't a strong woman who could hold her own. I was a whore, and all that I had the power to do was make men's dicks hard, and nobody gave a fuck about me beyond that.
I'm educated, well-read, reasonably intelligent, and quite funny if I do say so myself. I can converse intelligently about a number of things--books, poetry, history, economics, comic books, world religion, horses, the sea, psychology, the Interwebs (and that's just off the top of my head). I love trying new things, and I don't mind making an ass of myself as long as I'm having fun in the process. But ultimately, none of that matters because somewhere along the line, I turned into nothing more than a life support system for a pair of tits.
And then work just reinforces that feeling.
I suppose it's stupid to want praise at all, but pretty much the only things I've written that I've ever been praised for were sex things. I'm a slut, and I'm not taken seriously in any aspect of my life, my writing life included. At some point, I earned the label, and it feels like it's all I'll ever be.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not whining that I'm not the type you take home to mama. I don't want to meet your mama. I just want to be taken seriously. That's all.
There's a reason I only ever wear jeans and t-shirts (or sweaters when it's cold) and glasses with my hair up and no makeup when I go places, and it's only partly laziness. I know what kind of attention I draw when I do otherwise, and I don't want it anymore. There's a giant flashing sign over my head that says "HO!" that everyone but me can see, and people treat me accordingly.
I'm tired of it. I want to be good at something other than sex and/or giving sex advice or playing therapist for other people. I want to write something that people will love as much as my porn is apparently loved. *Eyeroll* I want to be something other than a fucking blow-up doll for other people to project their fantasies onto.
But I'm not. I'm just...not. And I'm reminded of it every time I sit down to put pen to paper.
And finally, nearly everything I've ever wanted in my life have been things that are bad for me. (Apparently I was born with a death wish.) Sometimes I have to wonder if this stupid dream of writing isn't just another one of those things that I want that'll ultimately destroy me. It'd be just like me.
Do I want this because I really want it, or do I want it because some part of me thinks of it as vindication and validation? I make jokes about wanting to be rich and famous and party with (and fuck) other rich and famous people, but I think that if I ever wrote something that was published (and I was paid for it), I'd be ok with nobody ever knowing I'd done it. I think.
*Sigh* This is all I've ever wanted, but I'm terrible at it. I'm also facing a mountain of issues that looks insurmountable from here. I need a fucking therapist, and I need job that doesn't chip away a little more of my soul every day I live. But I feel like I'm trapped, and I have no idea how to fix anything.
I just...I wish I could write. I desperately wish I could. But it makes me feel ill to even think about it for the most part. And I guess I feel like, if I don't do it, I can always tell myself that there's hope for the future. But if I try and fail, I'll know that I can't do it, and then there's no hope for anything. Everything I touch turns to shit, and I don't want this to do it, too.
I have no clever ending to this disjointed rambling. I just wanted to get it out 'cause FangBunny thought it might help. So...here it is, I guess.
FML, it's 4:30 in the morning. I'm going to go lay in bed and hate myself some more until I can't hold my eyes open any longer.
I know, right? Surprise, sur-fucking-prise.
FangBunny says I have a mental block. She's probably right. She's always right about everything else, so I suspect she knows what she's talking about this time, too.
She suggested that I try to think--to really think--about what's holding me back. My knee-jerk response is always "laziness," but she said she'd stab me if I said that again, so in the interest of keeping all my blood on the inside where it belongs, I'm going to try to puzzle through it here. In theory.
(I'm aware that every bit of this is the very definition of First World Problems, and for that, I apologize.)
First problem is that, once again, I'm having to ration meds and will rapidly be out completely. That turns me into a bigger mess than I already am. I don't know when I'll be able to get refills, but I hope it'll be soon.
That, at least, is easily remedied--or it would be if I weren't broke. So we'll set that one aside for now.
The rest of it is just a big fucking quagmire where each part of it feeds into the rest until it becomes practically insurmountable.
If I were the main character in some sort of classical or Shakespearean tragedy, where the lead character's downfall is because of some flaw within him/herself, then mine would be my complete inability to follow through on anything. Macbeth's was his ambition, Hamlet's was his indecisiveness, Julius Caesar's was either his own hubris or his terrible taste in friends, depending on how you want to look at it. Mine is paralysis in the face of...well, anything. If it can't be finished in a single fit of passion, it's not going to be finished--at least not by me.
I'm pretty sure there are multiple reasons for this. The truth is, when I was younger, I never really had to try. (Yes, I realize that's not going to get me much sympathy, but it's the truth.) For the most part, I was able to half-ass my way through everything because I was surrounded by people so stupid that I looked fucking brilliant in comparison, even when I didn't really even try.
But even that's not the whole of it. When I was very, very young, I tried hard. At everything. Even if I was bad at it. I remember hours upon hours of practicing softball in my parents' backyard because I was shit at it when I first started playing. (To this day, if you run your hand up my lower legs, you can still feel all the knots in the bones from where I got nailed in the shins a million times.) I'd say I wonder where that sort of determination and ambition went, but I don't. I already know.
Again, I know some of this is not exactly going to win me any friends here. But that's not the point, is it?
At some point--probably around the age of 15--I flat stopped fucking giving a shit. Why? Several reasons, really. Some of this probably won't seem like it has anything to do with anything, but I think it does...eventually.
All my life (up until that point), I was never really allowed any autonomy. I was almost never let out of my mother's sight, and even when I was, there were always people around spying. I couldn't have friends. The only times I really got out of the house were to go to school and to be dragged various places by my mother. I was a good child. I made good grades. I never caused trouble. I didn't drink or smoke or do drugs or any of that shit (partly because I was never anywhere beyond prying eyes and partly because I'd been bullied and terrorized into fucking submission before I was even old enough to start school). I never gave her any reason not to trust me, but it didn't matter. My phone conversations were eavesdropped upon. (I don't mean she listened outside my door. I mean she would go into another room and pick up the phone and listen to all of it.) My shit was regularly ransacked, in search of some evidence of what a horrible person I supposedly was, under the guise of "cleaning." If I liked a boy and he happened to express interest in me, something I would never find out about would happen behind my back, and he'd inexplicably stop speaking to me. (This happened on more than one occasion.)
This isn't me just talking shit. I had no idea what was going on until my granny took pity on me and told me when I was 15 or so. I was treated like a prisoner, and I'd never done anything whatsoever to justify it. Even now, at my age, I still have violent knee-jerk reactions to people looking at my stuff without my permission. It's not that I have anything to hide. It's just--touch my shit, and I will cut your fucking nand off. It's not yours; don't touch it.
It's the principle of the thing.
So, naturally, I made very few decisions myself. In addition to living with the equivalent of the CIA, I was also driven hard for years and years and years. No matter what I did, it wasn't good enough. I was terrorized, bullied, back-stabbed, and gaslighted until I couldn't even trust my own perceptions anymore. I was either yelled at or given the silent treatment for weeks on end over nothing. What was ok yesterday was completely unacceptable today. It was mostly my mother, but my father knew what was happening, and he did nothing to stop it. It was easier on him to just sit back and keep his mouth shut, so I was the one who suffered for it. That's one reason I have a hard time summoning up any sympathy when he complains to me about how terribly she treats him now. Not so much fun when you're the one on the receiving end, is it?
Anyway, I was pushed so hard for so long that it just broke me. Between having to watch my back constantly, having everything I did belittled, and struggling with the yelling and/or the silent treatment bullshit, I couldn't do it. I was fantasizing about suicide by the time I was 12 years old. It might not have affected most people as deeply as it did me. Surely, a tougher kid wouldn't have been so petrified by it. But I was a sensitive child, and it didn't take much to destroy me, I guess.
I had no agency of my own. I lived my whole life backed against a wall. And because I was not a stupid child, I eventually realized that if it was going to be hell, regardless of what I did, it'd be a hell of a lot easier on me if I just didn't bother. If you're going to be terrorized whether you do something or not, why waste your time doing it if your actions will have absolutely zero effect on the outcome? Fuck it, I'll just lay in bed and read.
(As an aside, I once came into the possession of a "how to torture prisoners and suspected terrorists" guide--don't ask how--and I realized that about 90% of the shit that was being recommended in that particular guide was shit I had lived through until I fucking left my parents' house. Hell, who am I kidding, I still go through some of it now. Is it any wonder that my particular form of psychosis tends toward paranoia when my illness gets out of my control?)
So I learned not to trust anyone, not to ever give anyone any kind of ammunition that could be used against you, how to lie and manipulate my way through the worst situations (Truth: I'm actually a terrible straight-up liar, but I'm really goddamn good at the "I have no idea what you're talking about" or "No, I haven't heard anything, but if I do, you'll be the first one to know" bluffs.). But worst of all, I learned that nearly everything was out of my control, and if I was going to be treated like I had failed no matter what I did, it was just easier and less painful to duck out of responsibility altogether. At least if you get yelled at/hit/silent treatment-ed for not doing something, you sorta deserve it, whereas if you did your best, you didn't really. Negative reinforcement at its finest.
It just so happened that I was smart enough that when I stopped giving a shit in school, I still managed to coast my way through with no problems. I coasted through high school, coasted through college, and half-assed my way through grad school until I lost my mind and couldn't do it anymore.
I'm a classic case of external locus of control and learned helplessness. I know this, but I'll be damned if I know how to fix it.
In addition to that whole crock of shit--or perhaps because of it--I'm also terrified of failure. Again, it's better to not fucking bother than to do it badly, at least in my world. So people think I'm lazy (and maybe I am). I'm not nearly as good at writing as I'd like to be, and while I understand intellectually that the only way to fix that is to keep writing, something inside screams every time I try and fail.
I have only ever wanted to write, but I tie myself up in knots and make myself sick even thinking about it most of the time, much less actually trying to do it. So I don't. Textbook escape behavior.
Another thing is that, at some point when I got older, I realized that one of the only ways I could have any control in my life was through what I suppose is some kind of weird innate sensuality. I didn't know what it was at first; it was something that came naturally. Then, I learned how to harness it and use it to my advantage, and I did it so much that it became second nature. So it went full circle, I guess, and I have no idea how to turn it off.
It was nice at first, knowing that I could make men make absolute fools of themselves for me. For someone who's never had any agency at all, that kind of power is heady. And it probably would've been ok if I had the ability to say "no." But I didn't. It was bullied out of me before I was even old enough to walk. I got myself into shitty situations that were entirely my own making, and then one day, I woke up and realized that all the "power" I thought I possessed was false. I wasn't a strong woman who could hold her own. I was a whore, and all that I had the power to do was make men's dicks hard, and nobody gave a fuck about me beyond that.
I'm educated, well-read, reasonably intelligent, and quite funny if I do say so myself. I can converse intelligently about a number of things--books, poetry, history, economics, comic books, world religion, horses, the sea, psychology, the Interwebs (and that's just off the top of my head). I love trying new things, and I don't mind making an ass of myself as long as I'm having fun in the process. But ultimately, none of that matters because somewhere along the line, I turned into nothing more than a life support system for a pair of tits.
And then work just reinforces that feeling.
I suppose it's stupid to want praise at all, but pretty much the only things I've written that I've ever been praised for were sex things. I'm a slut, and I'm not taken seriously in any aspect of my life, my writing life included. At some point, I earned the label, and it feels like it's all I'll ever be.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not whining that I'm not the type you take home to mama. I don't want to meet your mama. I just want to be taken seriously. That's all.
There's a reason I only ever wear jeans and t-shirts (or sweaters when it's cold) and glasses with my hair up and no makeup when I go places, and it's only partly laziness. I know what kind of attention I draw when I do otherwise, and I don't want it anymore. There's a giant flashing sign over my head that says "HO!" that everyone but me can see, and people treat me accordingly.
I'm tired of it. I want to be good at something other than sex and/or giving sex advice or playing therapist for other people. I want to write something that people will love as much as my porn is apparently loved. *Eyeroll* I want to be something other than a fucking blow-up doll for other people to project their fantasies onto.
But I'm not. I'm just...not. And I'm reminded of it every time I sit down to put pen to paper.
And finally, nearly everything I've ever wanted in my life have been things that are bad for me. (Apparently I was born with a death wish.) Sometimes I have to wonder if this stupid dream of writing isn't just another one of those things that I want that'll ultimately destroy me. It'd be just like me.
Do I want this because I really want it, or do I want it because some part of me thinks of it as vindication and validation? I make jokes about wanting to be rich and famous and party with (and fuck) other rich and famous people, but I think that if I ever wrote something that was published (and I was paid for it), I'd be ok with nobody ever knowing I'd done it. I think.
*Sigh* This is all I've ever wanted, but I'm terrible at it. I'm also facing a mountain of issues that looks insurmountable from here. I need a fucking therapist, and I need job that doesn't chip away a little more of my soul every day I live. But I feel like I'm trapped, and I have no idea how to fix anything.
I just...I wish I could write. I desperately wish I could. But it makes me feel ill to even think about it for the most part. And I guess I feel like, if I don't do it, I can always tell myself that there's hope for the future. But if I try and fail, I'll know that I can't do it, and then there's no hope for anything. Everything I touch turns to shit, and I don't want this to do it, too.
I have no clever ending to this disjointed rambling. I just wanted to get it out 'cause FangBunny thought it might help. So...here it is, I guess.
FML, it's 4:30 in the morning. I'm going to go lay in bed and hate myself some more until I can't hold my eyes open any longer.
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