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.
Tuesday, December 30, 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.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Brief Observations
It took about a week on the new meds for me to feel even somewhat normal again. This is what I get for letting it get so bad, I suppose.
The "sleeping pills" don't work worth a shit. I'm going to have to call the doctor's office and ask for something else.
I'm better, but I've also been better--much better--than this. Sleep is still an iffy thing. I rarely eat more than one meal and one snack per day. Nothing sounds good. I'm at least getting my work done, though, so there's that.
I did some work on my writing blog in hopes of guilting myself into writing more often. We'll see how that goes.
I walked two miles today at the park. Hope to continue doing that, too. I don't give a shit about losing weight, not really. I just hope the exercise improves my mood. If I lose weight in the process, fine. If not, that's fine, too.
Lamest update ever, but I'm too tired to really care.
The "sleeping pills" don't work worth a shit. I'm going to have to call the doctor's office and ask for something else.
I'm better, but I've also been better--much better--than this. Sleep is still an iffy thing. I rarely eat more than one meal and one snack per day. Nothing sounds good. I'm at least getting my work done, though, so there's that.
I did some work on my writing blog in hopes of guilting myself into writing more often. We'll see how that goes.
I walked two miles today at the park. Hope to continue doing that, too. I don't give a shit about losing weight, not really. I just hope the exercise improves my mood. If I lose weight in the process, fine. If not, that's fine, too.
Lamest update ever, but I'm too tired to really care.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Chronicles Of The Crazy Person
This is a weird thing for me to say, but it's been a pretty bad summer.
I've been depressed since at least May. I didn't realize how bad it was, though, until I quit my job last month. (Long story short: Fucking boss went off the deep end, accused me of doing some shit I didn't do, and cussed me like I was a dog in the process. I don't know if she was off her meds or what, but I live with one crazy person--me--and the last fucking thing I needed in my life was another one to deal with, so I bounced. Which set off another round of cursing and nasty emails that I ultimately ignored because fuck her--ain't nobody got time for that.)
She said some pretty horrible shit to me, TBH. Normally, I would probably say something about "crazy, jealous bitches" and let it roll off like it wasn't a thing, but, like I said, I've not been in the best shape for months. It didn't help that all the awful shit she said to me is the same awful shit the demons that live in my head say to me, too. Intellectually, I know she said it because she knew it would get to me, but knowing something intellectually doesn't mean it won't still affect you emotionally.
On top of that, I've had a couple of "friends" do some pretty shitty things to me lately, too. I don't feel like getting into the specifics of it all because what's the point? But I'm right fucking tired of being used as a therapist/free place to stay/fallback when people have nothing better to do by nearly everybody in the goddamned world.
I realized I was getting dangerously depressed when I realized that I didn't even want to eat anymore. For a fat bitch, that's always indicative of a problem. Combine that with my complete inability to read or write more than the absolute barest minimum required for life, and I knew it was bad. Then Robin Williams killed himself, and it was kind of a "There but for the grace of...something...go I" moment, and I knew it was time to do something.
So I talked to my friend Wazoo (B. in Huntsville, who I decided needed a name for me to use here that's not just his fucking initial, and since I call him that half the time, anyway, we'll go with it) last Sunday night and came to the conclusion that I was going to swallow every last bit of pride I had and ask my mother to take me to the doctor.
Surprisingly enough, she was not a total asshole about it.
So she came and got me last Tuesday after she got off work because I was too broke to even buy gas to drive down myself. She only works half a day on Wednesday, so after she got off, she wanted to go get a pedicure and then ride dirt roads in her Jeep with the top out (because that's something she fucking does--don't ask). I tagged along because she likes company when she does it. And now I have a pedicure. Like, a professional one. It's only the third one I've ever had in my life. Thursday, I went to the doctor, where I got a refill on my Lamictal (I was out), my Wellbutrin raised to the maximum dose that they're allowed to give people, and a prescription for trazodone because my doctor's not writing prescriptions for Ambien anymore, alas. She recommended the trazodone because it's an old-school antidepressant that has the added effect of making you sleepy. So antidepressant plus sleep aid in one, basically. For those of you keeping score at home, I'm now on the max dose of Lamictal that my doctor will prescribe, the max dose of Wellbutrin that's safe for human consumption, and now another antidepressant as well. *Sigh*
Friday, I pretty much just fucked off until my mother got off work; then, we went and got haircuts. I now have a wonderful cut that, while a tiny bit shorter than I would've liked for it to have been, is still pretty much exactly what I wanted. Saturday, my mother wanted to go Jeep-riding again, and she offered to take me to Flat Rock because I'd said Wednesday that I would like to go. It's the only lake in the entire world that I'm not completely disgusted by because, as the name suggests, the entire "beach" and bottom of the lake is granite and therefore not muddy and vile to me. Barring some amazing and miraculous circumstance, that's probably as close as I'm going to get to going to the beach this year, so I took her up on it. I didn't swim or anything; we probably only stayed about 10 or 15 minutes. Long enough for me to wade out ankle-deep and most of the tension in me to ease, I guess. (Water does that for me, and the bigger the body of water, the better it works.) I also took this picture while I was there.
We rode around most of the afternoon, and then when we got back, Daddy came in. All three of us ended up going to the top of a mountain in Clay County that night in the Jeep again to look for meteors. (And that is, hands down, the best fucking place I've ever found to stargaze. I will be going back.)
Apparently, they, too, realized I was in trouble because they didn't give me any shit and actually humored me for the most part. So yeah. It must've been pretty bad.
Yesterday, Mother brought me back, and I did my work and shit. I took the trazodone for the first time last night. I only took half of one because I was afraid I wouldn't wake up until next Tuesday otherwise. But...it didn't really do anything. So tonight I'm going to take a whole one. If that doesn't work, I'll take two tomorrow night because the doctor said I could take either one or two. If that doesn't work, I'll probably call down there and sob on the phone until someone writes me a prescription for something else.
Today, I went to Walmart, bought groceries and hair dye, and worked. I dyed my hair earlier and am waiting for it to dry before I take that trazodone so I can touch it up before bed in case I missed some spots. I stepped up my game a notch and went for "Natural Blue-Black" this time instead of the usual "Natural Black" because fuck you, that's why.
Once all the dye that I smeared all over myself in the process of dyeing my hair (because I'm a fucking spaz) wears off in a few days, I'm probably going to take some new pics of myself. Not because I feel particularly pic-worthy at the moment, but because of the new haircut. Its perfection must be documented for posterity because I now have 100% bitch hair.
Unfortunately, though, the step up in my Wellbutrin dosage hasn't seemed to have any effect yet. I hope that changes soon. Usually, I can tell a difference in just a day, but...maybe it's because it hasn't been this bad in a long time, so it'll take a little longer to get better? And maybe the trazodone will help, too, after a little while? I think it takes it awhile to, like, build up in your system to be effective or something. Fuck, I don't know. I just desperately need to believe that it'll all get better soon because the alternative is...ugh.
I have to go back to my phone work tomorrow. Not thrilled about that, but I'm even less thrilled about having my lights turned off, sooooo...yeah. Back to work.
I also intend to reorganize my writing blog in the next couple of days and start using it as a dump for things other than my terrible poetry. Short fiction, my own thoughts on writing, and perhaps some discussion of other people's poems or something. Pretty much anything to guilt myself into writing again, since I haven't updated that stupid blog since March. I've done a few things that I haven't posted anywhere, but not a whole lot. FangBunny has overhauled her writing blog and is doing weekly prompts, book reviews, and such, so I'm going to try to overhaul mine, post stuff more often, and maybe even try to write something for her prompts. Maybe.
If it'll ever stop raining, I'm also going to start walking at night again. Exercise is supposed to be good for depression, right?
*Sigh* It's gotta get better. It's just fucking got to.
I've been depressed since at least May. I didn't realize how bad it was, though, until I quit my job last month. (Long story short: Fucking boss went off the deep end, accused me of doing some shit I didn't do, and cussed me like I was a dog in the process. I don't know if she was off her meds or what, but I live with one crazy person--me--and the last fucking thing I needed in my life was another one to deal with, so I bounced. Which set off another round of cursing and nasty emails that I ultimately ignored because fuck her--ain't nobody got time for that.)
She said some pretty horrible shit to me, TBH. Normally, I would probably say something about "crazy, jealous bitches" and let it roll off like it wasn't a thing, but, like I said, I've not been in the best shape for months. It didn't help that all the awful shit she said to me is the same awful shit the demons that live in my head say to me, too. Intellectually, I know she said it because she knew it would get to me, but knowing something intellectually doesn't mean it won't still affect you emotionally.
On top of that, I've had a couple of "friends" do some pretty shitty things to me lately, too. I don't feel like getting into the specifics of it all because what's the point? But I'm right fucking tired of being used as a therapist/free place to stay/fallback when people have nothing better to do by nearly everybody in the goddamned world.
I realized I was getting dangerously depressed when I realized that I didn't even want to eat anymore. For a fat bitch, that's always indicative of a problem. Combine that with my complete inability to read or write more than the absolute barest minimum required for life, and I knew it was bad. Then Robin Williams killed himself, and it was kind of a "There but for the grace of...something...go I" moment, and I knew it was time to do something.
So I talked to my friend Wazoo (B. in Huntsville, who I decided needed a name for me to use here that's not just his fucking initial, and since I call him that half the time, anyway, we'll go with it) last Sunday night and came to the conclusion that I was going to swallow every last bit of pride I had and ask my mother to take me to the doctor.
Surprisingly enough, she was not a total asshole about it.
So she came and got me last Tuesday after she got off work because I was too broke to even buy gas to drive down myself. She only works half a day on Wednesday, so after she got off, she wanted to go get a pedicure and then ride dirt roads in her Jeep with the top out (because that's something she fucking does--don't ask). I tagged along because she likes company when she does it. And now I have a pedicure. Like, a professional one. It's only the third one I've ever had in my life. Thursday, I went to the doctor, where I got a refill on my Lamictal (I was out), my Wellbutrin raised to the maximum dose that they're allowed to give people, and a prescription for trazodone because my doctor's not writing prescriptions for Ambien anymore, alas. She recommended the trazodone because it's an old-school antidepressant that has the added effect of making you sleepy. So antidepressant plus sleep aid in one, basically. For those of you keeping score at home, I'm now on the max dose of Lamictal that my doctor will prescribe, the max dose of Wellbutrin that's safe for human consumption, and now another antidepressant as well. *Sigh*
Friday, I pretty much just fucked off until my mother got off work; then, we went and got haircuts. I now have a wonderful cut that, while a tiny bit shorter than I would've liked for it to have been, is still pretty much exactly what I wanted. Saturday, my mother wanted to go Jeep-riding again, and she offered to take me to Flat Rock because I'd said Wednesday that I would like to go. It's the only lake in the entire world that I'm not completely disgusted by because, as the name suggests, the entire "beach" and bottom of the lake is granite and therefore not muddy and vile to me. Barring some amazing and miraculous circumstance, that's probably as close as I'm going to get to going to the beach this year, so I took her up on it. I didn't swim or anything; we probably only stayed about 10 or 15 minutes. Long enough for me to wade out ankle-deep and most of the tension in me to ease, I guess. (Water does that for me, and the bigger the body of water, the better it works.) I also took this picture while I was there.
We rode around most of the afternoon, and then when we got back, Daddy came in. All three of us ended up going to the top of a mountain in Clay County that night in the Jeep again to look for meteors. (And that is, hands down, the best fucking place I've ever found to stargaze. I will be going back.)
Apparently, they, too, realized I was in trouble because they didn't give me any shit and actually humored me for the most part. So yeah. It must've been pretty bad.
Yesterday, Mother brought me back, and I did my work and shit. I took the trazodone for the first time last night. I only took half of one because I was afraid I wouldn't wake up until next Tuesday otherwise. But...it didn't really do anything. So tonight I'm going to take a whole one. If that doesn't work, I'll take two tomorrow night because the doctor said I could take either one or two. If that doesn't work, I'll probably call down there and sob on the phone until someone writes me a prescription for something else.
Today, I went to Walmart, bought groceries and hair dye, and worked. I dyed my hair earlier and am waiting for it to dry before I take that trazodone so I can touch it up before bed in case I missed some spots. I stepped up my game a notch and went for "Natural Blue-Black" this time instead of the usual "Natural Black" because fuck you, that's why.
Once all the dye that I smeared all over myself in the process of dyeing my hair (because I'm a fucking spaz) wears off in a few days, I'm probably going to take some new pics of myself. Not because I feel particularly pic-worthy at the moment, but because of the new haircut. Its perfection must be documented for posterity because I now have 100% bitch hair.
Unfortunately, though, the step up in my Wellbutrin dosage hasn't seemed to have any effect yet. I hope that changes soon. Usually, I can tell a difference in just a day, but...maybe it's because it hasn't been this bad in a long time, so it'll take a little longer to get better? And maybe the trazodone will help, too, after a little while? I think it takes it awhile to, like, build up in your system to be effective or something. Fuck, I don't know. I just desperately need to believe that it'll all get better soon because the alternative is...ugh.
I have to go back to my phone work tomorrow. Not thrilled about that, but I'm even less thrilled about having my lights turned off, sooooo...yeah. Back to work.
I also intend to reorganize my writing blog in the next couple of days and start using it as a dump for things other than my terrible poetry. Short fiction, my own thoughts on writing, and perhaps some discussion of other people's poems or something. Pretty much anything to guilt myself into writing again, since I haven't updated that stupid blog since March. I've done a few things that I haven't posted anywhere, but not a whole lot. FangBunny has overhauled her writing blog and is doing weekly prompts, book reviews, and such, so I'm going to try to overhaul mine, post stuff more often, and maybe even try to write something for her prompts. Maybe.
If it'll ever stop raining, I'm also going to start walking at night again. Exercise is supposed to be good for depression, right?
*Sigh* It's gotta get better. It's just fucking got to.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Brittle, Bitter, & Battle-Hardened
I have come to the conclusion (again) that whether I like it or not, I desperately need therapy.
Medication has helped. A lot, actually. But the truth is, I think it's gone about as far as it can go on its own.
I am broken in a number of ways, and I don't think that type of shit heals itself. It's like when I broke my hand falling off a horse (naturally) the summer before my freshman year in college. I shattered the bone in front of the knuckle of the little finger on my left hand. Not only did the break go all the way through, but there was also a piece of bone that splintered off from the rest and settled away from the joint. It wasn't treated properly because the doctor I had was an incompetent piece of shit--imagine that--and so even though the break healed, the hand still doesn't work the way it's supposed to. I can't straighten that finger out all the way (eleven years later), and I'm relatively sure that arthritis has set in now because it bothers me a lot more than it used to nowadays.
But, again, it's been eleven years. The only thing anyone could do now would be to do surgery to go back in, re-break the fucking thing, pin it back together, and wait for it to heal. Even if I had insurance to pay for that, it wouldn't be worth the trouble.
I think this thing inside me is the same way. The bone--so to speak--has knitted itself back together, and there's no longer an acute, oh-god-this-is-a-fucking-emergency kind of pain. But it didn't heal the way it should've, and it doesn't work the way it's supposed to. It still hurts, but it's a dull, chronic ache rather than a stabbing pain.
Or something like that.
I have long been open to the possibility that there's something else wrong with me besides the bipolar. I don't doubt for a moment that I am--or have, depending on how you wanna word it--bipolar. "Bipolar I with psychotic features" is a diagnosis that fits all too well for me to argue about it. But it's hardly unusual for mental illnesses to come in groups. In fact, it's more unusual for someone to have only one, I think. Certainly, there are things about me that can't be explained away by the bipolar.
I'm angry. I, like the Hulk, am always angry. The difference between now, when I'm decently medicated, and then, when I was at my sickest, is that it's not as intense. If anger is a fire, it was always burning when I was at my maddest. All it took was the slightest gust of wind to stir it, make it flare up, and burn everybody in shooting distance. I used to terrify people with my fury. I know, because they told me so.
Now it's more like a smoldering ember, hidden under the burnt-out ashes of the conflagrations that came before. It's there. It burns hot. But a gust of wind is no longer enough to stir it up. There are too many ashes laying atop it for wind to have much of an effect. You have to throw gas on it to get it to flare now. But it's always there, nonetheless.
It manifests itself mostly as bitterness now. Cynicism and bitterness--the last refuge of the disillusioned.
Sure, most people will never notice. I'm charming now--charismatic, even, when I want to be. (That I rarely want to be is beside the point.) Eventually, when enough shit happens to you, you lose the ability to give a fuck what people think about you and then just say and do whatever you want. If you're interesting/intelligent/quirky enough, people find it charming. Works for me.
But I know--and I suspect my closest friends know--that it's not a confidence borne of something healthy. It's fatalistic. Nothing ever changes, so what does it matter? Why throw up false pretenses anymore? It's not as though it'll change anything, not as though the end will be anything other than what it's going to be, anyhow, not as though my life will ever be anything other than a massive shitstorm. So fuck it.
I think that's the motto of my life now: Fuck it.
I'm old and weary and brittle and bitter and battle-hardened, and nothing matters anymore.
And still I push on, some inner stubbornness or spitefulness or hyper-developed sense of self-preservation spurring me on to whatever other shitty surprises life has in store for me.
I have long feared that I'm cursed with the personality disorder that strikes fear into the hearts of clinicians everywhere: borderline personality disorder. I can usually reason myself out of the belief if I try hard enough. I am exceptional at lying to myself, after all. I can create an entirely new reality in my head if I have to, if the "real" one is too much for me to face...and don't think I haven't made use of it on more than one occasion.
But I'm currently reading something online--something that's too embarrassing to admit to out loud, so we're going to skim right over that part. There's a character in it who's as mad as a hatter, who has borderline. It's absolutely fucking scary how familiar the behavior is, how perfectly the mindset matches up, how the beliefs and rationalizations are the same fucking things I tell myself--have told myself--for years and years and years.
Admittedly, I don't exhibit some of the more dramatic symptoms. I never was a cutter, for instance. (Why hurt yourself when you can find someone else to do it--and do it even better--for you, I always thought.) And a lot of the overblown bullshit is tamped down by a combination of my meds and my own fear of the monster that lives in my head. I guess I'm what happens when someone who's that sick starts burning out.
I'm not going to be that asshole who self-diagnoses and then runs around using it as an excuse to do...whatever. I suspect that's another one of the things that's wrong with me, yes. It would explain SO much. But I'm not particularly eager to claim the label, for one, and for another, I would rather let a professional diagnose it. I've never been known for my sound judgment, after all.
But still...a lot of the stuff--including the anger--fits.
So that brings us back to "Bunny needs a therapist." Which brings us back to the same thing we always come back to. In order to go to a therapist, Bunny needs money. In order to have money, Bunny needs to work. In order to be able to work without being a train wreck, Bunny needs a therapist.
So, yeah...seems like fatalism is really the only path one can take when faced with that particular set of circumstances.
Eh...fuck it. Not like it really matters, anyway, I guess. Eventually, the whole world will burn, anyway, with or without my help.
*Sigh*
Fuck it.
Medication has helped. A lot, actually. But the truth is, I think it's gone about as far as it can go on its own.
I am broken in a number of ways, and I don't think that type of shit heals itself. It's like when I broke my hand falling off a horse (naturally) the summer before my freshman year in college. I shattered the bone in front of the knuckle of the little finger on my left hand. Not only did the break go all the way through, but there was also a piece of bone that splintered off from the rest and settled away from the joint. It wasn't treated properly because the doctor I had was an incompetent piece of shit--imagine that--and so even though the break healed, the hand still doesn't work the way it's supposed to. I can't straighten that finger out all the way (eleven years later), and I'm relatively sure that arthritis has set in now because it bothers me a lot more than it used to nowadays.
But, again, it's been eleven years. The only thing anyone could do now would be to do surgery to go back in, re-break the fucking thing, pin it back together, and wait for it to heal. Even if I had insurance to pay for that, it wouldn't be worth the trouble.
I think this thing inside me is the same way. The bone--so to speak--has knitted itself back together, and there's no longer an acute, oh-god-this-is-a-fucking-emergency kind of pain. But it didn't heal the way it should've, and it doesn't work the way it's supposed to. It still hurts, but it's a dull, chronic ache rather than a stabbing pain.
Or something like that.
I have long been open to the possibility that there's something else wrong with me besides the bipolar. I don't doubt for a moment that I am--or have, depending on how you wanna word it--bipolar. "Bipolar I with psychotic features" is a diagnosis that fits all too well for me to argue about it. But it's hardly unusual for mental illnesses to come in groups. In fact, it's more unusual for someone to have only one, I think. Certainly, there are things about me that can't be explained away by the bipolar.
I'm angry. I, like the Hulk, am always angry. The difference between now, when I'm decently medicated, and then, when I was at my sickest, is that it's not as intense. If anger is a fire, it was always burning when I was at my maddest. All it took was the slightest gust of wind to stir it, make it flare up, and burn everybody in shooting distance. I used to terrify people with my fury. I know, because they told me so.
Now it's more like a smoldering ember, hidden under the burnt-out ashes of the conflagrations that came before. It's there. It burns hot. But a gust of wind is no longer enough to stir it up. There are too many ashes laying atop it for wind to have much of an effect. You have to throw gas on it to get it to flare now. But it's always there, nonetheless.
It manifests itself mostly as bitterness now. Cynicism and bitterness--the last refuge of the disillusioned.
Sure, most people will never notice. I'm charming now--charismatic, even, when I want to be. (That I rarely want to be is beside the point.) Eventually, when enough shit happens to you, you lose the ability to give a fuck what people think about you and then just say and do whatever you want. If you're interesting/intelligent/quirky enough, people find it charming. Works for me.
But I know--and I suspect my closest friends know--that it's not a confidence borne of something healthy. It's fatalistic. Nothing ever changes, so what does it matter? Why throw up false pretenses anymore? It's not as though it'll change anything, not as though the end will be anything other than what it's going to be, anyhow, not as though my life will ever be anything other than a massive shitstorm. So fuck it.
I think that's the motto of my life now: Fuck it.
I'm old and weary and brittle and bitter and battle-hardened, and nothing matters anymore.
And still I push on, some inner stubbornness or spitefulness or hyper-developed sense of self-preservation spurring me on to whatever other shitty surprises life has in store for me.
I have long feared that I'm cursed with the personality disorder that strikes fear into the hearts of clinicians everywhere: borderline personality disorder. I can usually reason myself out of the belief if I try hard enough. I am exceptional at lying to myself, after all. I can create an entirely new reality in my head if I have to, if the "real" one is too much for me to face...and don't think I haven't made use of it on more than one occasion.
But I'm currently reading something online--something that's too embarrassing to admit to out loud, so we're going to skim right over that part. There's a character in it who's as mad as a hatter, who has borderline. It's absolutely fucking scary how familiar the behavior is, how perfectly the mindset matches up, how the beliefs and rationalizations are the same fucking things I tell myself--have told myself--for years and years and years.
Admittedly, I don't exhibit some of the more dramatic symptoms. I never was a cutter, for instance. (Why hurt yourself when you can find someone else to do it--and do it even better--for you, I always thought.) And a lot of the overblown bullshit is tamped down by a combination of my meds and my own fear of the monster that lives in my head. I guess I'm what happens when someone who's that sick starts burning out.
I'm not going to be that asshole who self-diagnoses and then runs around using it as an excuse to do...whatever. I suspect that's another one of the things that's wrong with me, yes. It would explain SO much. But I'm not particularly eager to claim the label, for one, and for another, I would rather let a professional diagnose it. I've never been known for my sound judgment, after all.
But still...a lot of the stuff--including the anger--fits.
So that brings us back to "Bunny needs a therapist." Which brings us back to the same thing we always come back to. In order to go to a therapist, Bunny needs money. In order to have money, Bunny needs to work. In order to be able to work without being a train wreck, Bunny needs a therapist.
So, yeah...seems like fatalism is really the only path one can take when faced with that particular set of circumstances.
Eh...fuck it. Not like it really matters, anyway, I guess. Eventually, the whole world will burn, anyway, with or without my help.
*Sigh*
Fuck it.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
The Difference
I'm back on meds...again.
Wednesday is my one day off work, so I took some of the money I got paid for some blog work I did and went to my parents' house Tuesday night after I got off. I tried to go to the doctor on Wednesday because I need some new prescriptions, but that ended up being a clusterfuck, so I'm going to try again in a couple of weeks, I hope. I've been without Ambien for way too long, and my sleep just does whatever it wants.
But I had, like, nine refills on my Wellbutrin and one more on my Lamictal, so I took my ass to the pharmacy--where I used to work in the freaking soda fountain when I was 18--and got my refills.
I still struggle with my illness, even on meds, but sometimes all it takes is having to go off your meds for awhile to see how far you've come.
I'd been off for nearly a month, and I hated everyone and everything, and I desperately wanted to watch the world burn. I was angry--God, so angry. That was the depression. It came first, bringing the anger, the lack of motivation, the tears, the despair, the effed up sleep patterns, the leaden paralysis as it's called, the inability to get out of bed, the serious suicidal thoughts. (Re: suicidal thoughts: After Wednesday's failed doctor visit, I was extremely upset because I really do need to see the doctor quite badly. In order to get from my parents' house to the doctor, one has to cross a bridge over a river. I was so fucked up and desperate and hopeless on my way back that I came within a gnat's ass of stopping and jumping off the bridge. NB, I am rather afraid of bridges, so I was clearly out of my goddamned mind at that point in time. The only thing that stopped me was not an overwhelming will to live or fear of what my death would do to the people I left behind. It was only the fear that the bridge was not high enough for me to die when I hit the shallow water beneath it, and I thought a life as a quadriplegic would be worse than life as a crazy person. I'm sharing that because I can never tell anyone, couldn't stand for anyone to know how weak I am, and my secret is safe here.) But I'd run out of Wellbutrin first, so it only made sense that that was what would come first.
When I ran out of Lamictal, I didn't notice much of a change...at first. Then, my sleep got more and more erratic, and by the end, the paranoia was creeping back in.
Even my mother noticed how bad off I was, which is saying something, considering how she tries to make out like it's all in my head.
As soon as I got the bottles from the pharmacy, I ripped the bag open and popped one of each. I'd only slept about 3 hours the night before, so I can't say that I noticed a huge change because I was too tired to feel anything but exhausted. But I came back home Wednesday night and slept for about 12 hours. After another dose of medicine in the morning, I felt better. Not back to normal, not yet able to ready be productive, but no longer actively wanting to kill myself or someone else.
Finally, today, it clicked. I caught up on everything I was behind on, even after a miserable 24-hour shift (ugh). I cooked (miracle of miracles), cleaned my kitchen, did dishes, washed all my bedclothes and replaced them, and wrote ten client blogs. (Now I'm writing this and am about to go to bed and read until I fall asleep.) I'm sure tomorrow won't be even half as productive, but I don't care. I'm more than caught up now. I'm slightly ahead. :)
I can see colors again. I am no longer demanding to bathe in the blood of everyone who vaguely annoys me. And, yes, I may be mildly manic--and almost surely am--but I've gotten so behind on everything for lack of motivation that I'm just going to ride it for the handful of days that it'll last before the Lamictal catches up with it and knocks it back down.
But it does bring up an interesting question: If the difference between "not depressed" and "depressed" is so blatantly different (or the difference between "mixed state" and "no longer actively batshit," your choice), how come no one--my friends, my family, anybody--ever tried to help me during all those years that I struggled so hard?
Oh. Because it never benefited them to do so. Duh.
That's frustrating to accept because my life could've gone so much differently. If someone had had me in the doctor's office at 13 or 14, when it really started becoming noticeable, I sincerely doubt I'd be in the shitty situation I'm in now. If someone had had me in there at 18 or 25, even, it would've stopped the downhill crash, I think.
But, oh, well. What do you do? It's done now, and I'm crawling back out of the hole again. Or trying to, anyway. *Sigh*
On the other hand, it does bring up another interesting point. I wonder if, when I'm feeling really depressed in spite of taking my meds, it's worth going off of them for two or three days or so and then starting them back again. The shock to my brain, the difference between "medicated" and "unmedicated" after I restart my meds when I (involuntarily, I might add) have to go off of them, is so profound that I think it would stop a depressive episode in its tracks. Or at least make it seem better than it was before.
It's not the ideal solution, of course, but it might be something I can try until I can do better.
Next step? A new Ambien prescription and birth control. It's not that I need the birth control for its original intended purpose (broken innards FTW!), but I think something like Nuva-Ring would do wonders for getting rid of the usual premenstrual depression. I mean, if you're not having a period, it's hard to fall into a pit of despair the week before it starts.
Ok, I'm rambling. Bed now.
Wednesday is my one day off work, so I took some of the money I got paid for some blog work I did and went to my parents' house Tuesday night after I got off. I tried to go to the doctor on Wednesday because I need some new prescriptions, but that ended up being a clusterfuck, so I'm going to try again in a couple of weeks, I hope. I've been without Ambien for way too long, and my sleep just does whatever it wants.
But I had, like, nine refills on my Wellbutrin and one more on my Lamictal, so I took my ass to the pharmacy--where I used to work in the freaking soda fountain when I was 18--and got my refills.
I still struggle with my illness, even on meds, but sometimes all it takes is having to go off your meds for awhile to see how far you've come.
I'd been off for nearly a month, and I hated everyone and everything, and I desperately wanted to watch the world burn. I was angry--God, so angry. That was the depression. It came first, bringing the anger, the lack of motivation, the tears, the despair, the effed up sleep patterns, the leaden paralysis as it's called, the inability to get out of bed, the serious suicidal thoughts. (Re: suicidal thoughts: After Wednesday's failed doctor visit, I was extremely upset because I really do need to see the doctor quite badly. In order to get from my parents' house to the doctor, one has to cross a bridge over a river. I was so fucked up and desperate and hopeless on my way back that I came within a gnat's ass of stopping and jumping off the bridge. NB, I am rather afraid of bridges, so I was clearly out of my goddamned mind at that point in time. The only thing that stopped me was not an overwhelming will to live or fear of what my death would do to the people I left behind. It was only the fear that the bridge was not high enough for me to die when I hit the shallow water beneath it, and I thought a life as a quadriplegic would be worse than life as a crazy person. I'm sharing that because I can never tell anyone, couldn't stand for anyone to know how weak I am, and my secret is safe here.) But I'd run out of Wellbutrin first, so it only made sense that that was what would come first.
When I ran out of Lamictal, I didn't notice much of a change...at first. Then, my sleep got more and more erratic, and by the end, the paranoia was creeping back in.
Even my mother noticed how bad off I was, which is saying something, considering how she tries to make out like it's all in my head.
As soon as I got the bottles from the pharmacy, I ripped the bag open and popped one of each. I'd only slept about 3 hours the night before, so I can't say that I noticed a huge change because I was too tired to feel anything but exhausted. But I came back home Wednesday night and slept for about 12 hours. After another dose of medicine in the morning, I felt better. Not back to normal, not yet able to ready be productive, but no longer actively wanting to kill myself or someone else.
Finally, today, it clicked. I caught up on everything I was behind on, even after a miserable 24-hour shift (ugh). I cooked (miracle of miracles), cleaned my kitchen, did dishes, washed all my bedclothes and replaced them, and wrote ten client blogs. (Now I'm writing this and am about to go to bed and read until I fall asleep.) I'm sure tomorrow won't be even half as productive, but I don't care. I'm more than caught up now. I'm slightly ahead. :)
I can see colors again. I am no longer demanding to bathe in the blood of everyone who vaguely annoys me. And, yes, I may be mildly manic--and almost surely am--but I've gotten so behind on everything for lack of motivation that I'm just going to ride it for the handful of days that it'll last before the Lamictal catches up with it and knocks it back down.
But it does bring up an interesting question: If the difference between "not depressed" and "depressed" is so blatantly different (or the difference between "mixed state" and "no longer actively batshit," your choice), how come no one--my friends, my family, anybody--ever tried to help me during all those years that I struggled so hard?
Oh. Because it never benefited them to do so. Duh.
That's frustrating to accept because my life could've gone so much differently. If someone had had me in the doctor's office at 13 or 14, when it really started becoming noticeable, I sincerely doubt I'd be in the shitty situation I'm in now. If someone had had me in there at 18 or 25, even, it would've stopped the downhill crash, I think.
But, oh, well. What do you do? It's done now, and I'm crawling back out of the hole again. Or trying to, anyway. *Sigh*
On the other hand, it does bring up another interesting point. I wonder if, when I'm feeling really depressed in spite of taking my meds, it's worth going off of them for two or three days or so and then starting them back again. The shock to my brain, the difference between "medicated" and "unmedicated" after I restart my meds when I (involuntarily, I might add) have to go off of them, is so profound that I think it would stop a depressive episode in its tracks. Or at least make it seem better than it was before.
It's not the ideal solution, of course, but it might be something I can try until I can do better.
Next step? A new Ambien prescription and birth control. It's not that I need the birth control for its original intended purpose (broken innards FTW!), but I think something like Nuva-Ring would do wonders for getting rid of the usual premenstrual depression. I mean, if you're not having a period, it's hard to fall into a pit of despair the week before it starts.
Ok, I'm rambling. Bed now.
Friday, May 30, 2014
I Have No Idea What To Title This
My friend L. sent me a text today, wanting to know what I had planned for tomorrow.
Nothing, I replied. (I have to pull a 24-hour shift from 2 pm on Thursday to 2 pm on Friday--more on that bullshit another time--but after Princess Asshole takes the lines back on Friday, I'm free until I have to go back into work on Saturday afternoon.)
Then I asked her why.
She replied that she was hoping to come up and visit and that maybe we could go out tomorrow (Friday) night. I'm broke as shit at the moment--I literally have two cents in the bank until payday--but it's possible to go to a bar and spend zero money, so I said that'd be fine with me.
She waffled back and forth for awhile, claiming that I'd need to sleep and so forth, and I told her that I would sleep while I worked because that's what I always do. There's no way in hell I'm staying awake for 24 hours straight just because Princess wants a day off, after all. Then I told her that I'd love the company, etc., etc.
I still don't know if she's going to come or not. Part of me hopes so because she's my friend, and I miss her, and I miss being able to do shit like normal people do. But another part of me knows I need to be working my ass off tomorrow. But whatever happens, happens, I suppose. I won't be too upset either way.
Before we stopped talking, though, she said something that really fucking bothered me. I don't know if it's because I'm off my meds (not voluntarily--two cents in the bank, remember?) and possibly oversensitive or if it was actually insensitive of her. But it's been bugging me ever since she said it.
It was a couple of things, actually. I said I would DD (partly because I am broke and partly because I don't need to drink, even if I am on a heavily rationed med regimen at the moment because I'm too broke to buy more), and she was more or less lamenting that things couldn't be like the good old days, when I regularly drank grown men under the table, blew through money like the Russians were at the front gates (as my father would say), got completely hammered nearly every time we went out, and did lots of questionable things with lots of questionable strangers to make the screaming in my head stop for a little while.
I'm (almost) certain she didn't mean it the way it sounded. But that doesn't make it any less painful to me. I mean...I'm sorry that my recovery from crazy inconveniences you, but fucking deal with it. I assure you, it sucks a lot more for me than it does for you. At least the not having money to piss away part, anyway. I could live without the alcohol and the random strangers, unless they're tall, beautiful, and European. And rich. Definitely rich.
It's not that I'm opposed to going out or anything. I would love to, if for no other reason than to just get out of the fucking house. It's just the way she said it, like, "Oh, hey, you were WAY more fun when you hemorrhaged alcohol, money, and sex to anyone who'd stand still long enough to grab it."
Yeah. No kidding. Seems like everyone feels that way, given how many people bounced when they realized they weren't getting one or more of those things from me anymore.
And while I know she's not one of those fair-weather friends, not really, it still hurts because it reminds me of how many people were. All the shit I did for quite a few people, the debt I went into, the parts of me that I sacrificed--and where are those assholes now? Gone. It was all well and good to take and take and take from me, to bleed me absolutely dry, but when Bunny needs something, they're nowhere to be found.
Imagine that.
But you know what? Even if it takes me forever to recover financially, and even if I'm always a lot warier about the people I let close to me, I'd still rather it be this way than the old way. Why? Because the screaming's stopped (mostly), and I don't feel like my goddamned head is on fire anymore. Well, not usually, anyway. There are reprieves, at least, let's put it that way.
Peace is worth losing a lot of shitty, toxic "friends" for, y'all. It really is.
Nothing, I replied. (I have to pull a 24-hour shift from 2 pm on Thursday to 2 pm on Friday--more on that bullshit another time--but after Princess Asshole takes the lines back on Friday, I'm free until I have to go back into work on Saturday afternoon.)
Then I asked her why.
She replied that she was hoping to come up and visit and that maybe we could go out tomorrow (Friday) night. I'm broke as shit at the moment--I literally have two cents in the bank until payday--but it's possible to go to a bar and spend zero money, so I said that'd be fine with me.
She waffled back and forth for awhile, claiming that I'd need to sleep and so forth, and I told her that I would sleep while I worked because that's what I always do. There's no way in hell I'm staying awake for 24 hours straight just because Princess wants a day off, after all. Then I told her that I'd love the company, etc., etc.
I still don't know if she's going to come or not. Part of me hopes so because she's my friend, and I miss her, and I miss being able to do shit like normal people do. But another part of me knows I need to be working my ass off tomorrow. But whatever happens, happens, I suppose. I won't be too upset either way.
Before we stopped talking, though, she said something that really fucking bothered me. I don't know if it's because I'm off my meds (not voluntarily--two cents in the bank, remember?) and possibly oversensitive or if it was actually insensitive of her. But it's been bugging me ever since she said it.
It was a couple of things, actually. I said I would DD (partly because I am broke and partly because I don't need to drink, even if I am on a heavily rationed med regimen at the moment because I'm too broke to buy more), and she was more or less lamenting that things couldn't be like the good old days, when I regularly drank grown men under the table, blew through money like the Russians were at the front gates (as my father would say), got completely hammered nearly every time we went out, and did lots of questionable things with lots of questionable strangers to make the screaming in my head stop for a little while.
I'm (almost) certain she didn't mean it the way it sounded. But that doesn't make it any less painful to me. I mean...I'm sorry that my recovery from crazy inconveniences you, but fucking deal with it. I assure you, it sucks a lot more for me than it does for you. At least the not having money to piss away part, anyway. I could live without the alcohol and the random strangers, unless they're tall, beautiful, and European. And rich. Definitely rich.
It's not that I'm opposed to going out or anything. I would love to, if for no other reason than to just get out of the fucking house. It's just the way she said it, like, "Oh, hey, you were WAY more fun when you hemorrhaged alcohol, money, and sex to anyone who'd stand still long enough to grab it."
Yeah. No kidding. Seems like everyone feels that way, given how many people bounced when they realized they weren't getting one or more of those things from me anymore.
And while I know she's not one of those fair-weather friends, not really, it still hurts because it reminds me of how many people were. All the shit I did for quite a few people, the debt I went into, the parts of me that I sacrificed--and where are those assholes now? Gone. It was all well and good to take and take and take from me, to bleed me absolutely dry, but when Bunny needs something, they're nowhere to be found.
Imagine that.
But you know what? Even if it takes me forever to recover financially, and even if I'm always a lot warier about the people I let close to me, I'd still rather it be this way than the old way. Why? Because the screaming's stopped (mostly), and I don't feel like my goddamned head is on fire anymore. Well, not usually, anyway. There are reprieves, at least, let's put it that way.
Peace is worth losing a lot of shitty, toxic "friends" for, y'all. It really is.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Spring
I find it...amusing, I suppose...how some things never change.
This is the beginning of March. Aside from the fact that it was bloody fucking cold Monday, the weather is finally starting to resemble something I can tolerate again. And Daylight Savings Time begins this weekend, too. (I actually don't care that much about the time change, since I don't keep "normal" hours. It's the total length of the daylight hours that matters when it comes to me not being crazy, not the clock.)
Pretty much everything in my life is completely different, both from how it used to be--which is to be expected--and from how I always thought it would be. But still, to this day, when this time of year rolls around, I am filled with this deep, inexplicable need...to go out and play softball.
Yes, I'm aware that it's fucking retarded. Yes, I'm aware that I haven't seriously played in about 12 years and that I haven't even picked up a glove in 4 or 5. But still, every year, without fail, I want to hit the diamond so bad that I can taste it in the back of my throat.
Alas, no matter how badly I want to, I can't. Even if I weren't in the worst shape of my life, even if I weren't too old for such things, I couldn't play. I blew up my shoulder--my fucking throwing shoulder--nearly 9 years ago, falling off a horse. The saddle was loose, the horse went around a curve, the saddle slipped, and I got too overbalanced to stop it. So down I went, and the only thing that kept me from landing on my head and cracking my own skull open was this bizarre sense of self-preservation that I apparently have that made me throw my shoulder out to take the brunt of the fall. I still wonder if that was a mistake....
I wish I had done what I wanted to do and gotten my shoulder repaired while I was still in college. There's a hole in the soft tissue big enough to drive a truck through. (I've seen the MRIs.) The humerus will slide right out of the hole with very little provocation, and suddenly, my whole shoulder is subluxed.
I have not been kind to my body over the years.
So I'll do what every washed-up old has-been does and sit back and think of my glory years when I wasn't an obese crazy person with a body that's falling apart and a mind that goes on the blink regularly.
But even so, even if I can't do what I want to do...spring will be here soon, and it'll all be all right once again, just for a little while.
This is the beginning of March. Aside from the fact that it was bloody fucking cold Monday, the weather is finally starting to resemble something I can tolerate again. And Daylight Savings Time begins this weekend, too. (I actually don't care that much about the time change, since I don't keep "normal" hours. It's the total length of the daylight hours that matters when it comes to me not being crazy, not the clock.)
Pretty much everything in my life is completely different, both from how it used to be--which is to be expected--and from how I always thought it would be. But still, to this day, when this time of year rolls around, I am filled with this deep, inexplicable need...to go out and play softball.
Yes, I'm aware that it's fucking retarded. Yes, I'm aware that I haven't seriously played in about 12 years and that I haven't even picked up a glove in 4 or 5. But still, every year, without fail, I want to hit the diamond so bad that I can taste it in the back of my throat.
Alas, no matter how badly I want to, I can't. Even if I weren't in the worst shape of my life, even if I weren't too old for such things, I couldn't play. I blew up my shoulder--my fucking throwing shoulder--nearly 9 years ago, falling off a horse. The saddle was loose, the horse went around a curve, the saddle slipped, and I got too overbalanced to stop it. So down I went, and the only thing that kept me from landing on my head and cracking my own skull open was this bizarre sense of self-preservation that I apparently have that made me throw my shoulder out to take the brunt of the fall. I still wonder if that was a mistake....
I wish I had done what I wanted to do and gotten my shoulder repaired while I was still in college. There's a hole in the soft tissue big enough to drive a truck through. (I've seen the MRIs.) The humerus will slide right out of the hole with very little provocation, and suddenly, my whole shoulder is subluxed.
I have not been kind to my body over the years.
So I'll do what every washed-up old has-been does and sit back and think of my glory years when I wasn't an obese crazy person with a body that's falling apart and a mind that goes on the blink regularly.
But even so, even if I can't do what I want to do...spring will be here soon, and it'll all be all right once again, just for a little while.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
How Bunny Won The Internet
Step One: Take sleeping pill.
Step Two: Doze.
Step Three: Awaken with two separate ideas for poems.
Step Four: Write them on your tablet.
Step Five: Sleep.
Step Six: Look at what you wrote the next day.
Step Seven: Cringe.
Step Eight: Post the first one on your poetry blog against your better judgment.
Step Nine: Keep the second one hidden, as it contains no capitalization, punctuation, or even coherent thought toward the end.
Step Ten: Confess your sins to your writer friend, FangBunny.
Step Eleven: Hold your breath while she reads your blog to see the bad--but at least properly punctuated--poem you posted.
Step Twelve: Cackle like a madwoman when she says, "It's not awful at all. But god...all the points to you for brooding spectacularly."
Step Thirteen: Post your friend's comment on your OTHER blog for posterity, duh.
Step Two: Doze.
Step Three: Awaken with two separate ideas for poems.
Step Four: Write them on your tablet.
Step Five: Sleep.
Step Six: Look at what you wrote the next day.
Step Seven: Cringe.
Step Eight: Post the first one on your poetry blog against your better judgment.
Step Nine: Keep the second one hidden, as it contains no capitalization, punctuation, or even coherent thought toward the end.
Step Ten: Confess your sins to your writer friend, FangBunny.
Step Eleven: Hold your breath while she reads your blog to see the bad--but at least properly punctuated--poem you posted.
Step Twelve: Cackle like a madwoman when she says, "It's not awful at all. But god...all the points to you for brooding spectacularly."
Step Thirteen: Post your friend's comment on your OTHER blog for posterity, duh.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Be Careful What You Wish For....
Remember how I was bitching that I had no ideas for writing? Remember how I said the Universe was strangely silent on the matter? Remind my ass to never do that shit again.
A one-off comment to FangBunny earlier today sparked an idea for a short story. I wrote 14 pages of the story--some 5,000 words--and realized, nope, there's no way this is gonna be a "short story" because I wasn't even halfway through it at that point yet. So I was all, "Ok, this is gonna be a novella." Then I wrote another 2,000+ words' worth of notes for it and realized, FML, it's going to have to be a novel to make sure all the threads I've picked up are properly tied up in the end.
So...I have an idea for a novel ON TOP OF the blog/novel thing I'm already working on. Apparently, poetry has been abandoned for the time being while I'm the Universe's bitch again.
My biggest fear is that I'm going to lose interest and not do this thing. I hope not, but I may. I usually end up doing just that. I suppose, though, if the Universe is making me its bitch once more, it's not going to let me give up on it. It'll squeeze me until it wrings the whole fucking story out of me, drop by drop. Part of me hopes it doesn't because that is one PAINFUL ass process, let me tell you. But a bigger part hopes it does because I'm really excited about this. Hopefully, the excitement will last 'til I'm finished. Or at least until I'm far enough along that I can't justify quitting.
I'm also terrified because this is a daunting task that I may or may not be up to, but I'm going to throw everything I've got at it and hope I can handle it.
No, goddammit, I'm going to fucking handle it because I can't handle anything else in my life, and I refuse to fuck THIS up, too. Why? This quote by my idol, Sylvia motherfucking Plath herself, is why:
"What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age."
A one-off comment to FangBunny earlier today sparked an idea for a short story. I wrote 14 pages of the story--some 5,000 words--and realized, nope, there's no way this is gonna be a "short story" because I wasn't even halfway through it at that point yet. So I was all, "Ok, this is gonna be a novella." Then I wrote another 2,000+ words' worth of notes for it and realized, FML, it's going to have to be a novel to make sure all the threads I've picked up are properly tied up in the end.
So...I have an idea for a novel ON TOP OF the blog/novel thing I'm already working on. Apparently, poetry has been abandoned for the time being while I'm the Universe's bitch again.
My biggest fear is that I'm going to lose interest and not do this thing. I hope not, but I may. I usually end up doing just that. I suppose, though, if the Universe is making me its bitch once more, it's not going to let me give up on it. It'll squeeze me until it wrings the whole fucking story out of me, drop by drop. Part of me hopes it doesn't because that is one PAINFUL ass process, let me tell you. But a bigger part hopes it does because I'm really excited about this. Hopefully, the excitement will last 'til I'm finished. Or at least until I'm far enough along that I can't justify quitting.
I'm also terrified because this is a daunting task that I may or may not be up to, but I'm going to throw everything I've got at it and hope I can handle it.
No, goddammit, I'm going to fucking handle it because I can't handle anything else in my life, and I refuse to fuck THIS up, too. Why? This quote by my idol, Sylvia motherfucking Plath herself, is why:
"What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age."
Friday, February 21, 2014
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Things Got Bad & Things Got Worse, Guess You Know The Tune....
So...I have worked 37 of the last 60 hours, and I am on the overnight again tonight. And possibly tomorrow. I am apparently the only dispatcher who works at this joint now.
*Sigh*
I am bordering on delirium.
Hell, maybe I should try to write.
I'd laugh, but I haven't been having any luck with it otherwise, so it's not like I could do much worse at this point, I suppose.
I did manage another short chapter of my experimental novel thing--the fourth one since I started it last month--so I am clearly making blazing progress there. Last Wednesday, I also wrote an 11-page conversation with Lucifer which I intended to turn into either a short story or a poem, but it's pretty obvious now, looking back over it, that it was written in a sort of feverish haze, so I'm not entirely sure I can do anything with it at all.
It's been so long since I tried to do anything real, anything with meaning, that I don't know that I can still do it. I was never that good to start with, but I've deteriorated over the years. Now I have a brief flash or two of something that's decent, but it's buried underneath mountains of bullshit to the point where I have to wonder if it's worth even attempting to dig it out or not.
Blech.
The Universe is being strangely silent on the matter for now, though, so I'm having to muddle through this alone at the moment. I feel like I'm having to relearn how to do something that I was, perhaps, never that good at to start with, and I hate it.
I've been trying to read more. The 19th century--the Victorians, mainly. They're the ones I love the most. I'm also reading a Kindle book that my dear friend L. sent me for Valentine's Day. (I sent her back the first book of the Grisha trilogy on Kindle as her Valentine's Day gift because I desperately want to addict other people to this freaking series, too.) I was doing well with the reading, too, until I started running out of meds. I've been rationing again because I don't know when I'll be able to get more because I'm broke as per usual, and I'll be goddamned if I'm asking my mother to get them for me again, given how much bullshit I have to take from her every time she does.
I have 3 Wellbutrin left in the bottle. I haven't had one in 2 days. Still plenty of Lamictal, thank God, but it's the Wellbutrin that I, arguably, need the most. I rarely get very manic nowadays. It's either a decent mood or black, black despair. Because, you know, why not?
Blinding headaches. My ADD is off the fucking charts. I can't even read anymore. It's so hard to love the English language like I do--flawed though it may be, though I am, too, so I suppose it's fitting--and not even be able to fucking read.
I talk to FangBunny nearly every night about writing. Well, and other things. Writing. Books. Angst. Our own pretension. Beautiful men. That kind of thing.
Last night, I ended up on the phone with my friend B. in Huntsville for two hours, from like 2 am until 4 am. About a third of the conversation was me being bitter and angsty because I have apparently reverted to my teen years or something. Another third was me drifting in and out of sleep. And the last third was me sending him fucking Tumblr links on Yahoo and listening to his reactions because yay, Internet? But at some point during the "drifting in and out of sleep" portion of the conversation, I said one of the most insightful things I've come up with lately. Ok, well, I didn't say it; I slurred it. I was about three-quarters asleep, after all. "I wish brooding were a sport," I said, "'cuz I'd win, like, everything."
Eloquently phrased? No. A wonderful assessment of the reason for a lot of my problems being because I stay in my own head too much? Yes.
But, alas, all my friends are asleep now, and I'm here listening to CCR and being angry because I can't write. Well, anything other than this shit, that is. *Sigh*
The good news, I suppose, is that L. is coming next week to spend several days. She's going to dye my hair black for me again, since it's been, like, 9 months since it was last dyed. I took some pics with my new webcam for Facebook last week, and it is painfully obvious in those just how two-toned my hair currently is. We may even go to the bar for old time's sake. I won't drink, of course. Well, no more than a daiquiri, or maybe two if they're particularly good that night. She can do the drinking. I'll drive. I don't need to drink, anyhow, and I get no pleasure from it anymore, anyway, (fucking meds), so there's no sense in wasting liquor. Besides, it's not like she hasn't driven my drunk ass around a million times over the years. It's the least I can do.
But until then, I'm stuck here with my own thoughts, and that can be quite dangerous indeed.
Oh, well. Maybe I can actually read tonight? Who the fuck knows anymore?
*Sigh*
I am bordering on delirium.
Hell, maybe I should try to write.
I'd laugh, but I haven't been having any luck with it otherwise, so it's not like I could do much worse at this point, I suppose.
I did manage another short chapter of my experimental novel thing--the fourth one since I started it last month--so I am clearly making blazing progress there. Last Wednesday, I also wrote an 11-page conversation with Lucifer which I intended to turn into either a short story or a poem, but it's pretty obvious now, looking back over it, that it was written in a sort of feverish haze, so I'm not entirely sure I can do anything with it at all.
It's been so long since I tried to do anything real, anything with meaning, that I don't know that I can still do it. I was never that good to start with, but I've deteriorated over the years. Now I have a brief flash or two of something that's decent, but it's buried underneath mountains of bullshit to the point where I have to wonder if it's worth even attempting to dig it out or not.
Blech.
The Universe is being strangely silent on the matter for now, though, so I'm having to muddle through this alone at the moment. I feel like I'm having to relearn how to do something that I was, perhaps, never that good at to start with, and I hate it.
I've been trying to read more. The 19th century--the Victorians, mainly. They're the ones I love the most. I'm also reading a Kindle book that my dear friend L. sent me for Valentine's Day. (I sent her back the first book of the Grisha trilogy on Kindle as her Valentine's Day gift because I desperately want to addict other people to this freaking series, too.) I was doing well with the reading, too, until I started running out of meds. I've been rationing again because I don't know when I'll be able to get more because I'm broke as per usual, and I'll be goddamned if I'm asking my mother to get them for me again, given how much bullshit I have to take from her every time she does.
I have 3 Wellbutrin left in the bottle. I haven't had one in 2 days. Still plenty of Lamictal, thank God, but it's the Wellbutrin that I, arguably, need the most. I rarely get very manic nowadays. It's either a decent mood or black, black despair. Because, you know, why not?
Blinding headaches. My ADD is off the fucking charts. I can't even read anymore. It's so hard to love the English language like I do--flawed though it may be, though I am, too, so I suppose it's fitting--and not even be able to fucking read.
I talk to FangBunny nearly every night about writing. Well, and other things. Writing. Books. Angst. Our own pretension. Beautiful men. That kind of thing.
Last night, I ended up on the phone with my friend B. in Huntsville for two hours, from like 2 am until 4 am. About a third of the conversation was me being bitter and angsty because I have apparently reverted to my teen years or something. Another third was me drifting in and out of sleep. And the last third was me sending him fucking Tumblr links on Yahoo and listening to his reactions because yay, Internet? But at some point during the "drifting in and out of sleep" portion of the conversation, I said one of the most insightful things I've come up with lately. Ok, well, I didn't say it; I slurred it. I was about three-quarters asleep, after all. "I wish brooding were a sport," I said, "'cuz I'd win, like, everything."
Eloquently phrased? No. A wonderful assessment of the reason for a lot of my problems being because I stay in my own head too much? Yes.
But, alas, all my friends are asleep now, and I'm here listening to CCR and being angry because I can't write. Well, anything other than this shit, that is. *Sigh*
The good news, I suppose, is that L. is coming next week to spend several days. She's going to dye my hair black for me again, since it's been, like, 9 months since it was last dyed. I took some pics with my new webcam for Facebook last week, and it is painfully obvious in those just how two-toned my hair currently is. We may even go to the bar for old time's sake. I won't drink, of course. Well, no more than a daiquiri, or maybe two if they're particularly good that night. She can do the drinking. I'll drive. I don't need to drink, anyhow, and I get no pleasure from it anymore, anyway, (fucking meds), so there's no sense in wasting liquor. Besides, it's not like she hasn't driven my drunk ass around a million times over the years. It's the least I can do.
But until then, I'm stuck here with my own thoughts, and that can be quite dangerous indeed.
Oh, well. Maybe I can actually read tonight? Who the fuck knows anymore?
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
I Hate Everything, Most Of All Me
Well...that lasted real long. *Eyeroll*
Sometimes, I get going well and start feeling good about myself. You'd think I'd stop doing that after a while, considering that every time I do it, something happens to remind me that I'm a fucking emotional cripple.
I don't even know what caused it this time. I was doing ok, and now I hate everyone--especially me--and everything--especially my writing.
Ok, that's not entirely true. I've been catching shit from my parents (my mother, especially) lately, and I can only let it roll off my back like raindrops for so long until it starts seeping in.
"You're so smart, and you went to school for so long. You could do better if you would."
"You can do anything you want, if you just want to bad enough."
"There's nothing wrong with you. You just think there is." (That got an "And I suppose I convinced the doctor there was something wrong when there isn't, too?" out of me. I should've known better than to say anything, though, because the answer was "Yes, you did.")
"You need to get out and get a job." Because, clearly, all these 14+ hour days I pull do not count as a "job" in her world.
There's a lot more, but it's all along those lines, so there's not much point in rehashing it over and over again.
You know, I don't talk about what's wrong with me to people often. And I pretty much NEVER say anything about it to my parents because that is the exact type of bullshit I get. I'm not asking to be coddled. I'm not asking for pity. But it would be nice to have it fucking acknowledged when I point out that the reason I'm 30 years old and completely and utterly fucked is that I'm having to start my life over completely from scratch because I was sick and blew it all to hell. But, no, it's not that. I'm just lazy, just like I've been accused of being my whole fucking life.
On one hand, I'm glad that people don't get it because it means they've never been there. They've never had to live with a fire burning in their skulls while the reactor melts down, to borrow a metaphor from one of my shitty poems. They've never stared into the abyss and had it stare back. They've never cried out to a God who either wasn't there or didn't fucking care enough to help. They've never hated everyone and everything in the world (but never as much as they hated themselves). They've never had to deal with side effects of pills--thank you, Lamictal, for the vicious acid reflux that makes it impossible for me to even eat or sleep sometimes--or with other people being dismissive of their problems or with the despair that comes with being 30 years old and worse off than you were in college.
But on the other hand, even though I wouldn't wish this shit on anyone, it WOULD be nice if they could spend 10 minutes in my head. I expect they'd STFU then.
Hell, maybe I do use it as an excuse. I don't know. I don't think I do, but I'm not exactly known for my insight into my own behavior/thoughts/emotions/motivations. I just...I've lived without hope. Completely without it. There is nothing in the world worse than that. I don't want to go back to it. It's a wonder I lived through it the first time. Just the thought alone terrifies me. I will do anything and everything to keep from going back to it, and if that means leaning on crutches more than I should, then so be it. And fuck you if you don't like it.
Normal people can cook and clean their houses and take care of themselves and have jobs and pay their bills and have friends and just generally do the daily tasks of life. Hell, even sick people can do it. So why can't I? Am I that broken? Am I that afraid? Or is it some innate character flaw inside of me? Maybe it is. I don't fucking know.
Do normal people live with the specter of their own suicides hanging over their heads all the time? Not their own deaths, mind you. All of us live with that. The thought of dropping dead doesn't really bother me that badly. What terrifies me--what wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold fucking sweat--is the thought that all hope will abandon me again and I will once more be driven to that place where I can't live with it anymore. Is it normal for people to always have at least 3 easy methods of killing themselves in the backs of their minds all the time, anytime, just in case they can't take it anymore? I suspect not. But maybe it is, though. What the fuck do I know about being normal?
The absolute worst thing of it all, though, is the struggle to write. I want to so badly. There's so much in my head that needs to come out, but I can't do it. I'm overwhelmed by my own words, and none of it comes out even remotely like it needs to, and I just hate myself for it. Everything I write is shit, and I hate it, and I feel like there's some demon or other standing back and laughing at me because I agonize so heavily over something I'm so goddamned bad at.
It's the same old refrain that's been playing in my head my whole life: You're not good enough. You never have been. And no matter what you do, you never will be. You're not good enough.
Well...that was thoroughly uplifting, wasn't it?
Sometimes, I get going well and start feeling good about myself. You'd think I'd stop doing that after a while, considering that every time I do it, something happens to remind me that I'm a fucking emotional cripple.
I don't even know what caused it this time. I was doing ok, and now I hate everyone--especially me--and everything--especially my writing.
Ok, that's not entirely true. I've been catching shit from my parents (my mother, especially) lately, and I can only let it roll off my back like raindrops for so long until it starts seeping in.
"You're so smart, and you went to school for so long. You could do better if you would."
"You can do anything you want, if you just want to bad enough."
"There's nothing wrong with you. You just think there is." (That got an "And I suppose I convinced the doctor there was something wrong when there isn't, too?" out of me. I should've known better than to say anything, though, because the answer was "Yes, you did.")
"You need to get out and get a job." Because, clearly, all these 14+ hour days I pull do not count as a "job" in her world.
There's a lot more, but it's all along those lines, so there's not much point in rehashing it over and over again.
You know, I don't talk about what's wrong with me to people often. And I pretty much NEVER say anything about it to my parents because that is the exact type of bullshit I get. I'm not asking to be coddled. I'm not asking for pity. But it would be nice to have it fucking acknowledged when I point out that the reason I'm 30 years old and completely and utterly fucked is that I'm having to start my life over completely from scratch because I was sick and blew it all to hell. But, no, it's not that. I'm just lazy, just like I've been accused of being my whole fucking life.
On one hand, I'm glad that people don't get it because it means they've never been there. They've never had to live with a fire burning in their skulls while the reactor melts down, to borrow a metaphor from one of my shitty poems. They've never stared into the abyss and had it stare back. They've never cried out to a God who either wasn't there or didn't fucking care enough to help. They've never hated everyone and everything in the world (but never as much as they hated themselves). They've never had to deal with side effects of pills--thank you, Lamictal, for the vicious acid reflux that makes it impossible for me to even eat or sleep sometimes--or with other people being dismissive of their problems or with the despair that comes with being 30 years old and worse off than you were in college.
But on the other hand, even though I wouldn't wish this shit on anyone, it WOULD be nice if they could spend 10 minutes in my head. I expect they'd STFU then.
Hell, maybe I do use it as an excuse. I don't know. I don't think I do, but I'm not exactly known for my insight into my own behavior/thoughts/emotions/motivations. I just...I've lived without hope. Completely without it. There is nothing in the world worse than that. I don't want to go back to it. It's a wonder I lived through it the first time. Just the thought alone terrifies me. I will do anything and everything to keep from going back to it, and if that means leaning on crutches more than I should, then so be it. And fuck you if you don't like it.
Normal people can cook and clean their houses and take care of themselves and have jobs and pay their bills and have friends and just generally do the daily tasks of life. Hell, even sick people can do it. So why can't I? Am I that broken? Am I that afraid? Or is it some innate character flaw inside of me? Maybe it is. I don't fucking know.
Do normal people live with the specter of their own suicides hanging over their heads all the time? Not their own deaths, mind you. All of us live with that. The thought of dropping dead doesn't really bother me that badly. What terrifies me--what wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold fucking sweat--is the thought that all hope will abandon me again and I will once more be driven to that place where I can't live with it anymore. Is it normal for people to always have at least 3 easy methods of killing themselves in the backs of their minds all the time, anytime, just in case they can't take it anymore? I suspect not. But maybe it is, though. What the fuck do I know about being normal?
The absolute worst thing of it all, though, is the struggle to write. I want to so badly. There's so much in my head that needs to come out, but I can't do it. I'm overwhelmed by my own words, and none of it comes out even remotely like it needs to, and I just hate myself for it. Everything I write is shit, and I hate it, and I feel like there's some demon or other standing back and laughing at me because I agonize so heavily over something I'm so goddamned bad at.
It's the same old refrain that's been playing in my head my whole life: You're not good enough. You never have been. And no matter what you do, you never will be. You're not good enough.
Well...that was thoroughly uplifting, wasn't it?
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Books Are Important, Kids
I am posting this for multiple reasons.
1.) Because it is true. This IS, in fact, the way I like my men.
2.) To make FangBunny have a heart attack next time she happens across my blog. :D
3.) Aaaaand maybe a little so I'll have it here in a place where the feed is much slower than either my FB or my Tumblr so that I can easily find it again when I need to drool over someone. Just a little, though. *Ahem*
He's not even my usual physical type, but fuck, he's hot, and even more importantly, fuck he's brilliant, and he READS. I don't even know what to do with that. For the longest time, I just thought he was a moderately attractive man who was a little too thin for my taste...and then I saw him quoting metaphysical poets on his Twitter account and promptly dropped dead. When I was revived, I was in love with him, LOL.
I BLAME FANGBUNNY FOR THE ENTIRETY OF THIS.
There's actually a small point I'd like to make, though, aside from the eye-candy bit, which alone makes this whole post worth it. I have never, never, never, never dated a man (or woman) who really read. Not really. And I'm coming to see that that was a huge mistake. Literature, especially everything from the 19th century, and poetry are really, really goddamned motherfucking important to me, and I've basically had enough of being mocked for it.
Don't get me wrong. I am perfectly happy with being alone. In fact, I prefer it because there is so little drama in my life now, OMG. It's glorious. I'm happy, and I get to spend time with my friends who are as well-read (or more so) than I am, and we get to be book snobs, and I don't have to front like I give a shit about things that "normal" people like that bore me to tears, and I don't have to dedicate my time to dealing with other people's issues. You have NO IDEA how amazingly freeing it is.
I love being alone. I love books. I love my friends. And most of all, I love writing. Ok, well, most of the time I love to hate it, but when it's finished, I love having done it. Some people might think it's sad that this is the way I've chosen to go with my life, but I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I'll write, and I'll be happy, and that's all I need.
On the other hand, should I find the one man in the world who didn't watch the Super Bowl yesterday because he was too busy reading Byron and simultaneously rebuilding his old-school muscle car, I might deign to be interested. Especially if he looks like THAT. ^^^^
;)
1.) Because it is true. This IS, in fact, the way I like my men.
2.) To make FangBunny have a heart attack next time she happens across my blog. :D
3.) Aaaaand maybe a little so I'll have it here in a place where the feed is much slower than either my FB or my Tumblr so that I can easily find it again when I need to drool over someone. Just a little, though. *Ahem*
He's not even my usual physical type, but fuck, he's hot, and even more importantly, fuck he's brilliant, and he READS. I don't even know what to do with that. For the longest time, I just thought he was a moderately attractive man who was a little too thin for my taste...and then I saw him quoting metaphysical poets on his Twitter account and promptly dropped dead. When I was revived, I was in love with him, LOL.
I BLAME FANGBUNNY FOR THE ENTIRETY OF THIS.
There's actually a small point I'd like to make, though, aside from the eye-candy bit, which alone makes this whole post worth it. I have never, never, never, never dated a man (or woman) who really read. Not really. And I'm coming to see that that was a huge mistake. Literature, especially everything from the 19th century, and poetry are really, really goddamned motherfucking important to me, and I've basically had enough of being mocked for it.
Don't get me wrong. I am perfectly happy with being alone. In fact, I prefer it because there is so little drama in my life now, OMG. It's glorious. I'm happy, and I get to spend time with my friends who are as well-read (or more so) than I am, and we get to be book snobs, and I don't have to front like I give a shit about things that "normal" people like that bore me to tears, and I don't have to dedicate my time to dealing with other people's issues. You have NO IDEA how amazingly freeing it is.
I love being alone. I love books. I love my friends. And most of all, I love writing. Ok, well, most of the time I love to hate it, but when it's finished, I love having done it. Some people might think it's sad that this is the way I've chosen to go with my life, but I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I'll write, and I'll be happy, and that's all I need.
On the other hand, should I find the one man in the world who didn't watch the Super Bowl yesterday because he was too busy reading Byron and simultaneously rebuilding his old-school muscle car, I might deign to be interested. Especially if he looks like THAT. ^^^^
;)
Monday, February 3, 2014
Conversations Between Writers At 2 AM
FangBunny and I are talking writing on FB, as per usual.
I'm currently discussing my crushing insecurity and totally overblown defensiveness when it comes to my own writing.
Me: Like, in my head, I'm somewhere between Vonnegut and Joseph Heller, but on paper, I can't even manage drunk Jimmy Buffett on a bad day.
Although the more I think about it, the more I think that's an insult to Buffett. Love him or hate him, the man can write amusing and ridiculous novels. Where Is Joe Merchant? is a big favorite.
*Sigh*
By contrast, the last thing *I* wrote was a poem with a "Uranus" joke in it.
>.>
I'm currently discussing my crushing insecurity and totally overblown defensiveness when it comes to my own writing.
Me: Like, in my head, I'm somewhere between Vonnegut and Joseph Heller, but on paper, I can't even manage drunk Jimmy Buffett on a bad day.
Although the more I think about it, the more I think that's an insult to Buffett. Love him or hate him, the man can write amusing and ridiculous novels. Where Is Joe Merchant? is a big favorite.
*Sigh*
By contrast, the last thing *I* wrote was a poem with a "Uranus" joke in it.
>.>
Thursday, January 23, 2014
On Writing, Reading, & Ailments
Oddly enough, I have been productive(ish) this week. All my work shit is caught up for the time being. And since today was my one day per week off, I took the opportunity to write the third chapter of my experimental novel thing that I've got up on Wordpress. It came fairly easily, believe it or not. Then, I got all ambitious and shit and decided to write a sonnet. Yes, a fucking sonnet. Yes, I am an idiot.
Have I mentioned that I can't count syllables or tell where stresses belong on words? And the sonnet is 14 lines of iambic pentameter with end rhymes? Yeahhhh...that was maybe not my most brilliant idea ever.
But fuck it. I did it. It's finished. It started off ok, but turned sorta labored in the middle. And also, I didn't mean for it to be depressing, but it kinda ended up being that way, anyhow. But honestly? I didn't do it to create something beautiful and wonderful that will stand throughout the ages. I just did it to see if I could do it. And I did, so that's pretty much all that matters. It's posted on my usual poetry blog, the link for which is in the sidebar of this page.
So, yeah, current count of shit I've written since the beginning of the year now stands at 3 chapters and 4 poems. Not bad, considering I usually only write non-work stuff once or twice a week. I'm pleased with the quantity, if not the quality yet.
In other news, the wisdom tooth on the lower left side of my jaw is flaring up again. It just did this a couple of months ago, and now it's acting a fool once more. It's sore, and it's infected, which makes it hard to eat. I ran out of my stockpiled antibiotics the LAST time this happened, so now I'm just having to wait it out. Hurts like hell, though, and the infection has spread from the bottom to the top as well. Ugh.
Alas, I have no money to go to the doctor to get antibiotics and no insurance to go to the dentist to get the damned things pulled. My mother told me that she has some leftover amoxicillin at her house, but I've got no way of getting it because, well, no gas money. I told her that if it was still giving me trouble by the weekend, maybe she could send them to me via my father on Sunday. She said she would, but I sincerely hope the shit is gone before then. I got out the Water Pik that I got for Christmas and tried to pressure-wash the inside of my mouth, in hopes that maybe I could flush some of the shit out. I'm not sure if that worked out so well, though.
Also, cluster headaches from hell. I'm sure they're being egged on by the tooth, but they've been flaring for several weeks now. They're worse than migraines--I wouldn't wish them on my worst enemy.
Well, I suppose that's all the news I have at the moment. I'm trying to start writing in this thing again more often, if only to vent about the act of writing. I talk to FangBunny about it on FB a lot, but I'd hate to make her totally crazy with my rambling.
Finally, speaking of FangBunny, she got me hooked on the Grisha trilogy by Leigh Bardugo. The third book has yet to be released, but the first book is called Shadow and Bone, and the second is called Siege and Storm. Ruin and Rising, the last book of the series, is due out in June, I think. I recommend them highly if you're someone who's accidentally stumbled upon this blog and are looking for something new to read.
Ok, bedtime soon.
Have I mentioned that I can't count syllables or tell where stresses belong on words? And the sonnet is 14 lines of iambic pentameter with end rhymes? Yeahhhh...that was maybe not my most brilliant idea ever.
But fuck it. I did it. It's finished. It started off ok, but turned sorta labored in the middle. And also, I didn't mean for it to be depressing, but it kinda ended up being that way, anyhow. But honestly? I didn't do it to create something beautiful and wonderful that will stand throughout the ages. I just did it to see if I could do it. And I did, so that's pretty much all that matters. It's posted on my usual poetry blog, the link for which is in the sidebar of this page.
So, yeah, current count of shit I've written since the beginning of the year now stands at 3 chapters and 4 poems. Not bad, considering I usually only write non-work stuff once or twice a week. I'm pleased with the quantity, if not the quality yet.
In other news, the wisdom tooth on the lower left side of my jaw is flaring up again. It just did this a couple of months ago, and now it's acting a fool once more. It's sore, and it's infected, which makes it hard to eat. I ran out of my stockpiled antibiotics the LAST time this happened, so now I'm just having to wait it out. Hurts like hell, though, and the infection has spread from the bottom to the top as well. Ugh.
Alas, I have no money to go to the doctor to get antibiotics and no insurance to go to the dentist to get the damned things pulled. My mother told me that she has some leftover amoxicillin at her house, but I've got no way of getting it because, well, no gas money. I told her that if it was still giving me trouble by the weekend, maybe she could send them to me via my father on Sunday. She said she would, but I sincerely hope the shit is gone before then. I got out the Water Pik that I got for Christmas and tried to pressure-wash the inside of my mouth, in hopes that maybe I could flush some of the shit out. I'm not sure if that worked out so well, though.
Also, cluster headaches from hell. I'm sure they're being egged on by the tooth, but they've been flaring for several weeks now. They're worse than migraines--I wouldn't wish them on my worst enemy.
Well, I suppose that's all the news I have at the moment. I'm trying to start writing in this thing again more often, if only to vent about the act of writing. I talk to FangBunny about it on FB a lot, but I'd hate to make her totally crazy with my rambling.
Finally, speaking of FangBunny, she got me hooked on the Grisha trilogy by Leigh Bardugo. The third book has yet to be released, but the first book is called Shadow and Bone, and the second is called Siege and Storm. Ruin and Rising, the last book of the series, is due out in June, I think. I recommend them highly if you're someone who's accidentally stumbled upon this blog and are looking for something new to read.
Ok, bedtime soon.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Bunny's Theory Of Writing
So...I have come to a conclusion.
In the world of writing, there are two types of people. There are people who write, and then there are writers.
Ok, that sounds derogatory. I don't mean it that way. I just have no other way to explain it. And it's not that one is better than the other. In fact, one person can be both at different times. It's a matter of inspiration.
A person who writes is someone who has a vague idea about something he or she would like to write and says to him/herself, "I would like to write a book one day" or something similar. This is basically what I do for work. People ask for things, and I think about the best way to make that happen for them, and then I put it on paper so that I can get paid. It pays the bills--sometimes--so I'm certainly not going to disparage it.
But then there are writers. Writers don't think of their own ideas. They don't tell themselves, "Oh, maybe one day when I have some time, I'll write this novel/short story/essay/poem/whatever."
Writers are tormented by stories in their heads. They didn't consciously think this shit up. The Universe planted these stories in their heads, and the Universe will torture them until they get it down on paper. They are not people who write, people who can think of ideas at their leisure, people who can take their time on their manuscript, people who can completely forget about whatever it was they thought they wanted to do. It sounds insane, but this is quite literally the sanest way I can put it: Writers are tools. They are conduits through which the Universe communicates with...Itself? Us? Writers are the physical bodies that do the physical work to communicate whatever higher truths the Universe feels the world should know.
And I, goddammit, am a writer. At least lately.
I'm still a person who writes when I do work shit for other people. But as for the rest? The fucking Universe has its claws in me now, and it will torture me until it's said everything it's got to say. I'm just along for the ride, and I've got no choice in the matter.
I've had some nebulous thoughts in my head for awhile, but I've been having them forced out of me at an alarming rate over the last couple of weeks. But what comes out is never quite what I envisioned in my head. It takes on a form, a shape, a life of its own. It runs away with me, but what comes out is so much better than I could've done alone.
At this point, I'm just the Universe's typist.
*Shrug* But what do you do?
For the record, I'm on my meds and absolutely no more ill than I usually am this time of year. Mildly depressed because of a lack of sunlight--although this SAD light I got for my birthday helps tremendously with that--but nothing out of the ordinary. I say this only because I'm fully aware of how batshit this sounds. But believe me when I say that I have been psychotic, and that's not what this is.
In some Eastern countries, the Hindu and, to some extent, the Buddhist ones in particular, when people grow older, when they have "lived their lives," so to speak, they often become renunciates (to varying degrees). They've done what they wanted or needed to do, and now they're rejecting the material world and focusing on something greater, something higher. Clearly, I've simplified this a lot, but I'm too lazy to explain it in-depth. And besides, this blog's pretty much for my eyes only, and I already know what I'm trying to say.
I feel like a renunciate.
I'm 30 years old. (God help me. And I will never admit to it, ever again. As far as the world knows, I am now perpetually 25.) It's not pathos or attention-seeking or self-pity when I say that I likely won't live to be an old person. I'm too fucked up, physically and mentally. I have lived my life. It sucked, and I'm more or less done with it. My remaining years are going to be dedicated to my one true love, the one thing that has never forsaken me, never given up on me, and never bailed on me, no matter how crazy I became--writing.
That's not to say I'm going to be a hermit or an ascetic. I have an (insane) family that I can't get out of dealing with semi-regularly and friends I would do anything for. I also have bills to pay and a terrible job to peck away at. But those things are not what I'm here for. My eyes are set on something higher. I asked the Universe to show me what the truth was, and this is what I got. So here I am, like it or not, for better or worse.
I've written two more poems since the last one I linked to. I've also got the outline for the next chapter in my other project. I just haven't put that to paper yet, but I expect to in the next few days, now that I've finally got my work shit caught up.
I started writing this one, Hurricane Gustav, first. It was meant to be an ode (I suppose) to a walk on the beach the night before a hurricane made landfall. But, as has everything lately, this one didn't turn out to be anything like I thought it would be in my head. Midway through the poem, Lucifer popped his head in and wouldn't leave. No, really. Lucifer marched in, flopped down in the middle of my poem, and refused to leave. I had zero control over it.
I finished it, but I'm not satisfied with the result. I expect that sometime in the future, I will end up breaking the poem off into two separate poems, one about the hurricane and one about Lucifer. But since Lucifer seems to be so intent to insinuate himself into my work, I'm going to wait until I've got a definite direction to go with here. Obviously, he wants his story told, so I'm going to do it right when I do it. But I went ahead and posted it, anyway, to get some feedback from some friends. They, too, agree that it takes a turn into left field mid-text and that I should probably break it into two separate works when I figure out exactly how to do it.
But the other one...oh, God, the other one. I've had a vague idea along these lines for about a year, but the night I tried to break the hurricane/Lucifer poem into two separate poems, this happened: Power Station 296.
I did not write that poem. It was wrung out of me, squeezed drop by drop from my veins. Word by word, syllable by syllable, letter by fucking letter, I bled onto the page for about 3 hours. The structure changed multiple times in the course of trying to write it, and it ended up being nothing like what I had initially imagined. When I finished it, I was completely drained and trembling with exhaustion. I had to edit and proofread over the course of the next couple of days because I honestly did not have it in me to clean it up once I finally finished it that night.
I know it still needs work. I know that the symbolism gets heavy-handed, particularly toward the end. I know it's hardly anything to write home about, but I think it's the best work I've ever done. I was truly afraid to put it out there because, while I've left a little piece of my heart in every other creative work I've ever done, I left a fairly large chunk of my soul in that one. I can't even put into words what that was like. Luckily, the friends I've had look over it either actually loved it or were kind enough to lie to me.
I will be entirely honest: I hope nothing like that ever happens to me again because it was hell. Unfortunately, I expect it to happen pretty often because I'm already being tormented with other ideas already. The Universe is going to wring everything it possibly can out of me.
But you know what? It's all right. I was clearly not made for a "regular" life. Other people are much better suited for that than I am. This is what I'm here for, to bleed all over the page, to leave pieces of my soul for other people to gaze at and critique and, hopefully, enjoy.
I will never be normal. I will never have a normal life. But I'm at peace with it. I will bleed for the Universe as long as it'll let me. I will serve my one true love and dedicate the rest of my life to it. Maybe I can be a decent enough tool that I can reveal pieces of the Universe's truth to others who are lucky enough not to have to be bloodied and broken in this manner to learn them. And if the Universe tortures me to death, so be it. I wasn't meant for anything else, and I was stupid to think otherwise. I think I've always known it but just didn't want it to be true, like so many other things in my life.
And so I leave today with a quote by Ray Bradbury, author of Fahrenheit 451 (among other things), a book that disturbed and moved me very deeply:
In the world of writing, there are two types of people. There are people who write, and then there are writers.
Ok, that sounds derogatory. I don't mean it that way. I just have no other way to explain it. And it's not that one is better than the other. In fact, one person can be both at different times. It's a matter of inspiration.
A person who writes is someone who has a vague idea about something he or she would like to write and says to him/herself, "I would like to write a book one day" or something similar. This is basically what I do for work. People ask for things, and I think about the best way to make that happen for them, and then I put it on paper so that I can get paid. It pays the bills--sometimes--so I'm certainly not going to disparage it.
But then there are writers. Writers don't think of their own ideas. They don't tell themselves, "Oh, maybe one day when I have some time, I'll write this novel/short story/essay/poem/whatever."
Writers are tormented by stories in their heads. They didn't consciously think this shit up. The Universe planted these stories in their heads, and the Universe will torture them until they get it down on paper. They are not people who write, people who can think of ideas at their leisure, people who can take their time on their manuscript, people who can completely forget about whatever it was they thought they wanted to do. It sounds insane, but this is quite literally the sanest way I can put it: Writers are tools. They are conduits through which the Universe communicates with...Itself? Us? Writers are the physical bodies that do the physical work to communicate whatever higher truths the Universe feels the world should know.
And I, goddammit, am a writer. At least lately.
I'm still a person who writes when I do work shit for other people. But as for the rest? The fucking Universe has its claws in me now, and it will torture me until it's said everything it's got to say. I'm just along for the ride, and I've got no choice in the matter.
I've had some nebulous thoughts in my head for awhile, but I've been having them forced out of me at an alarming rate over the last couple of weeks. But what comes out is never quite what I envisioned in my head. It takes on a form, a shape, a life of its own. It runs away with me, but what comes out is so much better than I could've done alone.
At this point, I'm just the Universe's typist.
*Shrug* But what do you do?
For the record, I'm on my meds and absolutely no more ill than I usually am this time of year. Mildly depressed because of a lack of sunlight--although this SAD light I got for my birthday helps tremendously with that--but nothing out of the ordinary. I say this only because I'm fully aware of how batshit this sounds. But believe me when I say that I have been psychotic, and that's not what this is.
In some Eastern countries, the Hindu and, to some extent, the Buddhist ones in particular, when people grow older, when they have "lived their lives," so to speak, they often become renunciates (to varying degrees). They've done what they wanted or needed to do, and now they're rejecting the material world and focusing on something greater, something higher. Clearly, I've simplified this a lot, but I'm too lazy to explain it in-depth. And besides, this blog's pretty much for my eyes only, and I already know what I'm trying to say.
I feel like a renunciate.
I'm 30 years old. (God help me. And I will never admit to it, ever again. As far as the world knows, I am now perpetually 25.) It's not pathos or attention-seeking or self-pity when I say that I likely won't live to be an old person. I'm too fucked up, physically and mentally. I have lived my life. It sucked, and I'm more or less done with it. My remaining years are going to be dedicated to my one true love, the one thing that has never forsaken me, never given up on me, and never bailed on me, no matter how crazy I became--writing.
That's not to say I'm going to be a hermit or an ascetic. I have an (insane) family that I can't get out of dealing with semi-regularly and friends I would do anything for. I also have bills to pay and a terrible job to peck away at. But those things are not what I'm here for. My eyes are set on something higher. I asked the Universe to show me what the truth was, and this is what I got. So here I am, like it or not, for better or worse.
I've written two more poems since the last one I linked to. I've also got the outline for the next chapter in my other project. I just haven't put that to paper yet, but I expect to in the next few days, now that I've finally got my work shit caught up.
I started writing this one, Hurricane Gustav, first. It was meant to be an ode (I suppose) to a walk on the beach the night before a hurricane made landfall. But, as has everything lately, this one didn't turn out to be anything like I thought it would be in my head. Midway through the poem, Lucifer popped his head in and wouldn't leave. No, really. Lucifer marched in, flopped down in the middle of my poem, and refused to leave. I had zero control over it.
I finished it, but I'm not satisfied with the result. I expect that sometime in the future, I will end up breaking the poem off into two separate poems, one about the hurricane and one about Lucifer. But since Lucifer seems to be so intent to insinuate himself into my work, I'm going to wait until I've got a definite direction to go with here. Obviously, he wants his story told, so I'm going to do it right when I do it. But I went ahead and posted it, anyway, to get some feedback from some friends. They, too, agree that it takes a turn into left field mid-text and that I should probably break it into two separate works when I figure out exactly how to do it.
But the other one...oh, God, the other one. I've had a vague idea along these lines for about a year, but the night I tried to break the hurricane/Lucifer poem into two separate poems, this happened: Power Station 296.
I did not write that poem. It was wrung out of me, squeezed drop by drop from my veins. Word by word, syllable by syllable, letter by fucking letter, I bled onto the page for about 3 hours. The structure changed multiple times in the course of trying to write it, and it ended up being nothing like what I had initially imagined. When I finished it, I was completely drained and trembling with exhaustion. I had to edit and proofread over the course of the next couple of days because I honestly did not have it in me to clean it up once I finally finished it that night.
I know it still needs work. I know that the symbolism gets heavy-handed, particularly toward the end. I know it's hardly anything to write home about, but I think it's the best work I've ever done. I was truly afraid to put it out there because, while I've left a little piece of my heart in every other creative work I've ever done, I left a fairly large chunk of my soul in that one. I can't even put into words what that was like. Luckily, the friends I've had look over it either actually loved it or were kind enough to lie to me.
I will be entirely honest: I hope nothing like that ever happens to me again because it was hell. Unfortunately, I expect it to happen pretty often because I'm already being tormented with other ideas already. The Universe is going to wring everything it possibly can out of me.
But you know what? It's all right. I was clearly not made for a "regular" life. Other people are much better suited for that than I am. This is what I'm here for, to bleed all over the page, to leave pieces of my soul for other people to gaze at and critique and, hopefully, enjoy.
I will never be normal. I will never have a normal life. But I'm at peace with it. I will bleed for the Universe as long as it'll let me. I will serve my one true love and dedicate the rest of my life to it. Maybe I can be a decent enough tool that I can reveal pieces of the Universe's truth to others who are lucky enough not to have to be bloodied and broken in this manner to learn them. And if the Universe tortures me to death, so be it. I wasn't meant for anything else, and I was stupid to think otherwise. I think I've always known it but just didn't want it to be true, like so many other things in my life.
And so I leave today with a quote by Ray Bradbury, author of Fahrenheit 451 (among other things), a book that disturbed and moved me very deeply:
Saturday, January 4, 2014
To Write, Perchance To Dream
Looking back on all the hope that I had going into 2013, I have to laugh at myself. There was nothing to be hopeful about. 2013 gave 2010 a run for its money in the "Shittiest Year Ever" department.
I'm not making any grand resolutions this year, no huge hopes, nothing. I want only to write--that's the only thing I'm promising myself this year. I'll write more, and with wild abandon. Not work stuff. Stuff for me. Stuff that will give me the practice and the courage and the hope to one day publish something. It's the one gift the Universe has seen fit to give me. It seems a shame to waste it.
In the first four days of this year, I've already written more non-work stuff than I did in the entire year in 2013. Or at least I think so. I created a new Wordpress blog dedicated to one particular project I plan on tackling. I've written the first chapter there. I won't be sharing it, though, until I'm sure I'm going to stick to it.
I also wrote a poem tonight. It's a bad one. I dashed it off in 10 minutes, inspired by this wonderful Tumblr blog, Hot Men Reading Poetry, in particular the audio of Tom Hiddleston reading "may i feel said he" by e.e. cummings on the last page. (Pretty sure I'm still dying over that.) But all the audios and videos contributed to it, not just that one.
Anyway, it's tentatively called "A Writer's Prayer." I'm not thrilled with the title, but whatever. It's not like I can't change it when I come up with something better. Click if you want a good laugh at my ineptitude, I suppose.
And now I leave the following, as it sums up how I feel about things more accurately and succintly than anything I could actually say myself.
I'm not making any grand resolutions this year, no huge hopes, nothing. I want only to write--that's the only thing I'm promising myself this year. I'll write more, and with wild abandon. Not work stuff. Stuff for me. Stuff that will give me the practice and the courage and the hope to one day publish something. It's the one gift the Universe has seen fit to give me. It seems a shame to waste it.
In the first four days of this year, I've already written more non-work stuff than I did in the entire year in 2013. Or at least I think so. I created a new Wordpress blog dedicated to one particular project I plan on tackling. I've written the first chapter there. I won't be sharing it, though, until I'm sure I'm going to stick to it.
I also wrote a poem tonight. It's a bad one. I dashed it off in 10 minutes, inspired by this wonderful Tumblr blog, Hot Men Reading Poetry, in particular the audio of Tom Hiddleston reading "may i feel said he" by e.e. cummings on the last page. (Pretty sure I'm still dying over that.) But all the audios and videos contributed to it, not just that one.
Anyway, it's tentatively called "A Writer's Prayer." I'm not thrilled with the title, but whatever. It's not like I can't change it when I come up with something better. Click if you want a good laugh at my ineptitude, I suppose.
And now I leave the following, as it sums up how I feel about things more accurately and succintly than anything I could actually say myself.
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