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.
Friday, June 27, 2014
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
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