Occasionally, my anxieties get the best of me and I do awful things mostly to myself.
The other night while working on something that is really dear to my heart I had an awful fit of anxiety and self loathing tinted panic and deleted it. Not only did I delete it but I used window washer to completely destroy it.
This is a habit I’ve been struggling with breaking for twenty years. I know what happens, I’ve learned to recognize the signs of impending destruction. Tears in my eyes that don’t fall, I hold my breath, I grind my teeth, I feel myself fill up cell by cell with a special kind of loathing that gives me heart burn.
It is a terrible feeling. In the last few years I’ve learned to curb the instinct to search and destroy. I put away whatever I’m working on and go do something else. I may dwell and I may start going down the slippery slope of loathing but what I was working on stays intact.
The other night I didn’t catch myself in time and it’s all gone.
This is why I don’t edit anything I write just after I finish it. My inner editor/critic is a ruthless hateful asshole. My inside voice hates every word I put down. Every word.
I really hate that I did this. I hate that I’ve been prone to destruction this way for so long. I’d like to have some of those tender teenage angst filled things I wrote as a kid. I remember some of them well.
I remember my phase of short erotic stories written between 14-19 with my anthropomorphic Muses. I remember my fraught attempts at replicating the rhythm of Beat poetry with more modern vernacular.
Perhaps all those lost things are why I have become so obsessed with blogging and online journaling. I want these records and whatnot.
So I did a bad thing. (which reminds me of that song by Chris Isaak that needs posting) I am going to apologize to myself profusely and get back to work. I can’t be the mean angry mistress with myself all the time.
Also, I will probably put up my chip in thing after I do a more complete post about the forthcoming book.