I’m starting out 2016 in the fuckin trenches yo.
I’m learning that writing personally, just about me as a person in any memoirish capacity is just so fucking hard. I am still not used to showing folks my tender belly and I want to scrap it and cry and hide but, that burning in my gut says I’m going the right way.
I’m also very unsure about a lot of things.
I’ve been in such a state for so long that seeing light at the end of the tunnel feels like a lie. I’m angry because I can’t produce the way I used to. I can’t get through my fatigue the way I used to. There have been a lot of nights where I lay in bed in an absolute red rage because I’m awake, but I’m so exhausted I can’t think straight let alone write.
I’m very very angry.
I’m also very ashamed.
I’m disappointed in myself.
And wading through a puddle of shit knee high and feeling like I deserve to be wading through the shit because obviously I suck at everything.
Some of this is my anxiety and insomnia talking. I know that. I recognize that flavor of my own crazy. They chase each other around, getting each other riled up until my hands are shaking and my gut is full of bile and all I want to do is throw myself in a hole and cry for two hundred years. Or die of terror.
This is not a state of being I’m used to. This is not the crazy, I’m familiar with and I feel fairly lost.
My existing crazybrain tells me I should apologize to everyone constantly. Because my exhaustion causes me some memory problems and cognition problems and my bit of dyslexia stands up and joins the party and everything -terrible- in me says, you apologize to that person. If they said something nice to me or have supported me etc.
I try not to but it comes out.
And I’m embarassed.
For the sake of my mental health and my work (note I said mental health first, it took me three tries to do that) I have to sit the fuck down and figure it out.
My approach has been head down and bull through it. Grind my teeth and crave speed because obviously that would solve all my problems right? Get back into that kind of seething constant rage. I’d still be an anxiety riddled insomniac shitbag but at least I’d get stuff done right.
Well judging by my inability to finish SCLAB rewrites, blog posts etc and my struggle doing anything else, that ain’t gonna work.
Instead I will go to the doctor. Hopefully get my hormones checked out because I’m suspicious that part of my current state of being is due to perimenopause (THE FUCKING SWEATING, THE STRUGGLE IS REAL), I have some of my hippy woowoo herbal shit on the way to help me sleep/shit and remain calm.
I suppose this is a confession.
Y’all I’m in deep shit over here.
But I’m shoveling my way out.
It hasn’t been all doom and gloom.
I had the distinct honor of working with one of my favorite authors Court Merrigan on some Country Noir for The Big Click Magazine. So not only is Court a bad ass writer BUT he is a bad ass fuckin editor yo. That little story turned out so much better after working with him. There is something so wonderfully intimate about having someone edit your work who really gets you and trusts you. Go read it. Buy the issue. That story has lesbians, cows, meth and booty shaking.
I’m working with The Stabby again on something I’m really into and is really hard.
So in the big picture of the life of the shit bucket of nerves writer, things aren’t awful. AWP plans are coming together nicely. I have some zine supplies and one of those square things so I’ll have stuff to sell on my person at the thing. I just- yeah.
I’ve mourned my failures. I don’t know if that is a thing you’re supposed to do but I did it. I mourned the hardcore me who could stomp through this level of mental health fuckery.
Now I’m trying to figure it out.
I’m going to work on some fiction.
Take it uh, yeah I dunno.
So things around here might be weird or maudlin or whatever. I’m not sure.
All I know is that I’m listening to my loved ones and not myself this time because my brain is deadass wrong in this instance and that bitch needs to calm down.
I love you all.
That’s it for now.