I hate the fact that even though I’m trying, things are getting worse.
My professional life, both per diem and free lance...
Have come to a crawl.
Like, when I think about my daily progress in one way or the other, I’m not really going forward in any real way. I’m coming up to my second anniversary of my working with the call center that I work with.
I have grown callous.
I used to care for the needs of others, and be genuinely wanting for my callers to be happy.
It is now the time in my life where I can’t really handle talking to people for longer periods of time.
I am physically scared of how malleable my mind is.
My brother... he’s been telling lies about our childhood, talking of abuses he perpetrated, but saying that my mother did them instead.
Every day I have to hear about how something he did, is now ad-libbed to be my mother, or my father’s fault.
Except for the fact that they all did things, poor in their own right, but no one can admit to what they’ve done.
It’s an easy way out, I tell myself.
Not suicide, no --
Blaming your problems on other people.
I am a firm believer that it is not the intentions that you do things with -- to get further attention, to bring yourself to a better state, to try and make it known that you love someone -- but when these things you do only serve your purposes, and at the end of the day, are a net harm to other people, there is a problem.
I’m starting to crack under the pressure.
My brother wants to get me alone, so he can regale me of the days before we became adults.
I shake, and I think if I was pressed to be alone with him, and talk about these things, I might scream.
Then again, I am the guy who feels physically sick at his job.
I think this is the reason why I’ve been kind of a mercenary when it comes to employment. If I work someplace too long, I start to get a little weird.
When I worked in food service, I started to have issues with eating, with actually having an appetite, and in stocking, I began to have issues with my sleep, which culminated in my leaving that job.
And now, when I think about actually talking, and connecting with people, it’s so hard not to see the strings that stretch from person to person, topic to topic, and finally to that graceful thing -- the end of the conversation. My anxiety was pretty bad before I started working in a call center environment, and now, I don’t feel any specifically about talking actively with someone, there’s just something funky. I could talk all day, but I really take issue with that as a fact.
I can have the gift of gab all day, but no one is really listening, and what I say doesn’t really matter. I just look forward to coming home where I can just shut the fuck up and my wife and I are on the same page -- I don’t even really need to talk, unless it’s a really strange idea, or something that I can’t communicate in simple nonverbal language, a tip of the finger, a nod of the head.
It’s whatever though.
I’ve had issues with getting a little too wrapped up in things, in the past that is... but for some reason, all of these things seem to be happening all at once.
It’s getting harder to hold out for treatment, but I know that it’ll be better for me in the long run if I don’t have to worry about all of the extra monetary consequences of mental health services with my current health insurance.
But hey, maybe I’ll get around to getting a new primary care.
Continuing the trend of me talking about my mental health, I’ll try not to keep this one running on as long as the last -- so let’s cut right to the point.
Not all progress is forward.
There’s a reason why things are referred to as “forward progress” and there is a adage of “two steps forward, one step back.”
I’ve had some recent strides in realizing my self competence.
Can I just say as an aside, admitting that your competent really sounds like you’re saying a lot, but in fact, you are just saying that you’re “sufficient”?
It’s crazy.
I say that I am competent, even those who would say they support me would say “Well, let’s not go that far.”
But the next thing we know, it’s about how I don’t have any self esteem.
I feel like I’m dragging.
How am I dragging, it’s only been a few paragraphs.
It’s not this piece that’s dragging, it’s I myself that am dragging.
As I continue to do work that appeals to my character traits/flaws, I find that the work I’m doing only brings those parts on further.
I’ve discovered that I have some traits that would be considered compulsive.
I have brought up my so called “wolf biting.”
Several times a day... actually most of the day, I feel the compulsion to bite off the skin at the fringes of my fingers.
I guess I should put a trigger warning in.
There’s a trigger warning there now, isn’t there?
Yes. There wasn’t when I wrote the line two lines above. The magic of writing with a delayed release?
I guess there’s no other kind - but hey, that’s just a quirk of submission as a method of release.
I dither and digress.
I also have issues with self harm.
There’s another trigger warning.
I’m not going to suffer you the last gag.
But anyway, I abase myself. This is something I’ve been getting better at.
When I say abase, I mean to say that I punish myself for perceived slights to the firmament of... the status quo I guess? ... other people?
Blunt force trauma, gouging at my eyes, scratching at my neck and face.
I feel really stupid talking about this.
This hasn’t been a dramatic issue since I was fifteen. If it still was a dramatic issue, I’d probably be on disability, and with that, I’d probably, as I’ve mentioned before more poetically than I’ve been on this blog, I would be Survived By, not a survivor.
This is getting long.
I don’t think there’ll be much more on this page, but to the point.
In becoming who we wish we were, and finding those things that are important to us, on any level, we will have hardship.
It has been said that nothing worth having is achieved easily.
I only wish that my tribulations with mental health were not such an uphill battle.
There is something inane and preposterous about that fact that people with mental illness such as mine are compelled by forces within themselves to commit harm to oneself and in full self-awareness, know that it is not a healthy thing to do to say, want to shove your face in a pan of hot, boiling water.
These interrupting compulsions, I wish that they would leave...
But I’m working on it.
Maybe some day I’ll be confident.
Maybe some day I’ll be free of my own esteem issues.
Some day, I will realize that the problems and issues that all others have do not fall upon my two shoulders.
Perhaps forgiveness is not just a ploy given by people who just want to see you stop talking.
I work in a field that I am not cut for, but at the same time, my neuroses make me the perfect match for it.
I work as a customer service representative for the medicaid enrollment broker in my state. I talk to upwards of one hundred, a hundred twenty people a day, and almost all of the time, I can’t help them.
This is the problem with my life.
There is nothing in this life that is done without intent. And in all things, it is not the intention that matters.
It is the results.
To do poor things, in the name of doing better... it is a negative result.
If you struggle to reconcile this, I guess you’re one of the people who have pushed me out of their lives recently. One can intend to do better, but in the end, just engender hostility.
I’m an asshole. And me being an asshole is something that I can’t walk away from. People do not change, it is not within people to do things so spuriously.
I guess that puts me at odds with myself, and my actions.
But I get too far away.
Today, I’m talking about my nervous issues.
Working in a call center, when you can’t answer someone satisfactorily, or they simply will not have the answers that we could possibly give them, people will defer to a supervisor.
Supervisors in my experience, have the same information as CSRs, but will almost always exist as a method to “escalate and defuse” the situation. They’re a last line for those who refuse to listen, or think that you are lying to them, despite reading information that their government has approved for them.
What does make me nervous is not the fact that I sometimes can’t convince someone to just take the information that I have, and go speak with someone else... it’s that I have to explain why things got to where they did to the supervisor, and then transfer.
This takes a bit.
The main issue is people expect transfers to be cold, and will often hang up because it takes “too long” to be transferred. Like, do you seriously just want to go over the same call again?
When people ask for supervisor transfers at my job, and I go through with them, that only makes me more mild and timid.
On thursday, I had a supervisor transfer where the person wouldn’t even let me transfer to the supervisor for a few minutes after they had asked to be transferred. They kept insisting that I do it now, while I was trying to tell them to “hold the line while I got a supervisor on the line for them”, but somehow, the only way to get your way is to fuss so intimately that not even what you’re asking for can be accomplished just due to the fact that they insist I accomplish it.
People are people, and people don’t care what they do to others most of the time.
It makes me sick.
After that call, I had issues with even feeling happiness for the rest of the day. My hands flushed red, and my head pounded with the thought that perhaps, nothing could ever be right again.
But the feeling subsided.
Now I just feel a little more sick and tired of my job. The job that is sated by my anomalous need to stick to a routine, verifying information, giving stock answers and talking in the same tone for eight hours... It’s perfect. If I could conduct my entire job via text, there would be no problems in my world.
But then again, since I can’t... I guess there’ll be problems until I get a better job.
You could say that when given enough time, all life will inevitably give up the ghost.
Go the way of the dodo.
Such other metaphors to indicate the passing of life from the active matter to the passive, death of sentience.
It’s eleven fifty five, EST, and I’m sitting in my apartment, sitting in front of the desk in the common room where my wife and I have been sleeping for the last few days because of the recent heatwave. It’s raining outside, and I just got back from doing laundry.
This is my life right now.
This is the last day of the week, and my last day off of the week.
And now everything will start again, and the course of things will not alter, will not falter, and ideally, forty hours of soul-drenching labor will bring me to this desk to start again writing into what will (ideally) become a semi-weekly journal of my mental state.
Things have gotten worse recently.
I’m working a new schedule, and for some reason beyond me, despite spending the same number of hours awake a day, and waking and going to sleep at the same time as before... I am dreadfully exhausted. Perhaps it is the unreasonable climate that has come as of late, and its damage to my propensity for sleep.
Every day, before bed, I take two melatonin, and I’m to sleep within about 15 minutes of that. I wake, and then I realize I’ve got to go to the job that doesn’t pay me nearly enough for the bullshit they heap onto my plate.
I don’t speak Arabic.
But I have to take calls specifically from people who speak Arabic. I think it’s important to grasp that the reason I dislike the fact that I have to take calls from fluent Arabic speakers is not due to some xenophobia of Arabic people... it’s because it is difficult to understand and it is very soul crushing, repeating simple English structures until they somehow make sense to someone who doesn’t understand English itself fluently, and refuses interpreter.
There are people who do that, for some reason.
People... I’ve found it more difficult to relate as of late.
But the thing that pisses me off about this recent development is because of the additional skills and difficulties that come with dealing with non-English speakers without any ESL or foreign language experience, I don’t get paid any more than I was before I didn’t.
The lack of choice I had in this matter is staggering.
But the point I’m trying to make is, like every other schlub to ever exist, I hate the shitty entry-level dead end job that just happens to pay just-above-minimum wage that I found after industrial, service and food service jobs I had before.
From the bottom, I can even see the starting of a rut.
The trails are just beginning, and it terrifies me to my core.
But back to the point at hand.
This is my life now.
Hopefully not for too long, but at the end of the day, the present is the thing that we can only object to for the time being, until something changes the status quo.
Now for the title drop.
I want to change things, and I’m scared.
I guess you could say that I’m at a tonal disadvantage.
See, the joke here is that the saying is usually total disadvantage.
I am so fucking clever. Er, that’s arrogant. But anyway --
The reason why I say that the problem is not the circumstances at hand but simply the way that they are painted. As some of my readers would know, I suffer from some mental illness, I haven’t been diagnosed yet, but I’ve talked about some of my issues recently on this very blog, and I will probably talk about them sometime else, all things considered.
I am competent.
It hurt to write that, for some reason.
I know that I can do the things that I want to do.
The only question is this: how?
And that is the good question.
But there are a few others that my pessimism have brought to the forefront.
And then the next questions: “Why?” “Who -- as in gives a fuck?” “What -- where do you think you have the time to do that, idiot?”
My depression is often the strongest voice in the room.
I am a sad man who needs validation, and that’s today’s sad fact ™. I’ve been trying to get better about it, but even to this day, I feel bad about good things that I’ve done, simply because others might disagree with it.
I’ve been downtrodden, but I’m not yet holding the panhandle.
Unless you’re asking about my patreon in which case, that doesn’t exist yet, but should soon enough.
#artistwelfare
I really want to punch myself in the face about that hashtag, but that’s something that I’m working on.
The self-destructive part of myself.
But today, we’re talking about the inhibitory part that keeps me from getting more gainful employment and getting back to revising and doing rewrites.
That’s the part that cries because people are nice to him, or he sees people being decent fucking human beings.
This happened a while ago, just laughing made me cry, just from the emotional change. I really need to seek treatment, but I don’t feel comfy doing it until I know about my insurance situation. I just want to feel normal again. I want to be medicated and be able to not worry about crying because I’m having fun and no one is making me feel like an ass to make themselves feel better.
Until then, I will probably have to have that job belong to me myself.
Or... I could just stop.
Maybe that will be next weeks experiment. Tell the negative attitudes within myself that want to shutter my windows like a looted store after a natural disaster... tell them to fuck off.
What a day that would be.
Maybe I’ll try it.
But anyway, that’s... this week.
Sorry that was so rambly. Or maybe that’s how this is going to be.
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So I have a twitch now. Nothing’s on it, but hey, maybe something will happen
It takes a village to burn a witch, so it was said, in a song once.
But in the end of all things, when it comes to creation, the only thing that can stop you from doing the things that you wish to do is you.
I have been wicked nervous these last two weeks.
I found out that I might have a different shift at work, and that it would be essentially down to pulling lots and picking our shifts going down these lists based on out merit and tenure.
I was hoping to get a shift that would either keep with the same amount of time after work, or even more time.
It turns out that I’m going to have an extra thirty minutes after work now.
I hope this means that I’m going to be doing two more things after work with more frequency: cooking dinner, and revising.
I stare at the top drawer where the notes for the first go at editing for tropestory sit.
So back to the prompt at hand: what does keep people from writing?
As of right now, i’m currently underway with... let’s see, four... five? projects?
So to run it down,
Currently I am working over the following (all of these are working titles, you’ll understand)
Contracts & the Vox
World for Worms (of which there are some 8-10k words that need transcribing)
Tropestory
Outlining for Tropestory Two
And then, a story set in the Vox universe that is ... semi-untitled?
It’s really strange that I am working on so many things after working on one thing exclusively for what felt like a year -- years even.
There’s a strange knack to this whole process.
I know that almost without a doubt, no one will read what I’m writing, this line even.
So why do I go?
People who get into a business for very specific reasons are very likely to be decimated upon finding out that things don’t really, ever work like what they were anticipating.
So the thing to keep in mind here is, if you keep your mind open, and you’re not viewing things as a business, especially as an amateur, and you’re not in it for wealth, exposure or fame... what exactly are you fighting for, and putting down words, inks or notes for?
You do it for the love of it.
It’s always important to remember that by the end of the day, when you create something, it’s not a means to an end. That’s the thing that one must be mindful about. True art is something that you are proud of, that while not at the time of creation, at least when looking over your work, you are happy.
There’s a reason why people, almost entirely as a class call those who appeal to the lowest common denominator and to that which is only salient in the minds of many “hacks” and “sell-outs”.
That’s why, for this very moment, the only reason I write is to make those who do actually read my work happy, whether it is because they enjoy what I am writing, or because they are happy that I’m happy when I do it.
I submitted the first part of a World for Worms to a literary journal for publishing. Things clearly didn’t turn out positively, but I am not sad at this fact, I am yet more emboldened to get myself out there.
I know that despite my efforts, things will turn out the way I want them to, just so long as I believe and persevere and just keep hammering at it, so this is not a defeat, this is just the first boss run.
As I clear the fog door, rejection has come to rear its beautiful head.
Not a rejectionquest this time. I’m hanging that up for a few weeks.
But some things have happened. This week, and the week before, I learned that losing friends is a thing that as you age, you really can’t avoid. Some people just like hugboxes, and at the end of the day, the people who you thought were friends never really were to begin with.
This is not someone who is bitter. This is someone speaking with realization.
Ephemeral twats.
There are people who will stand by their opinions, and be willing to defend them, from the onslaught of those who disagree, but they will still tolerate for the grounds of the fact that almost all opinions are in, some way valid.
This is a place where a lot of people disagree with me, in some chat rooms I used to frequent, and even on this site... but then again, what does anyone know anyway?
Now that I’ve posed that question, if you do intend to keep reading, I think both you and I, we’re at a similar place - can I really trust someone who does not hold their opinion steadfast and above all others?
Yes. You can.
Opinions, the saying goes, are like assholes, and everyone who has them.
What they do not tell you, is the people who are assholes are almost that for a single veracious reason: they believe their opinion is fact and that no amount of numbing of their reluctance, or their trending away of those things that don’t bind us apart from one another... that there could be no resolution.
They cannot see that opinions are things that are meant to share, and those opinions best shared are those that are unlike your own. In the end of all things, the one thing humanity could be wanting for is to be adaptable. Stifling ignorance. Forceful ignorance with a fervent want to keep others safe.
This is what will kill all things, be they the freedom in our hearts, or our hopes in the darkest hours.
So, we’re on a tangent.
Let’s get back to friends.
I made some jokes about Trump getting the Republican nomination in a very liberal chatroom because I really didn’t want to be able to go back there. They had banned me before, but they only went half measure.
I mean, the asshole who runs the channel, they only called me a fascist.
I am starting to see the irony of simply calling someone a fascist.
So there’s not going to be much of a context for this, but even with the context, but here are some logs. The people who wrote these things say they aren’t pro-censorship, so it should be fine for me to post them without permissions.
So, after having read this, you’ll be thinking one of two things;
A: I am an asshole.
This is something that I’m kind of aware of, but I just want to prove a point.
These people have no self-awareness. I mean, to be specific, Derxwna, a person who would more soon take money from his fellow worthless NEETS for himself than his family undergoing financial crisis, and serial believer-of-only-those-who-give-him-attention of the opposite sex.
I thought this person was decent, if just a bit curt and standoffish.
He’s just an asshole.
He doesn’t fully understand a context, and wants to take it out on me.
Keep in mind, I’m happily married, but if you look at lines... 51-61, you’ll see he’s talking about how I broke up with a girl due to the fact they had a depressive personality, and were co-dependent.
This man, he is detached from what human relation is. There are a few things we should keep in mind here, this relation he’s distilling there, it was consistently telling me how I was wrong, had bad ideas, and was just generally NOT the person they wanted to be around. Also, they threatened suicide whenever I brought up ceasing communication, while also mutilating themselves over video chat in front of me.
This is what a man child thinks a civil relation is.
Then these people, they decide that the best way to keep me out is several things, from shutting out all non-invited parties, when all I literally want them to do is to ban me so I can’t get in there.
I’m a people pleaser. I will try to become a person you like, if you wait long enough.
I don’t want to stoop to these people’s levels.
B: Fuck the people I called friends once.
I actually knew one of the people in this chat in real life, I went to school with them for some time.
And I am just now realizing that the entire time I knew this person, even when we were on good terms, they disliked me. I was a friend of convenience.
I am at a loss for nothing.
Chaff separates from the meal, and that which is worthwhile, is kept.
This is the thing, Twenty-Seven mentions they haven’t gone out of their way to talk to me since the last incident, but that was the case most of the time before that too.
Dodging my messages, never returning any of them.
But here we are with the hero of the story, who thinks they are the best of all things, and of these things, that they are the greatest, most profound parent.
How up your own ass can you get?
You can give yourself a prostate exam, with how far you are up your own ass as these fine few are.
Oh, and the person who called me a fascist, I’ll just leave that as a quote here: “ “[...] most people don't have that much mental willpower.”
People who fight for the social qualities that the modern world should embody should trust in the fact that most people, except those who are not fully capable, have enough mental willpower to DECIDE WHAT THEY READ.
I’m sorry if you ended up reading to this point.
I got over this about a week ago, but I just figured I should get this onto paper so after six months, when I completely forget about these terrible people, and I look over my posts again, that I’ll remember fondly that none of these people will ever amount to anything of worth, but in their hearts, they will see their three-high pebble piles, and they will think that they have erected a statue to the greatest virtue of humanity: Only saying shit that they themselves and their friends agree with.
My first work has gone out to be evaluated and... perhaps accepted. April, and I’m almost done with my new years resolution. I sent my first works out, and either I’ll end up being happy with having a mildly rushed draft published, or alas, I will receive my first rejection letter.
Catch-22 is a phrase that comes to mind.
I’ve been having difficulty keeping my shit together recently.
Apparently I have a chemical dependency to painkillers, and I might have some chemical related headaches, be it through my consistent level of stress that is just a little bit too much, or having not eaten enough, and apparently my head feeling it before my stomach... Yeah. Life is going to be getting difficult before it gets simple.
I love how I had thought that the haphazard nature of things, all things occur once and forever in lines. ONE AFTER ANOTHER WOULD STOP.
But the saying goes that the plans of mice and men...
Yeah, however that goes.
Things are getting tougher than I’d expect. Wedding’s over, I’m a legally taken man. We have to plan for the reception, and the prices and the demands we’re looking over, they’re making my head hurt.
I wish I could be as calm as I was in my mind when I am not calm.
For if that were the case...
I’d probably be published by now.
This is not the end of things, but yet the beginning of still more.
I spoke to my father for the first time in... Two, three years?
I was about use the facilities when I got the unknown number on my phone.
Let’s just say this was the most stressful, bloated thirty five minutes of one sided conversation I have ever had. And in my line of work, thirty five minutes on the phone without the ability to relieve your bowels... that’s a thing to make man such as myself something cantankerous.
But I persisted.
And the thing that made me the most unhappy person about that conversation is that my father was asking questions about me, but he was answering them as well most of the time.
Things have not changed, and even more they remain the same.
Attempting a cocksure, uneasy facade, the man that helped give me flesh, he tried to act like years of emotional neglect and spontaneous abuses... they were just things that happened.
I hope to wring a confession and apology from him.
I get the feeling that regardless of whether that happens or not, after June or July, I will probably never speak to the man again, much less go to his funeral.
In this life of things, there is one thing that stands affront us.
The merits of responsibility, sensibility and the airs of either.
I did not invite my father to my marriage ceremony for all three of these reasons.
I am contemplating inviting him to my reception for all three of these reasons.
I am no heartless man who would deny someone... something their affection as it was their given due. But I would also be unfortunate man who would wring the happiness when they just thought it was theirs, just as that man ought wrung my neck many years ago.
I wonder which one of us will see stars, after this is said and done, and despite his best efforts, he is still a sad old man more a crone than a brave... and I go on in his place, to do those things his jaded mind only dare to think of.
A man must know his limits.
And I am happy to know these things. Limits are, as we know, the top or bottom bounds of any sets.
They were happy to have considered me, but at the very least, that’s one thing I don’t need to worry about. I’m nipping at my whiskey right now, but I’m not off kilter.
I’ve had a tough week.
But I’ve also had a cool week.
I’ve been dealing with work in the only way I can: surviving it. Today was the first time in four or so weeks that I have had to take a full day’s ibuprofen as opposed to just the half of a full daily maximum.
Baby steps.
Well hey, I have my ideal three monitor set up and a new phone, because my old one was going to shit. I have a new number, no longer someone else’s old number (it was previously my mom’s, and my grandfather’s) so this week, I fulfilled myself materialistically, but I think my spirit is kind of dying.
Dealing with my job, my mom and everything at the same time...
Well, let’s just say I’m nipping at coke and whiskey at 11pm on a friday, with no one to talk to.
I feel like I’m bitching out.
But hey, at least I’m going to sleep in (probably) saturday morning, and get some work done with Dearn’s story, which despite having very little to go on, I know roughly what will be happening.
I’m only going to be submitting the first sixth of the manuscript.
My heart feels warm.
I’m at the verge of something, I think.
I just hope I’ll come out on the right side of it.
Potential is one of the most potent things that has ever existed.
It’s even in the name.
Potent. Potent-ial.
With potential, there is a potential for a few things: to have it wasted, or to embolden that potential.
That’s why I’m going to be getting into shape... and also attempting to better myself, and get some more gainful employment.
Starting with bettering myself.
I’m going to be starting a schedule for writing and revising on a daily basis.
And I’ll be looking into doing various forms of exercise and dieting.
I’ve done couch to 5k before, but some harsh sickness kind of destroyed that progress I’d made.
Inertia is probably the second most important thing to have existed. Setting up things as an institution, a mainstay as it will, will be the second most important step to finally making ends to those projects that we all have started.
That is to say that hard work beats innate ability almost all of the time.
While genius rests, determination continues.
And that’s what I will remain.
Determined.
So.
Gainful employment.
My current employer, of whom I won’t name, because libel, or whatever... doesn’t really offer me much mobility.
Right now, I don’t have any ability to gain a raise per hour. BUT, I do have the ability to get raises, up to 5% of my quarterly income as a bonus, based on my performance, which is above average.
So. I applied for another job.
I thought it would just... not get anything turned up.
But, apparently, not so much.
That being said, I have a phone interview for this new job.
I am literally pulling at my non-existent collar.
I did not at all expect this to happen, but it’s good to know that my professional services are... appreciated... and much more, valued.
I just hope that my work, in coming times... will be valued.
But that’s what this is about, continuing despite the value.
And it feels as if though every day I am wasting my mind to things that are of little to no consequence. Most things in my life are kind of on hold right now, but they’re going forward.
I applied to another job today.
This scares me.
And I feel like not going to sleep as a result of this and the other stimuli I’ve mentioned.
I am going to turn twenty-two in nineteen days.
And on some nights, I am still afraid of the dark.
As I sit here, right now, I have half of the lights on in my apartment. It’s 11 o’clock... but my mental hygiene is not helping things.
The last few nights I’ve went to bed and during the course of the night I’ve... had night terrors. I have had these in the past, but... not with the frequency I have been having recently.
I am scared of burdening change.
This much I do realize.
My dreams have bordered on the surreal, gone to the frightening, dissolving sets of character that go beyond my simplest understanding.
I wake up in the morning (or in the case of earlier this week, Wednesday, I think), after having had 3 hours of sleep... at 12PM. I awoke to my fiance next to me, safe and sound. Cuddles were attempted, but I still did lose my consciousness again, and then woke up at 5AM, like a normal day.
I wish I could get anything under wraps.
Today I was going to start doing some revisions on the Dearn’s story, after about an hour of playing around on my PC.
But then I realized I don’t have any idea what exactly I need to do with this document. I can’t even fathom editing at this point.
I realize that everyone I want to talk to about this... just... doesn’t care. Except for my fiance. But she’s at work.
So the logical response here, stuck in my brain...
I start to fucking cry.
And then my mother calls me. This is the worst thing that could happen.
And this happens just as I sit down to continue transcribing Republican Works... and... shit. I didn’t get any work done today.
I’m on the phone with her for about an hour.
And throughout she decides to bring up even more and more irritating things.
“I really like the one thing that you were writing before this one! This one... is just different.”
Yes. I’m sorry I have a different thing going here.
“Are you sure you want to get married?”
You’re shitting me.
“That thing you were writing before, you should send it in for publication RIGHT NOW.”
“You mean that fifty-thousand word document with... like seven thousand words of revisions... sitting as a first/second draft in my drawer?”
“Oh yeah, send in just the first draft. What, are you afraid of getting rejected?”
I’m the person here with a quest to get their first rejection letter. And I’m AFRAID OF REJECTION.
Haha.
“This is literally making me physically frustrated.”
“But--”
“Physically frustrated.”
And then my fiance saved me by calling me on her break.
So there’s that.
All this being said, my life feels kind of like it is for lack of consistent friends to talk to. The only issue is I don’t want to bother people to bother with me.
I guess what I’m saying is maybe I need to get some friends on retainer.
Transcription continues, but that was going to be the case regardless.
I haven’t done any major rewrites or edits this week/since I last posted, but then again, I’m just blahing from left to right like a fish.
I’ve been putting myself through a little bit of improvement/self help these last few days. I’ve started back on iron supplements and now taking melatonin vitamins. Recently I’ve been having issues with all of the things that have been happening recently, be they the fact that they are existing, or the fact that I am more or less completely at the whims of fate in this regard, whether things come to or fro.
I’ve been restless recently, and it’s shitty. I can barely sleep through the night, and as my family continues to remind me, apparently not wanting to see my family on the weekends (when I would like to get transcription and edits done is a bad thing.
I like to think that I don’t care about the opinions of others, but unfortunately, there’s no real getting around it.
I’m in a holding pattern, and that makes me sad.
I mean, literally, until I’m wed, I cannot actually change anything.
So there’s about a month of my life that I can’t advance anything that otherwise would increase my mental hygiene.
I can’t stop my mother talking to me.
I can’t change my job.
I can’t even... ugh, I just can’t even.
I like to think these blogs are regarding the anxiety of writing and creating in general, but there’s a realization that I’ve come upon.
I’m a phone monkey. I answer phones for a living.
And that has given me an interesting perspective on both waiting on hold and onto the task of writing.
Six months of writing is not six months of labor.
Most of the first draft of writing can be condensed down into about two or three weeks of straight work.
But the thing to keep in mind, whether it’s working phones, or writing, putting the receiver down and looking away, isn’t usually the end of a project... it’s the clarification of a project.
Time away from something, and looking at a different thing... it can make all the difference.
Just consulting yourself or others will make things clear.
There’s no pressure to get everything done at once.
Just put your work on hold, but just keep it on your mind.
Let’s just hope I can put my mind to rest tonight.
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