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~I'm at that place where if I still took the notion seriously I'd be suicidal. But I know that is not something I'm going to do unless I was terminally ill. Right now, I'm just fucked up in the head, which, for better or worse, is largely survivable.
/break
I just related the above to Le-Le out on the porch and noted it would be 'bad form' to kill myself on her birthday. She agreed.
I'm very clear on what my fucking problem is: I can't fucking write and, Goddess help me, I have become a fucking writer. [be careful what you wish for]
I can't write because I have no space to be peaceful. The last thing I did was Addendum D: [Calendar for A New Matriarchy]. That was finished, more or less, last September 15th [25th Novembria]. At that point I needed about two or three weeks to decompress, reboot and Face The Page again.
But just as that process was completing, the fucking Oathbreaker came in – making all the right noises about Sisterhood and Recovery – and sucked all the air out of the room for the next three months. And then right after we got rid of her sorry ass fucking Bette Goldenring started her fucking 'you owe me' bullshit. *string of Imprecations*
The issue here is that I think about tomorrow. That's just who I am and it is in fact what I write about. When I'm under this kind of survival pressure, that peace I need to write, to not have any immediate worries about food or a place to sleep and so on, goes right out the fucking window.
I said to Le-Le that I watch Crime Drama to 'clean the slate'. But without anything on said slate, it just becomes filler, a time killer, and that makes me even more...'discontent'.
I get out of bed and part of me starts looking for what it is I'm going to be working on that day [or night] and there has been nothing 'there' for over eight months now. That is an intolerable psycho-emotional void...and I just get to fucking 'deal with it'.
I type out lil rants like this, but this is not real writing to me. It's just...well, 'ranting'.
And now I'm typed out....
/break
I just related the above to Le-Le out on the porch and noted it would be 'bad form' to kill myself on her birthday. She agreed.
I'm very clear on what my fucking problem is: I can't fucking write and, Goddess help me, I have become a fucking writer. [be careful what you wish for]
I can't write because I have no space to be peaceful. The last thing I did was Addendum D: [Calendar for A New Matriarchy]. That was finished, more or less, last September 15th [25th Novembria]. At that point I needed about two or three weeks to decompress, reboot and Face The Page again.
But just as that process was completing, the fucking Oathbreaker came in – making all the right noises about Sisterhood and Recovery – and sucked all the air out of the room for the next three months. And then right after we got rid of her sorry ass fucking Bette Goldenring started her fucking 'you owe me' bullshit. *string of Imprecations*
The issue here is that I think about tomorrow. That's just who I am and it is in fact what I write about. When I'm under this kind of survival pressure, that peace I need to write, to not have any immediate worries about food or a place to sleep and so on, goes right out the fucking window.
I said to Le-Le that I watch Crime Drama to 'clean the slate'. But without anything on said slate, it just becomes filler, a time killer, and that makes me even more...'discontent'.
I get out of bed and part of me starts looking for what it is I'm going to be working on that day [or night] and there has been nothing 'there' for over eight months now. That is an intolerable psycho-emotional void...and I just get to fucking 'deal with it'.
I type out lil rants like this, but this is not real writing to me. It's just...well, 'ranting'.
And now I'm typed out....
