The Day After The Day After

The last two days have been fantastic, more or less. The workshop I went to was worth ever penny of its 25 dollars a session, and more (if I could afford more). It's too bad, in a way, that I shall miss my next one. I managed three poems in a single day on Tuesday, counting the one I wrote before going. And on Wednesday I got to hang out at one of my very favorite places, the Golden Flower tea shop downtown. It was nice, and Julie recognized me. I found a piece of writing I had forgotten about in my notebook. I drew a little, and played around with the poems I had written the day before. Then I had Writing Club at Chelsee's, and that, too, was fantastic. For the first time ever I have a circle of adults with common interests and regular meeting times. It is like Anime club, but not. The feeling of meeting outside of school was heady and potent, and I adored everyone there. Eliza bought us all drinks, a most welcome and appreciated gesture. And while the roleplay on the message board (you can find there here: http://z11.invisionfree.com/FTCC_Writing_Club/index.php?showtopic=17) Has slowed down quite a bit, I've been really enjoying myself.

So why do I feel icky and sluggish? My censor had been very, very active this morning. Thinking about how I should finish editing what Chris has passed around, finish making the tenses match and all my bazillion readability suggestions, and the little voice goes "Like you have so very much more experience than he does. Who do you think you are? He's the one with the publisher and the contract, what could you possibly have to offer against that?". And the melancholia hits me like a sledgehammer.

I have not, in quite some time, had anyone tell me they DISLIKED what I had written. When someone finishes something of mine I receive comments like: "That was cool" or "That was good" or "I liked such-and-such". And I get minor suggestions and criticisms too, which I thrive upon in a way, cause I think "I can make it better. It's already good, but if those are the only objections I can just polish it up, and it will be good. Someone will want it."

And today I feel like no one will ever want it. That everything I write is pleasantly mediocre, it never stays with anyone longer than a few minutes. That I do not write poetry that lingers and flames in the air, like Blake, like Shakespeare, like Tennyson.... That my prose has no meaning to anyone but me. That the characters that are so vivid and real and important to me will never crawl into the heads of other people and set up house in the way of Goodkind, Jordan, McCafferey, Moon, Weber, Card and a hundred others. I think in many ways I have attractive craftsmanship. My sentences are intricate, intelligent, and descriptive. But are they interesting? Are they inspired? I fear that what I lack is not something I can grow into. It's not something I can get better at with practice: the fundamental flame of vivid imagination and inspiration that lights an answering fire in other human beings. What else can it be, when someone expresses interest in what I have written, and once they have read a piece of it, they do not ask for more?

And I have to wonder if all my creative works are doomed to pleasant mediocrity. That everything I do will be met with "That's very nice. But I was thinking about this other thing over here....". I will be doomed to the realm of mild, short-lived interest and appreciation , where everyone likes what I've done in a general sort of way, but no one wants to live in my universe, buy the house I've made, use my animations.... My structures, in word or image, will forever be too confining and restrictive, and never, never tempt anyone to exist within them.

I feel as though no matter what I do, my worlds and buildings will never contain anyone but me, and the people in my head. I am not bad enough to make better. I am not good enough to succeed.

This is, of course, the nasty censor and inner saboteur talking. I don't even have an Associate's Degree in architecture yet, I still have plenty of room to practice and improve there, and my ideas are always getting freer in that realm. I do not play with my 3D animation software, or even my paint programs, enough to be even thoroughly versed in them, let alone a fantastic artist. And my writing....I have very little finished, besides poetry. And what I do have, one novel, one short story, needs serious editing. The short story is my best bet, it's new and I haven't despaired of it yet and it needs relatively little work. But who will take it? Who would want something so cliche? The outcome is predictable. The characters are stereotypes. Certainly everyone who has read it has gotten a different idea about what it is really about but...is that enough?

I have sent out my poetry twice, and been rejected both times. No one asks me "What wonderful thing have you created or worked on today?" But I don't really know what I want from other people. I thought I just wanted a balanced critique, a gentle understanding of what is good, and what could be better and how. But it isn't enough. But it isn't enough. At the end of the day, what I want, crave, is for SOMEONE to be interested, to be excited by my creative process. To be blown away the way I am by Eliza's poetry, Scribe's exquisite worlds, Adryn's fascinating characters, Jen's delightful narrative, Chris's vivid imagery, Raymond's mystic concepts, or Relaeh's evocation of emotion. In the end I want someone (no, let's be honest here, I want EVERYONE) to ask when they see me, hear from me, "So what have you worked on lately? Oh really? That's awesome! When can I see it? This is fantastic!".

That, I think, is what I want. Thorough and constant validation that my creative struggle is worthwhile. And I do not want to hear it in response to my begging here. I want to hear it because my work is genuinely interesting, engaging, exciting. And while I feel like this, I don't know if I could accept that response as genuine and valid even if I did receive it.

The day before yesterday I could do everything. Today, I can do nothing. That's Scorpio extremism for you. Do I look as absolutely pathetic and ridiculous as I think I do? Don't answer that, this is merely a poor me rant with no basis. It deserves no response. I am putting off my homework.

The Gloom Fades

Today I begin a workshop for gently unblocking creative writers. I've been a lot better lately about writing, probably more consistent than I've ever been outside of poetry class, and a heck of a lot less forced. But I still consistently block myself, and I'm writing new things rather than finishing the old, which I desperately want to do. So today I shall take a bus downtown (at eight in the morning, no less) and hopefully transfer to a second bus so that I won't have to walk the half an hour (read as 3/4 of a mile) and anger my knees again. I went and found the building yesterday all on my own. It took two hours round trip because I got lost and couldn't find it (mainly because I was looking for the wrong number), and I got hit on by a rather attractive Mexican. Not even I can misconstrue a steady series of increasingly personal questions leading up to "Can I have your phone number, and Are you married?". He followed me down the block a ways. I'm still not sure whether I'm more flattered by the attention, or want Raymond there to protect me. Is this what happens when a young woman goes walking alone? I don't know, I've never really done it before. It's a giddy feeling, like riding a roller coaster. Scary even though you're quite safe. Probably good that I'm a little frightened, as it will keep me out of trouble.

In any case, in honor of my writing class today, I shall start the day with some free verse.

The Gloom Fades

The gloom fades, the fog lifts
I can see my fingers and toes
Through the haze of my mental storm

The clouds lift, the night fades
Heart pain has been replaced
By the physical pangs of knee and neck

Take some Aleve, rub in some balm
I laugh at these physical ills
They have easements that the heart knows not.

Beg to differ, some say there are
Such easy ungents for the soul
To soothe the insubstantial tide of emotion.

Alcohol (degenerative mask), drugs (deadly dangerous)
Religion (of which I have over-imbibed)
But I think I shall try the cure of friendship

The gloom fades, the fog lifts,
The cure may be temporary,
But the balm of friends is no longer anathma.

Petty Musings of a Self-Depressive

The last couple of weeks I've been all kinds of stressed out. The kind of stressed out I did most of the summer when things were bad between me and my nearest friend, when I was working for her for six days a week without being paid, on top of doing eight solid hours of school on my one day off, and money was tight, off time was never in advance enough to plan vacations, and one of my best friends was leaving the country but I could not go to see her. Life was hellish in many ways this last summer, and I started manifesting that physically. My stomach hurt almost constantly like it did for months in highschool when my very best friend abruptly declared she didn't care if I lived or died. Several times a day my heart would suddenly begin racing and adrenaline would shoot through my body as if someone had just jumped out and yelled "Boo!" in my face. My throat clenched up, my posture went back to being hunched, and I started clenching my teeth.

At first, I didn't know what was going on. I told myself and everyone else that I was fine, that I didn't know why I was feeling these silly things. It wasn't until near the (was it the end of the summer? I can't remember now, really. Time is such a blur), that I figured it out, that I started to melt down on everyone and I realized that I had burnt out, utterly and completely burnt out. That I was carrying around such a huge load of anger and resentment against those I interacted with on a daily basis that I wasn't sure whether I wanted to jump off a cliff or push someone else more. I felt so beaten and abused and exhausted on every level that I imagined I almost wasn't fit for human company; something of my black outlook would surely rub off on those I loved and wanted to be close to, and how was that fair? I think this summer I actually taught myself how to really lie, with face and tone and eye contact. That doesn't do you a heck of a lot of good around empaths who know you though. Still, I tried in order to protect everyone around me from the radioactive emotions filling my up, and that, of course, made it worse.

But the good thing that came of it was that I learned joy and love and peace given undemandingly can heal such wounds, at least if the wounded is willing to be healed. A little over a week in Boone was not really enough, I wish I had had more time, but it helped. God it helped. And the rest period later, when I didn't have to work, when I had time alone to get on top of my life, and it looked like we would have money and all I had to worry about was school...that helped too. I remembered that my creativity springs from a busy joy, that anger (an emotion I have never been very good with and have had way too much experience with lately) only pinches off the flow.

And for the last two weeks I have been carrying anger in my belly. I have been hunching up, clenching my jaw, crying at random with my heart racing. PMS? Very possible. But we are low on money, and my preferences and joys don't really seem to be coming first, and what I really want is to be left alone, alone, alone with a good novel for days and days on end. Every time I start to feel a little better, something happens, some little word is said or body movement made, and I am ready to scream again, to curse and break things, to say the unforgiveable and drag my own fingernails over my flesh.

What is wrong with me? Is there something wrong with me? Do I simply fail to cope appropriately with an emotional event that happens to everyone? Is this what drives others to drink, to smoke, to do drugs or seek physical pain as a refuge? Am I so weak that I cannot deal with an emotion any normal, functioning adult would shrug at? Is this merely a reaction to having bills and no money, to having best friends angry with one another, to having a messy house and no energy to clean....? Or is it a chemical imbalance, a mild form of the depression that has plagued the women of my family for generations? Mild form? Is it mild? Am I manic depressive? I was a good girl today. I took my vitamin B, with the iron tablet to help it absorb. I took three of them. I made myself fix a piece of chicken and eat it. I don't want to eat, don't want to go through the mechanics of preparing food and putting the food in my mouth, the process of chewing and swallowing and digesting and cleaning up afterwards. There is no underlying worry about weight, or dislike of the food we have, or anything of the sort. I simply do not want to put food in my stomach, though I know that I am hungry, that my brain is fuzzy and my limbs feel heavy from lack of nutrients, that possibly this intense feeling of rage and depression is related to my not eating.

What is wrong with me? Why am I doing this to myself? Surely I am the one doing this to myself, despite the fact that I have been using all my energetic tools to lift the fog, that I attempt to act bright and cheerful, that I go through the dreary mechanics of feeding my body when I would rather do anything but. What truth am I hiding, what thing am I blaming on myself to protect other people? What things am I blaming other people for to protect myself? Why, why, WHY am I so unstable? Why can't I just hold down the job, the schooling, the marriage, the housekeeping like rest of the world does without going bananas?

I know what I need to do, really. I need to cut back babysitting from two nights to one night a week. I need to get out of the house more, not worry about that extra dollar and linger blissfully in my tea shop for hours on end. I need to guard my free time. I need to go back to Boone and absorb the feeling of being a free woman, an independent, competent individual laughing with others of the same. I need the hugs and the laughter of those I am not so close to.

Perhaps I am merely an emotional coward. Perhaps I cannot handle the stage between blood family and loving but distant friends. I am a social hermit, I want to see and be seen by other people, but only on my own terms. I can be there when a friend is going through crisis, be the supportive one, but only on occasion. When the emotional field becomes too rough I want to leave, to hide away in my one room cabin on my tiny island three hundred yards from shore. I do not do unreasoning conflict well, especially not from those I think should treat me the most gently, with the most understanding. I do not, do not, do not do that well. Give me close friends and family that I talk to maybe once a week, that I see every two weeks or more. I heard a saying once, that guests are like fish, they are wonderful when fresh, but after three days they begin to stink. But I really need to spend a week or more in Boone.

The major lure? That I could be one of the bright, independent, competent girls in that lovely apartment. That I could work on that horse farm, learning quickly and earning my pay with my own sweat. That I could write in the quiet peace of the window seats, be the house elf that makes their lives easier and earns my keep and receive the laughter, the love and support and gentle teasing that I crave more than anything else in the world. And from there, move on to be even more independent, perhaps in my own little apartment one day, on a bus route or with a scooter....

But none of that would last. I would be come too close to them. There would be fighting, there always is eventually, over some petty annoyance. I would not always want to be the house elf. I would become a common fixture instead of a treasured visitor, all of my best would come to be expected as theirs would even as we all relaxed and let some of the warts show. And it is silly of me to dream of being alone an unfettered, completely independent. Unless my eyes heal completely I will never really have that, or at least not feel as if I have that. And if they were healed, then I would have that no matter what my living arrangements.

I feel trapped again. Trapped, trapped, trapped in the web of life, by the expectations and needs of those around me. Tied down by my stupid, uneducated, self-inflicted helplessness and dependence on others. And the sad thing is that probably most people feel like that to one degree or another, tied down and trapped by their circumstances, by the need to make money, the need to make others happy, the need to simply coexist with other creatures in an approximation of peace and mutual respect. I want to cry out that I do not care, I do not care about any of the stupid rules, the responsibilities. But these are surely the sentiments of a child, a mere adolescent, and I am supposed to be an adult. Work is the responsibility traded for the freedom of self-guidance. I am in a bed of my own making, with no real intention of leaving it. But I would like to get up periodically and shake the dust of the daily grind from the sheets, wash the sweat of labor and tears of contention away and walk out into the sun.

Hang in there. You're going to Boone soon, to see those bright lovely faces that have their own cares but are more precious because they are unfamiliar. Hang in there, the moon face will pass, the time of the month will be over soon. Hang in there, your emotions will level, your energy will increase, the money will come in.... Hang in there, the contending individuals will work it out, or not, but you do not need to be ground to dust in the middle.

Write, work, love, learn, that's all anyone's really asking of you. All else is self-delusion.

Disturbing Dreams

I've been having some very vivid, very disturbing dreams lately. Last night's dreams were fine (what I remember of them) if a bit restless, but this morning... I caught an extra hour or so of sleep, and I dreamt that I received a phone call from Merri, of all people.

It was hard to hear her at the other end of the connection, she kept fading out. But after a bit of catching up she told me she thought she had something attached to her, like a demon. Two of them, actually. That she was prone to periods of memory loss when she didn't know what she had done, and that she woke up sometimes with small cuts on her lower back that sometimes lingered, and sometimes healed within the day. She asked me for my help.

In the dream I went to her, and did what I would have done in waking, though why I thought I could manage alone I had no idea. The worst trouble was that part of her was addicted to the demonic presence and was unwilling to let go of it. Partway through our session she became antsy and her attention wandered, so I tried Ho'oponopono.... and the demons possessed her and attacked me. There followed a struggle where I did my best to treat her while keeping her both from leaving and from hurting me. At some point we were interrupted, I think by her younger sister, and we regained some distance and control. I did some more work, and the demons seemed to back off... But then I woke, unsure whether I had freed her, or simply made her tormentors angry.

And two hours after having woken from this dream, I still cannot get Merri out of my head. But all I can do is send her love and prayers, on the off chance that something bad may have happened to her. We haven't talked in years. I can't very well call her up or email her and ask if she's okay because I had this crazy dream... I have nightmares all the time. Like most of them I would have let this one go, if it had only faded after waking. But that I am still uneasy hours later makes me worry. Merri, wherever you are, whatever you are doing, remember that you are loved. Peace be with you.


This was not the first occurrence of a nightmare that began with a phone call from a friend with whom I have been out of touch. This last weekend I dreamed that Trent called me, and he was suffering from a desperate and deadly depression. He needed a friend fast, or he would possibly do something permanent to himself.... Waking, I cannot imagine the calm, solid, wonderful Trent being so throughly dimmed and dejected. But I have had a dream of him before, where I saw him in soldier mode, and when I described it he told me that it was accurate.

Perhaps I am merely feeling subconsciously guilty about not having contacted either of these two lovely people in so long. Perhaps I am merely trying to get myself to write the emails and make the phone calls that I promised to all the people I promised them to.

I worry, and yet do not call. Terrible habit.

On another topic.... Scribe my darling, you are leaving tomorrow. Have a fabulous trip. I love you, I miss you already, I look forward to hearing your voice and seeing your face online. Go with all the blessings and hugs you can carry. I'll try to get the rest of chapter two to you tonight.

@}~'~~,~~~~~~~Thistle

Once Again....

Once upon a time I tried to keep a blog, but it's been out of date awhile. I come to this new page at the same time I feel I am coming to a new stage in my life. A minor change in the grand scheme of things, I suppose but....

I am at a loss as to describe how I am feeling, right at this moment. I am happy, because I now have time off, after having rubbed my soul raw from working too hard for too long without a true break. I am happy because I have the house to myself today, and I am learning to use the bus system where I live, and I may have enough money this year to go to a Ren Faire and actually buy some of the pretty objects I normally covet there. I am happy because I will finally have time to organize myself, my objects, and my thoughts. I am happy that I will have time and inclination to write and create and enjoy a new sense of beauty and freedom. I am happy because the miasma of anger, resentfulness, depression, and spite that has colored my spirit and tainted my relationships for the last several months is finally lifting.

But I still come to this post with a heavy heart. My relationships seem to be dissolving around the edges, and I'm not sure if they will disappear altogether or simply change shape. One of my best friends ever leaves for Japan in a mere three days, and a million goodbyes and well-wishes and a I-promise-I'll-call/write-yous will not make the pain of her going any less. What can I do? What can I say? I wish you all the best, my darling, I hope that you find Japan to be everything you dreamed, that you meet your lovely Japanese boy and fall madly in love and get married and become wildly wealthy and successful. But for now I will only be able to touch you through a computer. I will not be able to put my arms around you, or smell your hair, or cuddle with you during a roleplaying session -- none of the hundred wonderful touchy-feelie sister/friend things that have been so easy with you from day one. And you will not go alone, for Kia will follow you there in a year, and then I will have lost both of you to the other side of the world, with no knowing how anything will turn out or if I will ever see the two of you in person again.

And yesterday morning, my uncle John died.

Grief, freedom, joy, sorrow, anger, release.... I'm not used to feeling such a strange melange of emotions at once.

I think it leaves me feeling...contemplative.

Well, so much for my first post. A bit mixed I suppose. Scribe, I love and adore you and wish you the best, and expect to hear from you CONSTANTLY, seeing as how I have joined the very same blogsphere that you have. We can write alternating roleplays on this thing you know. *G* Hello cousin Willow, if you read this! I would like to get to know you a bit better. If you have any time while you're state-side, give me a call or a visit. Hugs and love to all my friends and family, you ought to know who this is. *G*

@}~'~~,~~~~~~~Thistle