Standing right here…

I currently have twenty-six posts sitting in drafts.

There are a few that are mostly finished, but I have no intention of posting. Things I’ve written that I thought I wanted to dump into the ether, but once it was on the page I no longer felt compelled to press publish. I keep them because it felt better getting it out of my head. It’s the closest thing I have to a private journal these days.

Other posts are disjointed ramblings that happen at all hours of the night*, that don’t sound quite right so they sit until I figure out how to fix them, use pieces in other posts, or delete them completely.

 

Writing feels impossible lately.

 

I post inane shit on Twitter/Instagram/Snapchat to entertain myself, but nothing that actually means anything.

I stare at blinking cursors on blank pages, willing words to come out, but it just doesn’t happen.

My head is not in a good place right now.

A large part of that is the never-ending shit storm in the news—fires, floods, hurricanes, earthquakes, mass shootings, a pile of rotting human excrement masquerading as president determined to destroy people’s lives. I try to limit my news intake for the sake of my sanity, but it’s incredibly difficult to do no matter where you go. It’s everywhere.

These big things I have zero control over drive me to hyper-focus on all the little things happening in my immediate vicinity. Those little things pile up to bigger things and it feels paralyzing and suffocating. Things that should just roll off become impossible to deal with, and I feel absolutely insane because I KNOW how insignificant it all is, but in the moment it feels like the world is caving in.

We’ve been having problems with mice. We’ve caught two, but I’m not convinced that’s the end of it, and I am REALLY FUCKING TIRED of cleaning mouse shit out of my kitchen cupboards.

I had a minor infection up my nose at incision site. It cleared itself up by the time I got into the doctor, but it was a panic-inducing few days. And while the surgeon said everything was a-okay, I still have this paranoia that the lingering soreness in my nose is brewing another infection.

Totaling up all my surgery related bills has come to $6,000 even. It actually cost way more than that, but I hit my deductible. We’re fortunate the expense won’t break us, but it’s still painful.

Writing is not happening lately and it’s really killing my mental state. (In addition to the previously mentioned JFC THE WORLD SUCKS.)

The high 80’s temperatures in the middle of September are really intensifying the Summertime SAD. We had a few days of 60’s and hoodie weather. It’s forecasted to return. But it can’t get here soon enough.

 

GOOD THINGS

Bob bought me a new set of pans. Our existing ones were a wedding gift and we’ve only been using them since we moved into our house, but the finish is wearing badly and some of them are warping. The new ones are heavier construction and [reportedly] better quality.

We have a four-day weekend coming up. Bob had some vacation time to use and our anniversary is next week. We’ll be lounging around the house doing what we do best…nothing.

I got a new computer mouse and it has fancy lights that cycle through a rainbow of colors. Rainbows make everything better.

Bob bought me new Chucks for my surgery. They’re bright blue and technically part of the Converse Pride Collection, so they have rainbow soles and laces. (Rainbows make everything better.) It wasn’t so much a gift for having surgery, but surviving the multitude of panic attacks brought on by scheduling/planning/et al. said surgery. See also: I am incredibly spoiled.

I CAN BREATHE THROUGH MY NOSE.

 

It’s incredibly telling—and sad—that they automatically send a financial assistance application with the bill.

 

* Trust me, they’re different from the disjointed ramblings that happen at all hours of the night that actually get posted.

Always the same…

There is a never-ending shitstorm of bad news from an administration hellbent on destroying people’s lives.

Anyone with a single shred of basic human decency can see it.

There is a loud consensus as of late that if you’re not publicly screeching about what’s going on in the world, you’re contributing to the problem. If you’re not filling your Twitter/Facebook/Instagram/[insert social media platform of choice] feeds with outrage, you are helping the opposition.

Silence equals compliance.

I’ve done more than my fair share of screaming into the void with everyone else, though I make a conscious effort not to. It’s not doing anybody any actual good, and it’s just not nearly as cathartic as it once was. (see: the entirety of my livejournal) The stuff I do put out isn’t anything constructive, it’s just that things have reached a breaking point and [literally] screaming at my computer screen (alone, in my house) can only relieve so much stress. Does posting an angry tirade on Twitter really help? No. Not really. But it happens. Because sometimes I don’t know what else to do. We all have our coping methods. Meltdowns on public forums are part of my deal. I can count on one hand the number of people who actually see what I post on a given platform. I’m not influencing anybody over here. Nor do I have any desire to. I’m just trying to survive on a daily basis, just like everyone else.

Words are in short supply as of late.

I keep opening WordPress, staring at it, and closing the tab without writing anything.

I want to write about ANYTHING other that what’s going on in the world as of late, but it’s difficult to focus on anything but. I don’t have anything useful to contribute to the conversation. Screaming into the void is just adding to the endless noise. And while venting can be healthy and cathartic, it’s not what I want to expend my already limited amount of mental energy on. I spend plenty of time talking to Bob about all of it, I don’t want to spend even more writing about it too. (Yet, this post is still happening. Whatever.)

I’ve started and abandoned so many posts about other things recently. None of them make it very far before I just don’t have the energy to continue. So I close the tab and try to find something else to focus on, but focus is not happening either.

It’s that time of the year. February and March hit almost as hard as the summertime SAD slump. It’s not fun, but it’s not new, and once I finally manage to identify it, I can better find ways to cope until it passes.

Because it will pass.

Everything sucks in the meantime, but IT WILL PASS.

Damn these days…

Insomnia and anxiety are great, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

There are so many things I could be writing about, but they’re not getting written because I just don’t have the mental fortitude for it. I write plenty of posts dumping out raw emotions that never get published. They just sit in the drafts folder never to see the light of day. It feels better to purge my brain, and everything I write here, I write for me, but some things just don’t necessarily warrant public perusal. I haven’t kept a private journal in years—I’ve started many, but never maintained—I guess posts that sit unpublished serve that purpose these days. It works, I suppose.

Anyhoo.

Instead I’ve been writing.

… I’ve spilled several thousand words on a dumb fanfiction venture because sometimes you just need to give your brain a little reprieve and focus on something silly. It’s ridiculous and stupid and it entertains me endlessly.

… I’ve been plotting a way to combine two existing storylines into one. Separately they fall a little flat, but together they actually have some substance. But they’ve been tackled from so many angles over the years, I need to make sure I have my characters in order before I start pounding out words, or it will implode before I even really get started.

… It amuses me how inspiration can strike from even the most minuscule details. I read something that someone else wrote, and one, tiny little comment stuck in my brain that rapidly morphed and mutated into an entire storyline (or several, if I’m being honest). And while I thought it was just my warped imagination running rampant with exaggeration, months down the line, I’ve apparently hit the nail right on the head. Some people are just easy to figure out, I guess.

… I’ve been mulling over a number of ideas sitting in the active writing folder, seeking inspiration, wondering what I could do to make them work better. There’s one in particular that I really want to be working on. I have some stuff written for it (actual narrative!) that I really like, but the over-arcing plotline is just so boring that it’s really difficult to know what to do with it. I’m a total sucker for the everyday mundane, but this stuff is a total snooze-fest even for me.

… When I’m fumbling around trying to put together character lists or timelines, I retreat to my home architect program and start designing houses for these as yet unwritten stories. Or redesign existing floorplans to better fit the tales they’re intended for. I spend hours working on plans and perusing house plan websites for inspiration. It just adds to the excess of information I have rolling around in my head on any given story project that really has no relevance to the actual story, but it’s there if the need ever arises. And it’s much easier to describe surroundings if I have a visual reference to study.

… Writing. The bane of my existence and the love of my life. Both at the same time.

 

She’s such a piece of work—her husband too. She is totally one of those people that will carry on endlessly about how much she absolutely loves both of her children and she couldn’t possibly choose a favorite, but it’s blatantly obvious that she does favor one over the other to an extreme degree. In her case, she fawns all over her younger son, and her first born barely gets any attention by comparison. They’re always so irrationally harsh with him and I’ve never seen him do a damn thing wrong. I just don’t get it. He’s smart, he’s sweet, he works hard. He’s an amazing kid and his parents don’t see it at all. They’ll totally take credit for it if someone else points it out, but they don’t actually acknowledge that with him.

Really, at fifteen, he’s leagues smarter than his parents and they’re threatened by that. The only way they know how to cope with it is by trying to make him feel bad about himself, which is the one thing they’re actually good at. Every time they put him down I just want to throttle them. I don’t know how anyone can treat their own child like that.

I just want to hug the shit out of him and tell him he’s worth so much more and deserves so much better.

But who am I?

Just some virtual stranger with no clout to help him.

 

Over and under…

Writing is hard.

I’m still in a bit of recovery mode after my mental meltdown over one single writing project.

And while we’ve had a few moments of mild reprieve from gross summer weather, I’m still feeling the effects of SAD. Though I do have a little bit more of a handle on the anxiety that has been all-consuming now that I know where it’s been coming from.

Getting back to writing after an inadvertent break feels a bit like floundering. I’ve spent a lot of time staring at my writing folder trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with myself. I’ve spent just as much time staring at a blinking cursor in WordPress. I’ve started and deleted a dozen posts, trying to cobble words together into something resembling coherence. I’ve tried writing about something other than writing, but everything comes out wrong.

It happens.

It’s nothing new.

Things go in cycles, though I can’t tell if there is a definitive pattern to it all or not.

Basil is still on his Whatif??? crusade, but believe it or not, some of those whatifs actually involve characters other than Tyler. Miracles never cease, I guess. I’ve been writing things, and some of it is okay, but it’s not quite what I want to be writing. I have ideas, but they’re stuck inside my head, trapped behind some sort of unidentifiable barrier I can’t quite figure out how to break through.

It’s frustrating at best and infuriating at worst, but all I can really do is ride it out until it passes.

In the meantime, I poke at existing stories, write what I can, and read through the stuff that reminds me why I do this in the first place.

Also, listen to music on repeat.

Always.


(I Go Through by O.A.R.)

I love this band so damn much.

The usual session…

If we’re being perfectly honest, I’ve been a colossal train wreck lately.

No, no—more than usual.

I’ve been struggling with some bad anxiety, which drives the depression to serious lows, which fuels the anxiety, which drives the depression, which…you get it.

There are things that are easy to identify in terms of what’s causing the issues, but they are not the only things. And while Generalized Anxiety Disorder is a pretty safe assumption when I can’t explain why I feel the way I do, I know in my gut that there is more to it.

I’ve been dealing with this shit for over thirty years at this point.

I know when there’s more to it.

I just don’t always know what that more might be.

I don’t know where exactly my thought process was going—I get lost so easily in there—but a combination of things tipped me off today.

Our last electric bill was ridiculous. Which means we’ve been running the A/C constantly. Which means the weather has been constant misery. We live in a townhouse surrounded by neighbors on three sides. This works to our advantage with heat in the winter, but in the summer, not so much. We only have three windows that open and they’re all west-facing. This is a miserable position in the summer. When temperatures reach 80 and humidity gets above 50%, there’s no being comfortable in this place. So air conditioning 24/7 it is.

We usually get a nice summer cold-snap with temperatures in the high sixties or low seventies with low humidity (open windows! hoodies!). It’ll last a few days and give some much needed reprieve. But we’re approaching the middle of August and we haven’t had that yet. The weather has been consistently above eighty. The humidity has been consistently above 50%. It’s forecasted to stay that way for at least another two weeks.

Looking at the weather report causes me irrational levels of irritation over the numbers and I just want to start breaking shit.

Or just start crying.

I usually just start crying.

I wish I was kidding.

I’ve written about this before. If I’m at all prone to Seasonal Affective Disorder, it’s not in the winter, it’s in the summer. And while the thought hadn’t crossed my mind for awhile, I had a light bulb moment today when I realized that SAD is likely a significant contributing factor to my colossal train wreck status as of late.

Especially when I read the line The condition in summer can include heightened anxiety.

It doesn’t provide an explanation for everything going on with my mental health as of late.

But it does explain A LOT.

And while I don’t have a lot of effective solutions for dealing with it right now, just knowing what it is helps immensely.

We’ve made it to August. We’re approaching mid-month. Soon it will be September. Soon the temperatures will drop. Soon the windows will be open. Soon nature will die and so will the allergies. Soon it will be winter and we’ll have a whole new whine-fest on our hands.

Soon.

September is 23 days away.

I’m looking forward to it for more than just the weather…
…vacation days
…our anniversary
…new music
live music

In the meantime, I’ll muddle my way through somehow.

I will survive.

I always do.

The heart don’t listen…

…to words of wisdom
I could never get myself to understand…

I am in an extremely fortunate and privileged position in that I don’t have to work. (Not that my mental state is really in any condition to, but that’s a whole other discussion.) Bob has a good job that provides us with a comfortable income. We can pay our bills, save money, and budget for the things we want. He is okay with me not having a job. To certain degrees, he prefers it that way because he knows me. I struggle a lot (a-fucking-lot) with feeling like a leech and being completely useless, but again, a whole other discussion.

I have an opportunity to focus fully on the one thing I know I want to do with my life.

Write.

I don’t have any aspirations to publish anything—aside from here—but maybe someday if I ever finish something I don’t hate, that plan may change. I really don’t see that, but stranger things have happened. (I met a boy on the internet and married him, after all.)

ANYWAY.

Writing is hard.

This isn’t some brand new epiphany I’m having over here, but sometimes it slams home a little stronger than others.

For the last…lengthy frame of time…I don’t remember when I really started it…I’ve been making a more deliberate effort to write every day. And by that I mean, sitting down and actually focusing on writing while attempting to avoid other distractions. (see: the internet) It feels like I’m rarely very successful, but I think I have made marginal change.

In my efforts to write more I also decided to make an effort to focus on one project instead of juggling the eight…ish different ones I had been spreading myself over for too long. And I did that…to a certain extent. I did allow myself ventures into other folders when ideas struck or words stalled, but for the most part I was focusing on just one story.

I did get some decent writing done. But spending so much time on it made me realize how many things were wrong with it. And I had no idea how to fix it. I spent a lot of time beating my head against the wall trying to figure things out, and ended up getting incredibly frustrated and burnt out.

That last tweet is supposed to say then Bob but instead it says the Bob, but really he is THE Bob, so it still works, even with the typo.

I’ve been talking to Bob a lot about all my writing woes and the issues with the project I’ve been working on, trying to sort out what I need to do with all of it. The conversation that followed that series of whiny tweets knocked me on my ass.

Maybe I need to just be done with that project.
Be done with trying to fix it.
Put it to rest and let it stay there.

To say I was bordering on a panic attack would be an understatement.

To my recollection, I have never actively stopped working on a story. Yes, I have quit working on countless projects, but it has always happened gradually, fizzling over a long period of time as the inspiration sputtered out and other stories took over. I have never made the conscious decision to just stop.

Facing that decision literally brought me to tears.

It scared the absolute shit out of me.

Bob reminded me that is OKAY to fail. It doesn’t make it suck any less, but it’s okay.

Being the natural problem solver that he is, he made a number of suggestions to help me with my problem, and one of them made me panic even more than just stopping one story.

A writing cleanse.
No writing at all for a week.
Actively stop thinking about it.
Focus on something else entirely.

The very idea of stopping one story made me cry.

I couldn’t even breathe at the thought of not writing at all.

When the writing is in short supply, the mental health takes a tragic hit.

How could I survive not writing on purpose?

And then…without even realizing I was doing it…I took a break…

Sort of.

I didn’t make the conscious decision to take a break. I just…did. I opened Word. I opened files. I stared at them. But I didn’t write anything. I did read through some things. I spent a hell of a lot of time thinking about all of it. I even found another story in the archives to shoehorn ∞Tyler into. I didn’t write anything on it, but I spent plenty of time brainstorming it.

It wasn’t exactly a cleanse.
It wasn’t even a full week.
But it was far more than I was open to trying, even if it wasn’t entirely on purpose.

It was absolutely miserable.
It was a really shitty four days.
I cried a lot.
(Though that has also been heavily influenced by the horrific state of the world as of late.)

By Friday night I was in such a bad place. Bob and I spent several hours talking through it while I cried even more. (It wasn’t just writing at that point. There’s other shit tormenting me too.) We didn’t find much resolution, but unloading helped immensely. Snotty, weepy pillow talk can be incredibly cathartic all on its own.

Have I mentioned lately that my husband is fucking fantastic?

Because he is.

I don’t have a damn clue how, but I really did hit the jackpot with him.

Maybe if I had done a true cleanse things would have been less miserable, but I don’t know. Past experiences have me inclined to believe it would have been just as bad or even worse. I’ve gone long stretches without writing. Those were miserable times I don’t care to revisit on purpose.

At the time Bob and I were having the initial maybe it’s time to stop conversation, I had music playing—as I do. (Nine Days on repeat.) Somewhere during that, the song Star started playing—the life and struggle of a musician trying to make a career out of the trade. Not exactly something I can relate to, but a line stood out that so perfectly fit my mindset at that moment (and in general) and caught me completely off guard.

But if I give up I’m afraid I’ll disappear…

If I don’t have writing, what do I have? Putting all my eggs in one basket isn’t the smartest move, but I really like that fucking basket and it’s the only one I have. Writing is such a significant part of who I am. It has been my one true passion since I was twelve years old.

The ridiculous thing about all of this is it’s really JUST ONE STORY.

Nobody told me I can’t write anymore.
Nobody told me I have to give it all up.
It was just a suggestion to put ONE project to rest and stop torturing myself with it.

But this is how my brain works.
One little thing goes wrong and suddenly everything is in CRISIS MODE.
I KNOW it’s ridiculous.
I KNOW it’s anxiety being a royal dick.

I KNOW.

But there’s very little I can do to control it. It’s incredibly frustrating and absolutely exhausting.

So I cry.
I unload my woes on my saint of a husband.
I wrap up in blankets and cuddle my stuffed animals.
I listen to the same music on repeat.

I will survive.
This will pass.
Things will get better.

I’ll sit down in front of my computer and write.

I don’t know which story it will be, but I will love it and hate it and fight with it and obsess over it and things will be okay.

It’s a reminder I need far too often.

Things will be okay.


(Star … Nine Days)

Not the same…

February and March are a weird time for me.

A lot of people have trouble with this time of year, grappling for relief after a dark, miserable winter.

For me it’s because of two defining moments in my life.

February marked eight years since I got fired from the Toxic Shit Hole.

March marks nine years since that first doctor appointment when I sobbed in an exam room in front of a doctor I’d just met, because I could no longer handle the utterly debilitating depression that had been ruling my life for nearly two decades.

Mixed in with that, there’s just a lot of LIFE happening these days.

Some things good, some things not so much, others just…ugh.

My brain is mush.

I am mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted.

I just want a nap.

The writing has been damn near nonexistent on all fronts and I find myself spinning my wheels trying to produce something, anything.

I’m fixating on details that don’t warrant fixation, and struggling to muddle my way through parts that actually matter. It’s not even an issue of narrative kicking my ass at this point. It’s just getting words on a page.

There’s run of the mill writer’s block.

And then there’s this.

And it’s frustrating as all get out.

To say the least.

I’d insert a long string of expletives and rude gestures as I usually do…

But I’m really, effing TIRED.

It just might be nap time.

Maybe I’ll take one wrapped up in my new blanket.

Bob ordered my birthday present back in November and it finally arrived this month.

It’s a hooded MOOGLE blanket.

It’s super soft and fluffy and it has wings on the back.

It’s a critter and a blanket all in one.

It’s like he knows me.

Kupo.

But that one night…

Contrary to the inanity that I write hereI don’t suck at writing.

That is not an easy thing for me to admit out loud. (Or in print on the internet, as the case may be.)

I am the queen of self-deprecation, and depression and anxiety like to try to convince me I suck at merely existing most days. I have a difficult time saying I’m a good writer without feeling like a complete fraud. Every time I put something out for the world to see—no matter how small an audience it reaches—I feel like I’m exposing myself for the hack I really am. This is why the best I can do sometimes is admit that I don’t suck. And even that is a challenge some days.

But believe me, it’s a drastic improvement from the way it used to be a few short years ago.

Personal growth and all that.

I used to do my best writing in the middle of the night. Inspiration would always strike when I should have been sleeping, and I would pound out pages and pages of text. Most of my very favorite things I’ve written were produced in the unholy hours, sitting by myself in the dark.

These days, with no job to kill my will to live on a daily basis, I can write at any time of day I want. Yet it’s still ingrained in me to want to write at night. As long as my computer is running, Word is open, and I tab in and out of it all day long. I get a lot of writing done throughout the day (writer’s block notwithstanding) but I’m more apt to feel the overwhelming drive to write the closer it gets to bedtime.

I’ve been going through my writing folder, attempting to summarize each active project. It’s a slow slog because I don’t always know how to adequately summarize my plot lines. I’ve also been skimming through each one, trying to find a decent snippet to pull out and pair with the summary. It’s not easy to find just a few lines—I want to pull entire scenes—especially when I have so much dialogue to sift through. But going through all of these projects, I find myself wondering…why did I stop working on this one?

When I go back and read through things I’ve written—in all their disjointed glory—I’m quite often surprised by what I find. More and more I like what I read. There’s still plenty of crap in there, but it’s much easier to find things that I actually LIKE.

I’m reminding myself why I’ve put so many hours into these stories. Why I started writing them in the first place. Why I keep torturing myself when I’m spinning my wheels at the bottom of the hill.

I’ve had a long-running love/hate relationship with my writing—I love to hate it. But the older I get, the better I get at writing, the more I appreciate the good stuff, and am able to forgive the WTAF-is-this stuff. There is still some truly terrible things buried in those files, but I don’t beat myself up as much, as often as I used to. I’m slowly learning to accept taking the good with the bad.

In writing, that is.

The rest of my life is still questionable.

 

Never quite ready at all…

I feel like I’m running out of time on an important deadline. I haven’t done any prep work. I am completely unprepared to even start, much less finish on time.

It sounds like some sort of stress dream.

Only it’s not a dream.

It’s just one of the many obnoxious ways my brain manifests unexplained anxiety.

I’m not actually running on any deadlines—that I know of.

It’s entirely possible there’s something I need to do, that I’ve completely forgotten about because my short term memory is like a damn Etch-a-Sketch. One quick motion and the whole thing is a blank slate.

I’m incredibly slow to respond to any sort of communication (phone calls, emails, texts, et al…). I’ll get the message, I’ll think, “I need to respond to this,” and then…I don’t. More often than not that mother-effing irrational anxiety intervenes, preventing me from doing it right now (unless I want a full-blown panic attack on my hands) and then as soon as I look at something else, somebody jars the Etch-a-Sketch and the thought is wiped clean.

Something will trigger me to remember some time later and I’ll think, “I need to respond to that,” and the cycle begins again. Eventually so much time has passed since the initial communication, I start to wonder if it’s even worth responding because, in many cases, it no longer seems relevant to respond at all.

This is my brain and welcome to it.

Which is to say, my brain is an asshole a hot mess—depression, anxiety, inattentive ADHD—and then you pile on the creative aspect and all that entails and…well…you get things like this blog.

Glutton for punishment you are, you poor fool.

My writing folder is also a bit of a train wreck for the same reasons. I try to keep on top of active projects versus filing away stalled ones, but sometimes it just keeps piling up until I can’t make heads or tails of what I’m actually working on. Then I have to go through and judge harshly, sorting out what I’ve stopped working on, and what is still making progress, no matter how minor.

I NEED to just pick one project and focus on that alone. But…if I’m only working on one thing at a time, and I get stuck on a given part, then I don’t write anything and then the mental health starts to spiral and…yep.

Countless projects at one time, it is.

A while back…or two years ago, apparently…I went through my writing folder and all my active projects, and wrote a blurb for each one. It was an exercise in brevity (even if the post itself is stupid long) which is not exactly one of my strong suits, especially when it comes to writing.

It’s interesting to go back to that post and see what’s changed in the projects themselves, and what I’m still working on verses what has been stuffed into the stalled folder. A lot has changed, but a lot has also stayed the same in all that time.

I’ve been wanting to do that again with the current state of my writing folder. I’ve started and stopped and deleted a handful of posts, but it’s a really slow slog. There are some projects that just haven’t changed enough to warrant another blurb. But there are plenty that are new to the pile that I could write about. But when I sit down to write it out…I got nothin’.

Par for the course.

I have plenty to write about all of these projects, but the brevity aspect becomes a problem. And the whole point of the exercise is keeping it short. Then the projects with multiple versions under one header get rather convoluted, especially the most recent one eating my brain.

So where does that leave me?

Staring at my writing folder, cursing my inability to focus on one thing at a time, and wondering how long it will be before I fall back into the seek therapy folder and start focusing on inane fanfiction again. Or some other never-see-the-light-of-day monstrosity. Or I’ll just keep coming up with different scenarios to put Alison, Parker, and Tyler into because why not?

 


(Effortlessly by Sister Hazel)

I’m drinkin’ tonight…

Not really.

It’s just a Train song. (I really need to ask Bob to help me with getting the custom “now playing” field back on my posts.)

Though if I actually drank I probably would be blasted right about now. But I don’t. So I’m not. Alas.

Instead I’m sitting here at ungodly o’clock with a mug of tea steaming up my glasses and I’m pretty sure it’s mocking me.

The anxiety pit has been out in force for the past week or so and I can’t pinpoint exactly what’s causing it. It hasn’t been this bad in quite some time so it’s throwing me all out of whack. But I gotta say, I haven’t missed it or its glorious side effect of physically gagging at the mere thought of putting food in my mouth. I’ve lost six pounds because of it. Which I wish I could be happy about, but I feel like absolute shit, and I’ll gain it back as soon as the pit finally clears and I can eat without wanting to hurl all over everything. Bob and I have spent a good chunk of time puzzling this out, trying to pinpoint some sort of trigger, but we’re coming up nil.

I guess that’s why they call it Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Severe anxiety for no discernible reason whatsoever, but you’re ready to start hucking rocks at people.

It both sucks and blows and not in the fun way.

Pat Monahan is helping. (Oh Red Rocks…I wanna go back.)

*ahem*

Anyway.

I’ve been writing things. Not a lot by any means, but a newer take on an old idea with a lot of new…ish parts factored in has currently caught my attention. And I’m not going to argue with several thousand words in less than a week when I’m lucky if I get a handful on any given day. I spent a good chunk of time this weekend talking at to Bob about this project because I was having a difficult time figuring out the conflict between the two main characters—because I really don’t know how to write conflict of any kind—and while he doesn’t know much about writing, he’s gone through a lot of conflict resolution training at work and was able to apply it to my dilemma. Having a husband to indulge my crazy is the greatest thing ever.

My writing tends to follow trends over time and as of late I’ve been putting in a lot more kids. As in, main characters have them. Usually snarky teenagers. It still screws with my head, because we all know how I feel about catching pregnancy, but it doesn’t stop me from writing it. I have a tendency to write about vomit too, and we all know how vomit gives my panic attacks panic attacks.

ANYWAY.

It’s been twenty-some-odd years (give or take) since I was a teenager and I really have no clue how to write them. (I barely knew how to write them when I was one.) Because I’m apparently a relentless glutton for punishment, I’ve found myself reading twitter feeds and tumblr blogs written by teenagers, and then I find myself reevaluating my life from the things I have learned.

1.) The memes. They are endless. And I do not understand the reference to most of them.

2.) Tumblr is beyond my realm of comprehension.

3.) I really would not survive being a teenager in this modern age. I barely survived the 90’s and the assholes I went to school with. If the people I went to school with had, had access to the technology kids have now…oh ye gods it would have been an even bigger nightmare than it was and I didn’t even think that was possible. God speed, Kids. I do not envy you in the least.

4.) Like, can you not?

5.) Reading things written by a fifteen-year-old makes me feel like a creepy old woman. Because I probably am.

No matter how much I want to hug the shit out of them for being so bloody adorable, if I need to research teenage behavior, I should probably stick to the ones I actually know. I’ve got three of them at my disposal. Even if it leads them to [justifiably] believe that Auntie Sara is out of her freaking gourd.