So, I started seeing a therapist.
It’s helping a little, but there is still quite a large part of me that looks long and hard at my life—at where I am at my age (28) and thinks of what a complete failure I am as an adult. I can’t help it. Yes, there are people who love me. Yes, I am receiving support that a majority of unemployed people my age aren’t getting. My parents are supporting me. I should consider myself lucky. I should feel a measure of happiness. Continue reading
Old Man in Sorrow (On the Threshold of Eternity), Vincent van Gogh (1890)
I’ll start by saying that I’m going to be incredibly candid in this entry. I wrote a few things down as they happened, and I’m just going to paste the text in here. It’s easier. Continue reading
To call someone a coward for taking their own life is cruel. To tell someone they should just kill themselves is cruel To not consider the internal suffering someone has and then call them selfish for taking their own life is cruel.
Though the loss hurts deeply, one must consider how much pain this person was going through to lead them to the point where the only way out of it would be to take his or her own life. Continue reading
I have several. I started this tradition to get a new one on my birthday each year. So far, I have the following: Continue reading
This is my brain on January 2nd. According to the doctor, it showed a normal scan. I, however, was showing symptoms of a concussion. Nausea, fatigue, dizziness, headache, difficulty concentrating, mood swings, etc. I’d been through the rigamarole twice beforehand, so I knew what to do. Have someone watch me that first night, get plenty of rest, stay off the computer for a while and avoid the TV. And I did that.
For eighteen days. Continue reading
To start, let it be known that I have depression. Technically, it’s “Major Depressive Disorder,” but, whatever.
Here’s the thing about depression: It’s not “being sad.” Depression describes the sensation of utter apathy toward everything. Eating, drinking, watching your favorite television show, writing, drawing, being awake—everything. When I’m in a depressive episode, I just want to sleep and ignore the world. If I miss my medication, not only does it make me feel like my skin is about to crawl off of my body, but I feel like nothing. I feel like, not only do I not matter, but nothing around me matters. I simply exist, and I loathe myself for taking up any amount of space.
So, I’ve fallen behind. Quite a lot, actually. I had everything planned out; plot, rising and falling action, character biographies, locations, all that research, and so much more. I had a mental picture of the main character and the minor characters. I had plans.
And so far? I’ve only written about 1,500 words.
That’s so much further behind than I wanted to be by the middle of November.
I have my excuses. I’m busy with work. I’m tapped out creatively. I’m not motivated.
But really? I don’t want to be constrained to just one month of work on this story. I’ve already put so much into the research portion of writing that I feel like only a month of writing won’t do it justice. So I will keep writing it. I’ll just keep writing it at my own pace. There’s no hurry, really. In fact, if I do hurry it along, I feel like I’ll lose the feel I’d been going for with it.
I know I have a lot of unfinished writing projects strewn about the four corners of the Internet. Those, however, don’t hold the same meaning to me as this novel. Sure, they’re important to me—I’m not giving up on them—but they’re not all mine. They’re fanfiction. This? This is my own creation. I want to do it justice.
And I don’t think that this mad dash to write 50,000 words will do it justice.
That’s my excuse.