Tag Archives: writing

My Mind Is Bound to Ramble

I can’t believe how long it’s been since my last post. Time has been going by much too quickly.

I finished Season 8 of Supernatural. I loved the finale, but there are a few thoughts I had about it . . . but I won’t waste space here rambling about something most readers don’t know about. Plus, if you ever do watch the show, I don’t want to spoil it too much.

I’ve been working a lot on my Supernatural fanfiction story. I have actually posted it online somewhere, but it’s a bit embarrassing, so I’m not going to link to it or anything. Funny thing is that this story has helped me get my creative energy back, while my short stories didn’t. With the latter, I’d struggle with what to say. Part of it could be because I’m not as concerned about the quality of the fanfiction. Don’t get me wrong, I have a standard to maintain, but the other stories require more attention to polishing, especially if I want to try to submit them somewhere. Except I don’t even know who the audience could be for my latest short stories. I’ll keep pondering the matter, though.

I’ve finally started editing my novel, working on a chapter a day. That pace might change once I get further into the story because the chapters get longer. Well, toward the very end they get almost ridiculously short. So far, most of my editing has consisted of deleting things that are irrelevant or rewriting sentence that don’t make sense. I have a hard copy I wrote notes on, and I follow along with it, but I also go with my instinct at the moment. I’ll read a few paragraphs then look at what I wrote on the hard copy. Oftentimes, the phrasing I want to change is the same. What I want to change it to is as well. I like reading both copies as I go through the story, getting two perspectives (current and past) on the initial draft.

There have been some things I’ve been meaning to write about, like therapy, or Asperger’s, or empathy. Maybe one day I’ll get the motivation to write those posts.

Speaking of therapy, my therapist is moving to another practice. Luckily, I get to follow her. Problem is, that practice is at least 30 minutes away. But I really do think she’s the best therapist I’ve had so far, which is why I’ve been meaning to write about sessions with her. I don’t want to gamble anymore with the therapist bin; it could be years until I find another one I like, if ever. So that’s why I’m going to continue to see her.

When she told me she was leaving the place I currently go to, I teared up because the news was unexpected. More so because I didn’t want to look for another therapist. She asked how I was feeling about the situation, and I said I just felt like I wanted to give up rather than do another search. My one thought was to ask if I could see her at the other practice, but bringing up the idea made me nervous, almost shaky with panic. After me talking about how anxious I felt about what I wanted to say, I eventually made the request. I don’t know why bringing up the idea made me that panicky. I’ve revealed other things before that should’ve been more likely to induce anxiety. It probably goes back to my fear of rejection and blah blah blah.

Anyway, at the current place, she had to make sure I could get approved for meds only. Because apparently they don’t like you seeing a pdoc there if you’re not seeing one of their therapists. I was afraid of how things would go, but it seems they’re working out on that front.

Well, that concludes today’s ramble.

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Hey-O

I’ve been back home for a few days now. My summer class got canceled, which is sad. I’m going to be bored . . . not to mention the loss of income. But I guess I should be doing things like looking at jobs and working on my writing.

I haven’t come back here right away because I’ve been working on my writing. I haven’t gotten around to editing my novel yet, but hopefully I will after I finish revising this short story I’ve been editing. I’ve also got a short story idea I haven’t started working on yet, and another one that I just finished. The latter is rather dark . . . It would make people wonder at the screwed-up things that go on in my head. I’m not sure what I can do with this story. I’m not sure what I can do with the story I’ve been revising, either. I find it amusing, but I don’t think anyone other than me would. I think the idea is clever, though. I just don’t feel like people would get it.

Then there’s the obsession I’ve referred to before . . . Supernatural. I started writing a fanfiction story because I just couldn’t get it out of my head. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, though. It’s rather embarrassing; I don’t want to go into detail about the story itself. Well, I guess it’ll all just be for my own entertainment.

I’ve finally reached the eighth season of Supernatural, so I’ll probably be spending most of my free time watching that. Since I’m so obsessed and all. It’s bad. Half the time things remind me of little moments in Supernatural. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, lol.

And now we come to some heavy news.

While I was home, my dad almost had a heart attack.

I’m serious. It’s shocking and scary. One morning, he wasn’t feeling well, so he had my stepmom take him to the ER. No one thought it would be anything too bad; after all, he almost passed a stress test. But then they found that he had 100% blockage in his coronary artery. If my dad didn’t go to the hospital when he did, well . . . not something I want to think about.

My reaction to this event makes me think I’ve been lying to myself. I like to think I’m this sensitive, caring, and empathetic person, but I’m not.

I woke up late that morning, and based on certain cues in the house, I could tell something was up. However, unlike what I’d usually do in such a situation, I didn’t call to find out what it was. I didn’t want to, so I didn’t find out about my dad going to the ER until a couple of hours later. At that point, the doctors still hadn’t discovered how bad the situation was.

Then as the truth slowly came out, I felt emotionless. Complacent, even, like of course things turned out okay, because the alternative doesn’t happen in real life. Logically, that’s stupid.

I continued to feel emotionless. I didn’t even see why I should be otherwise. Everyone was concerned and worried, and there I was, a callous person.

It seems I have only two modes sometimes–being callous or being overly emotional. Perhaps that has something to do with my reaction.

The whole thing even seemed funny to me, and I occasionally had to restrain short laughs.

I’ve noticed, though, that sometimes I laugh when I’d normally cry.

But I don’t think that was one of the situations, because as I said, I felt nothing.

Only a few days later, as my mind sifted through the implications of the event, did I get weepy.

I don’t like what my reaction says about my character.

My dad’s fine now; he’s resting.

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Little Anomalies

I was going to write about how I experience empathy, but I’m suddenly tired and unable to think. That’ll have to be for some other time, like in a couple of weeks.

I’m going to visit my family tomorrow, and I’ll be there for about two weeks. So, I probably won’t be on here. Not that I’ve been on here much lately, anyway. I haven’t been very good at keeping up with blogging lately. But my summer shouldn’t be too busy, so perhaps I’ll be on more regularly in June.

A couple of odd things lately:

I’ve started experiencing intense smells in my dreams. I thought there weren’t supposed to be smells in dreams? And that if were are smells, those smells were intruding from real life. But these smells are most definitely not from my sleeping surroundings. I smell things that couldn’t possibly be there. All sorts of things. Cake. Mud.

I’m curious as to why this is. I’ve never had a keen sense of smell to begin with. Why would I suddenly begin smelling things in my dreams?

I’m also someone who usually sleeps curled up, as scrunched into myself as possible. If I’m on my back, which I am often, I lie rigid with my arms around a stuffed animal, behind the pillow, or alongside my body. My legs are then crossed at the ankles or just stretched out straight right next to each other.

But lately, I’ve begun to sprawl out in my sleep. Consistently. I have to be sprawled out to fall asleep, often, too. Why would my sleep position suddenly change so dramatically?

**********

I think I’ve figured out why Supernatural resonates with me so much. For some reason, it puts me in an artistic mood, the same mood that impels me to write my stories. I’m not sure how to explain what this mood feels like. It’s got ingredients of inspiration, flashes of emotions and tableaus, bursts of creative energy. Then when I write, it’s like I go into a half-trance, like I’m here but also placing myself in another place. Occasionally I have to pause and sit there, perhaps close my eyes, until the right mood arrives for the part I’m writing. Like something in my brain has to percolate and I have to wait for it to finish until I can fully articulate it.

This artistic mindset explains the weird impulse I’ve been having to write fanfiction. That is not something I do. I don’t want to write any of those novel-length types, just really short pieces. I keep getting glimpses of imagined emotional moments that I feel like writing. I’m not silly enough to have acted on the impulse (so far?), thank goodness. Fanfiction is not a world I wish to deeply involve myself in . . .

I’ve also gotten snippets of an idea for a non-fanfiction short story; it revolves around thoughts about God and angels.

*********

I’ve been thinking about my lack of ambition again. I’m afraid to strive for anything because of the big break.

Today, I described it to my therapist as a “pretend breakdown.” She asked why I called it a pretend breakdown, and I explained it’s because I wasn’t truly non-functional. Wouldn’t I be non-functional if I had a breakdown? Problem is, it’s hard for me to tell, since blending in and not drawing attention to myself are big motivators for me. The therapist didn’t say much in response to that, so I assume she agreed with me. I kept getting irritated during therapy today and thought she was acting like she was bored. Logically, I know she wasn’t, but I wanted to start cursing and getting angry and telling her to fucking pay attention and that if I was boring her maybe I should just leave. Luckily, I reined in those impulses. See, these are the sorts of instincts I have, and with very little justification, and that’s why I feel I’m a bad person.

Then I talked about how hollow I felt, and she asked if I’d ever found anything fulfilling. I said writing, but then I’d sometimes begin thinking it was pointless and lose that fulfillment. She said she thought I could talk myself out of feeling fulfilled. That could perhaps be true. She asked if the point could possibly just be the fulfillment itself. But I can’t fully buy into that, because why should the point just be to make myself satisfied? If it doesn’t serve some other purpose, if all my writing does is sit around and no one ever reads it, what’s the use? It’s a lot of work for very little.

Anyway, back to the big break. I’m afraid. I’m afraid if I have any ambition, reach for anything, I’ll have another big break, and I’m not strong enough to go again through whatever that was.

For some reason, toward the end of the session, I started feeling emotional. We were talking about my upcoming visit to my family, and suddenly a rapid montage of the past played in my mind. I remembered everyone not getting along. Then I imagined lots of shouting and me inwardly cowering and wanting to run away and not get involved. Brief feelings that everyone hated me, intense feelings of self-worthlessness. I didn’t explain all that, though.

If you read my blog at the beginning, you might dimly remember when I used to whine about my childhood. All of that just briefly took over. That’s not a can of worms I’m going to open right now, ha.

Now, my family never hated me; I just felt that way. If anything, these days there are moments when I can almost feel their love radiating off them. This has to do with what I wanted to say about empathy–sometimes I feel as if I can perceive people’s emotions radiating off them when they speak. Maybe that’s absurd. I don’t know.

Oh, gosh, I can’t believe I wrote so much. I’m done with my random rambling.

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Not Belonging

I just feel like I don’t belong in this world anymore. Or I never really belonged here, really. My heart burns, and it’s in shards. It has been for some time. Nothing helps. I like to think that it gets better, but I’m just lying to myself. Even if it does, it eventually gets worse. And that’s where it ultimately stays.

I’m not going to do anything to myself because my heart burns at the emotions I imagine in my family. But oh how I feel like I should.

There’s no point to anything. Anytime I work on a task, I start to feel panicky and think, “I can’t do this.” It paralyzes me. When there are people around, I feel suffocated. When I’m driving and there’s a car right behind me, I feel pressured and threatened. I live so I can get away from everyone at the end of the day and lollygag around.

I’ve tried to start writing fiction again, and I guess I wrote a decent amount. But when I think about my recent short story and my novel, it just seems so stupid. Dumb. There’s no point to it. At all. None of it is ever any good.

I want to go lie in bed and clutch my stuffed animal.

I’m all alone in this, and it’s my own fault. I can’t reveal myself to anyone. I can’t accept help from anyone. It’s shameful and a sign of weakness. Plus it makes me vulnerable, and I know it’ll eventually be held against me. Besides, people tend to make it worse, anyway.

I’m going to go try to get a tiny bit of work done because I have to uphold the facade. I don’t know if I can be strong enough anymore, though. But I have to be. There’s no other option unless I want to ruin what little I do have.

Sorry, I’m still going to have to keep to myself for now. Indefinitely.

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Mired, Giving Up, and Hiding

I just can’t do it anymore. I’m floating, and hiding it is the only thing that keeps me holding on. There’s too much pain in my heart. Not me wallowing in my depression and self-pity, although there is that. It’s pain at everything in the world. Which sounds fake and stupid and cliched, but these days lots of things seem to evoke a throbbing in my heart.

No one can help me. It’s partially my fault because I’m isolating myself, but I can’t stop isolating myself. My anxiety ensures I can’t climb out of the well. I feel like I need love and support from someone, but who? Not my family. They’d probably insist I do things I know won’t help, like live near them or something. I don’t have any friends. Well, I have one, but she’s not the sort of person one can expect the loving type of support from. Fellow bloggers? No. It’s not because I doubt the bloggers I know and am connected to, but it’s because I have nothing to offer at the moment. I haven’t for a couple of months, and I probably won’t for much time to come. I can’t just take, take, take. It’s unfair of me. It would be much kinder, and less selfish, if I just fell off the blogging map altogether. I’m too selfish to read other blogs at the moment and be supportive. So I have no right to take anything. I am a believer of quid pro quo, and I would be a hypocrite, fail in my principles, if I couldn’t participate in a quid-pro-quo way.

I’m not going to kill myself or anything. At least, I don’t think so. But I can’t sustain the status quo, either. But what am I going to do? If I don’t continue the status quo, I won’t be able to forgive myself. I have to go about my life, give a facade to the world as if I am capable. But I’m not capable. I am weak. I can’t even live a normal life like an average person. I can’t handle life, and most people can. I’m at the bottom of the rung of humanity.

I cry easily these days, way too easily. On Tuesday, I accidentally spilled water on my desk at work. My first instinct was to cry, but I held it in. I was with a student, after all. Then I had my therapist appointment later Tuesday. We were talking about Spring Break and my family, and for some reason tears started leaking from my eyes. It was a subdued form of crying because I normally sob as I cry. I didn’t (and don’t) even know why I was crying. My past with my family doesn’t even bother me much anymore. Not that we were talking about the past, although I guess we were since the therapist asked me about their responses to my problems, etc.

I don’t know why, but apparently my behavior at the session prompted the therapist to ask if I’d like another appointment on Thursday. I somewhat froze and got all overanalytical. She asked if I’d call if I needed one, and I said no. She said she’d call on Wednesday to ask about it. This was a nice offer; I can’t imagine any of my past therapists doing that. Maybe it’s because she’s young. Maybe young therapists are good because they haven’t gotten jaded by their job yet or something. Ultimately, I decided against it because, nominally, I am okay. I’m not harming myself or attempting suicide, so I don’t need to waste her time. Besides, I’ll see her again this Tuesday, anyway.

Often the only way I can motivate myself to do things is to tell myself I can be a TV zombie if I finish my task in time. This is not my “normal” personality. Usually, I want to do more than watch TV, but not for the past few weeks, unless you count lying there or sleeping. I can’t motivate myself to write, either here or creatively. Maybe it would help, but I can’t ignite myself, so no.

Funnily, one of the few things that provides me solace right now is watching Supernatural on NetFlix. I started about three weeks ago, and now I’m at the beginning of Season 2. I don’t know why the show often emotionally resonates with me at the moment. Probably because I’m overly emotional in general. I could probably write a post with my thoughts on the show, but then it would look like I’m doing better than I really am.

I also have many thoughts about my therapist (mostly good so far) that I could probably document, if I felt up to it, but I don’t.

But still, I’m not okay, and nobody can help me. I’m all alone, and it’s partially my fault, but I can’t be anything other than what I am. I so wish I could give up in some form–suicide, dropping out of society and just sitting around the house, admitting defeat in some way. I am giving up, but in a waffling, drowning sort of way. As so often happens, the motive to hide and blend in is all that keeps me around.

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The Artists’ Retreat

It’s time once again for the Friday Fictioneers. This week, my offering is 92 words. The photo prompt was provided by Janet Webb.

“Are you sure this is it?” Rhoda asked. “This place looks a little . . . run-down.”

“Yeah,” Zeke answered after he switched off the ignition. “Everything’s just as my uncle said it would be.”

Rhoda snorted. “The fence is in better condition than the barn. Remind me, whose idea was this again?”

Zeke blushed. “It’ll be fine once we spruce it up a bit. I like it already.”

“You would,” Rhoda commented wryly. “You love anything that’s untameable.”

“I’m sure there’s enough here to inspire even you,” Zeke replied. “C’mon, let’s take a look inside.”

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A Heart Bursting With Weakness

I’m going to do some complaining even though I have no right to. Things are going decently, comparatively speaking. I’m not in one of those deep darknesses that make me feel as if I might endanger myself. It’s a softer spell.

I’m just so tired. All I want to do, and all I’ve wanted to do for some time, is sleep. But going to sleep at night makes me nervous. I don’t know why.

I just want to sit here and do nothing. For my whole life, almost. I can’t get myself to do more than the bare minimum at the moment.

I want to lie in a warm cocoon and never leave.

There’s so much pain in my heart. Just pain about everything, the whole world. Any topic I can think of, and I feel as if something about it smites my heart.

I’ve been reading over the rough draft of my novel. I think I’ve come to the end of the part I wrote during NaNoWriMo. I still have circa 46,000 words out of 112,000 left to read. I wrote most of those after NaNoWriMo, so I guess my blogging hiatus paid off. I would’ve never been able to write so much otherwise.

But the last couple of chapters I’ve read in it have been awful. I don’t know how to fix them. And now I read it, read everything, and the writing is in abysmal shape. I’m not cut out for this. It’s just not good enough, and it’ll never be good enough. All this effort I put into noveling is laughable. I don’t know how to edit. There are many wonderful books out there, and this idiotic novel will never fit in among them.

I have to put the novel away for a few days; I can’t look at it right now without shuddering at how inane it is.

Still, after a few days, this random pain in my heart (it has nothing to do with the novel) won’t go away. Everything makes me want to cry. I don’t know where it’s coming from or what it means. Nothing’s happened to trigger it.

Something whispers to me:

No one likes you. You’re weak.

The only thing for it is to maroon yourself from humanity.

I don’t care if that hurts. It’s what you deserve, and it’s not like you’ll ever belong anyway.

The world is too much. It bruises, and you bruise too easily.

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