"You heard my story. You know how I feel."
There are few things I find more irritating and presumptuous than being told what I should do about my insomnia. When one has had insomnia all her life, and she's nearing fifty, it should be assumed that pretty much everything has been tried. And tried again. That said...
I've spent weeks in a blind rage, all anger and very little else, because Seroquel is just about the only thing that almost never fails to put me to sleep. It also has the curious side effect - curious because it's an anti-psychotic - of making me psychotic. Yesterday, the anger had burned me down to raw stub, and so last night I didn't take the Seroquel. I slept about five hours, but they were hours of tossing and turning and vivid dreams. I awoke with the worse case of dreamsickness I've had in a long time, and I still haven't quite shaken off memories of that alternate universe. But worse, now that the anger's gone - and it is blessedly gone - the depression it was masking is back like a steam engine. The sort of depression that makes it hard to move.
We also do not tell Caitlín how to treat her depression.
Look's like we got lucky with this winter storm. We might get an inch. Two days ago, they were calling for 5"-10", and I was getting out the razor blades. Moreover, Rhode Island is out of salt for the roads, and none will arrive until Thursday. Right now, the sun is nowhere in evidence, and the sky is the color of the mold you find on the two week old macaroni and cheese at the back for the refrigerator. And it's cold. But it's going to be much, much colder in the coming days. We shall celebrate the Vernal Equinox with polar bears. Here is yesterday's stale Hell:
Though it was only in the low thirties, it almost felt warm when I took that photo yesterday. Later, the sun went away.
Yesterday was a good writing day. I wrote 1,344 words on "Chewing on Darkness," and I found THE END of the story. It came to 4,281 words, total. It's a strange, dense piece. Compact. All the apocalypse in a summer afternoon. Four horsemen in a Appalachian pool and an old hunting cabin. I'll read through it today and do line edits. I may also get Sirenia Digest #97 ready to go out. But Geoffrey's coming over tonight, and I may not have that much time. I need a shower. I need to try and make myself presentable.
Also, my comp copies of the unabridged CD version of the Blood Oranges audiobook, read by Amber Benson, arrived yesterday. It's nice to see a hardcopy of one of the audiobooks, something substantial to hold in my hand. And it's a pretty good deal. Seven discs for only $14.99, or, if you order from Amazon, $11.38. And I very much approve of the packaging. Here's blurry proof:
Next, I have my story for Neil Clarke's Upgraded: A Cyborg's Cyborg Anthology to write. Hopefully, that won't take me more than ten days. And with the sort of luck it takes to dodge blizzards in Rhode Island, I will have Cherry Bomb written by the end of March. And I will be free, as they are wont to say.
Last night, we watched more of House of Cards. Frank Underwood has, I believe, become my newest hero. We watched the first episode of Season Two of Hannibal night before last, and it was very good, but having to endure commercials stole a lot of its thunder.
One Foot on the Platform,
Aunt Beast
I've spent weeks in a blind rage, all anger and very little else, because Seroquel is just about the only thing that almost never fails to put me to sleep. It also has the curious side effect - curious because it's an anti-psychotic - of making me psychotic. Yesterday, the anger had burned me down to raw stub, and so last night I didn't take the Seroquel. I slept about five hours, but they were hours of tossing and turning and vivid dreams. I awoke with the worse case of dreamsickness I've had in a long time, and I still haven't quite shaken off memories of that alternate universe. But worse, now that the anger's gone - and it is blessedly gone - the depression it was masking is back like a steam engine. The sort of depression that makes it hard to move.
We also do not tell Caitlín how to treat her depression.
Look's like we got lucky with this winter storm. We might get an inch. Two days ago, they were calling for 5"-10", and I was getting out the razor blades. Moreover, Rhode Island is out of salt for the roads, and none will arrive until Thursday. Right now, the sun is nowhere in evidence, and the sky is the color of the mold you find on the two week old macaroni and cheese at the back for the refrigerator. And it's cold. But it's going to be much, much colder in the coming days. We shall celebrate the Vernal Equinox with polar bears. Here is yesterday's stale Hell:
Though it was only in the low thirties, it almost felt warm when I took that photo yesterday. Later, the sun went away.
Yesterday was a good writing day. I wrote 1,344 words on "Chewing on Darkness," and I found THE END of the story. It came to 4,281 words, total. It's a strange, dense piece. Compact. All the apocalypse in a summer afternoon. Four horsemen in a Appalachian pool and an old hunting cabin. I'll read through it today and do line edits. I may also get Sirenia Digest #97 ready to go out. But Geoffrey's coming over tonight, and I may not have that much time. I need a shower. I need to try and make myself presentable.
Also, my comp copies of the unabridged CD version of the Blood Oranges audiobook, read by Amber Benson, arrived yesterday. It's nice to see a hardcopy of one of the audiobooks, something substantial to hold in my hand. And it's a pretty good deal. Seven discs for only $14.99, or, if you order from Amazon, $11.38. And I very much approve of the packaging. Here's blurry proof:
Next, I have my story for Neil Clarke's Upgraded: A Cyborg's Cyborg Anthology to write. Hopefully, that won't take me more than ten days. And with the sort of luck it takes to dodge blizzards in Rhode Island, I will have Cherry Bomb written by the end of March. And I will be free, as they are wont to say.
Last night, we watched more of House of Cards. Frank Underwood has, I believe, become my newest hero. We watched the first episode of Season Two of Hannibal night before last, and it was very good, but having to endure commercials stole a lot of its thunder.
One Foot on the Platform,
Aunt Beast