I believe they call it the "doldrums?"
Hey! Being crazy is annoying! And also boring! It's amazing how that works! And by amazing, I mean totally shitty!
I am getting nothing constructive done! I don't feel like doing anything! And when I try to do anything, I find that I can't! It's really aggravating!
Yeah, okay, stopping now. It works for CL4P-TP. "If I sound pleased about this, it's only because my programmers made this my default tone of voice! I'm actually quite depressed!"
But really, it's boring, and stupid. I'm "okay" in the sense that this isn't pain so much as fear, frustration, worry, and boredom all stuffed together in the dirty and rather damp wool sock of self-loathing. This isn't crying and hand-waving, this is grinding my fists and my teeth and staring at the ceiling and having a hundred necessary things and a hundred fun things I could do and not wanting to do any of them, or being able to.
I'm seeing the edges of something taking shape around me, something coming into focus, and it's hard to articulate, but I'll try. One of the worst things about my life right now is the fear. Fear of not having enough money, of being hungry or not able to buy enough healthy food that I don't feel tired and sick and in pain half the time, fear of losing our home, of not being able to support ourselves or our pets, of going without medical care that I need more or less until minor problems become urgent, and more difficult and expensive to treat. It's a completely rational fear.
Naturally, my response to this fear is to try to do something about the situation I'm afraid of -- that being how we are in a chronically bad place re: money -- but because I'm snake-fucking crazy, I can't sustain the effort needed to really make things work and improve our financial situation. It wouldn't be as much of an issue, but Sargon has his own mental health stuff to worry about, and he's not a whole lot better off than I am -- worse, in some areas.
I can devote myself almost single-mindedly to a task I enjoy, but not forever. When I get stressed out, I need to do something else, fast, to keep myself from spiraling down. I can't take commissions -- no, literally, I am never doing that again. I can't. It fucking kills me.
The best thing for me to do is to settle down and wait patiently for it to pass. Because it usually does, within a couple of months. But when I'm this scared and hard-up for money, and it's a perpetual thing that never, ever ends no matter how many people help me out, I can't do that. I keep trying, like an animal with a broken leg, to get up and do something about it, no matter how feeble and fitful. And when I have a day where I accomplish nothing to better my situation -- which is most days, let me remind you -- it hurts like fucking hell, and scares the shit out of me, and it makes me hate myself, hate myself, for being such a fuckup, and it makes me doubt every decision I have ever made.
So I wonder whether, if I were financially secure, it would be less horrible. Whether I would be more functional. Because I think it would.
So I need to get on disability, obviously. Only I don't know how much I'd even get, or whether it would be enough to live on, or if it would only prolong the spiral.
And then there's the terrifying thought that if they give me the money to support myself and care for myself physically, and that makes me productive enough that I can work at the things I love to do, they will take it away from me, because I obviously don't need it any more if I'm able to make or write things to sell.
I'm so scared. I can't go to see the doc for my psych meds, or even talk to my therapist, without being afraid of something I say being used against me, or being afraid that without my knowing it, they are putting something down in the notes that will hurt my odds of getting the help I need. I'm afraid, for instance, that refusing to let them raise my dosage of my antidepressant will be taken as evidence that I am in a place where I can do normal human stuff like have a job and leave the house more than once or twice a week. Rational or not, that's how deep the fear is.
And I look at the pancake that is my daily existence, and I wonder where all the dreams and hopes and aspirations are that I once had. I wonder where the hell my life went, because I had one around here somewhere at some point, and now it's just . . . gone. I mean, don't get me wrong, day to day it's not so bad. But if this is all I get, and this is all that's left, and this is all there is going to be, I . . . I'm sorry, but I don't want it. I'll TAKE it, I really don't want to be dead, but Jesus Christ, I don't want it.
The best thing in my life, period, is Sargon, and the imaginary places we have together. My real life happens in two or three hour bursts a couple times a week, when I can go somewhere else, be someone else, do the things I have always wanted to do.
And that's . . . that's not enough. It isn't. And I feel so awful saying that, because I should be happy with what I have. Sargon's a good guy, a supportive guy, and I want him as my friend and partner forever. My friends are incredible people, and I adore them, and they keep me going when the lights are low and I can't find my own stupid way. I have a house in a quiet neighborhood, and its peculiarities are only mildly annoying as opposed to soul-crushing, like they were at the old place. I have my own studio -- a dream for so long. And I want more. And I feel like an asshole for wanting more, when I can't even take care of myself, let alone go out and have the adventures I want to have.
I want a boyfriend, a playmate, a chew-toy, a pet. Desperately. Jesus, I'm lonely for this whole set of things I have never really had.
I want to travel. Preferably alone, honestly.
I want a clean, organized house. Not pathologically, like the folks on those organizing blogs (terrifying, seriously), but to live in a comfortable, attractive place.
But I don't have the time, money, social latitude, or physical endurance to do any of those things.
I am a writer. By definition, I believe that fantasies and dreams and imaginary people and places are tremendously important. More important, actually, than most of real life. And I feel like such a fuckup, because my imaginary things are so wonderful, and I shouldn't need all this external stuff to be happy. I feel horrible about it.
And I can't help but feel like if we were more secure, physically, and I could get back some of the energy I'm losing to being so fucking afraid, always, and maybe get some extra money here and there, I might be able to take steps toward the things that I want.
I just . . . I really can't win.
Ugh. I am all over the place. Obviously, one of those days. Weeks. Months.
I'm tired, now, and I'm going to try to find something to do, probably involving those imaginary things, and forget about how ruined everything around me seems when I'm in a place like this. It's like having magic glasses that show you the past and present and future, except all you can see is the worst parts. What you see is absolutely true and real and 100% accurate, but you're missing the parts that are great, or even just okay.
I want different glasses.
I'm only putting this out there because, again, I believe it has some value to others, even if it's hard for me to see that.
X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count:
I am getting nothing constructive done! I don't feel like doing anything! And when I try to do anything, I find that I can't! It's really aggravating!
Yeah, okay, stopping now. It works for CL4P-TP. "If I sound pleased about this, it's only because my programmers made this my default tone of voice! I'm actually quite depressed!"
But really, it's boring, and stupid. I'm "okay" in the sense that this isn't pain so much as fear, frustration, worry, and boredom all stuffed together in the dirty and rather damp wool sock of self-loathing. This isn't crying and hand-waving, this is grinding my fists and my teeth and staring at the ceiling and having a hundred necessary things and a hundred fun things I could do and not wanting to do any of them, or being able to.
I'm seeing the edges of something taking shape around me, something coming into focus, and it's hard to articulate, but I'll try. One of the worst things about my life right now is the fear. Fear of not having enough money, of being hungry or not able to buy enough healthy food that I don't feel tired and sick and in pain half the time, fear of losing our home, of not being able to support ourselves or our pets, of going without medical care that I need more or less until minor problems become urgent, and more difficult and expensive to treat. It's a completely rational fear.
Naturally, my response to this fear is to try to do something about the situation I'm afraid of -- that being how we are in a chronically bad place re: money -- but because I'm snake-fucking crazy, I can't sustain the effort needed to really make things work and improve our financial situation. It wouldn't be as much of an issue, but Sargon has his own mental health stuff to worry about, and he's not a whole lot better off than I am -- worse, in some areas.
I can devote myself almost single-mindedly to a task I enjoy, but not forever. When I get stressed out, I need to do something else, fast, to keep myself from spiraling down. I can't take commissions -- no, literally, I am never doing that again. I can't. It fucking kills me.
The best thing for me to do is to settle down and wait patiently for it to pass. Because it usually does, within a couple of months. But when I'm this scared and hard-up for money, and it's a perpetual thing that never, ever ends no matter how many people help me out, I can't do that. I keep trying, like an animal with a broken leg, to get up and do something about it, no matter how feeble and fitful. And when I have a day where I accomplish nothing to better my situation -- which is most days, let me remind you -- it hurts like fucking hell, and scares the shit out of me, and it makes me hate myself, hate myself, for being such a fuckup, and it makes me doubt every decision I have ever made.
So I wonder whether, if I were financially secure, it would be less horrible. Whether I would be more functional. Because I think it would.
So I need to get on disability, obviously. Only I don't know how much I'd even get, or whether it would be enough to live on, or if it would only prolong the spiral.
And then there's the terrifying thought that if they give me the money to support myself and care for myself physically, and that makes me productive enough that I can work at the things I love to do, they will take it away from me, because I obviously don't need it any more if I'm able to make or write things to sell.
I'm so scared. I can't go to see the doc for my psych meds, or even talk to my therapist, without being afraid of something I say being used against me, or being afraid that without my knowing it, they are putting something down in the notes that will hurt my odds of getting the help I need. I'm afraid, for instance, that refusing to let them raise my dosage of my antidepressant will be taken as evidence that I am in a place where I can do normal human stuff like have a job and leave the house more than once or twice a week. Rational or not, that's how deep the fear is.
And I look at the pancake that is my daily existence, and I wonder where all the dreams and hopes and aspirations are that I once had. I wonder where the hell my life went, because I had one around here somewhere at some point, and now it's just . . . gone. I mean, don't get me wrong, day to day it's not so bad. But if this is all I get, and this is all that's left, and this is all there is going to be, I . . . I'm sorry, but I don't want it. I'll TAKE it, I really don't want to be dead, but Jesus Christ, I don't want it.
The best thing in my life, period, is Sargon, and the imaginary places we have together. My real life happens in two or three hour bursts a couple times a week, when I can go somewhere else, be someone else, do the things I have always wanted to do.
And that's . . . that's not enough. It isn't. And I feel so awful saying that, because I should be happy with what I have. Sargon's a good guy, a supportive guy, and I want him as my friend and partner forever. My friends are incredible people, and I adore them, and they keep me going when the lights are low and I can't find my own stupid way. I have a house in a quiet neighborhood, and its peculiarities are only mildly annoying as opposed to soul-crushing, like they were at the old place. I have my own studio -- a dream for so long. And I want more. And I feel like an asshole for wanting more, when I can't even take care of myself, let alone go out and have the adventures I want to have.
I want a boyfriend, a playmate, a chew-toy, a pet. Desperately. Jesus, I'm lonely for this whole set of things I have never really had.
I want to travel. Preferably alone, honestly.
I want a clean, organized house. Not pathologically, like the folks on those organizing blogs (terrifying, seriously), but to live in a comfortable, attractive place.
But I don't have the time, money, social latitude, or physical endurance to do any of those things.
I am a writer. By definition, I believe that fantasies and dreams and imaginary people and places are tremendously important. More important, actually, than most of real life. And I feel like such a fuckup, because my imaginary things are so wonderful, and I shouldn't need all this external stuff to be happy. I feel horrible about it.
And I can't help but feel like if we were more secure, physically, and I could get back some of the energy I'm losing to being so fucking afraid, always, and maybe get some extra money here and there, I might be able to take steps toward the things that I want.
I just . . . I really can't win.
Ugh. I am all over the place. Obviously, one of those days. Weeks. Months.
I'm tired, now, and I'm going to try to find something to do, probably involving those imaginary things, and forget about how ruined everything around me seems when I'm in a place like this. It's like having magic glasses that show you the past and present and future, except all you can see is the worst parts. What you see is absolutely true and real and 100% accurate, but you're missing the parts that are great, or even just okay.
I want different glasses.
I'm only putting this out there because, again, I believe it has some value to others, even if it's hard for me to see that.
X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count: