(no subject)
There's a weird sort of reflex... trained behavior where you keep wanting to check facebook.
I wonder if it's a trained reflex, or categorically the same response as an addiction. You need your social media fix.
breaking the habit might be tough.
On writing:
I feel like I'm making inroads. Also, I feel like I keep slipping backwards. I'm progressing forward, but i feel like I'm neglecting fundamental things in order to pump out a chapter every week.
Historically, I'd write until i couldn't write anymore- hours, days, weeks, whatever- just work myself to burnout, take a break and recharge, and then keep going. Nowadays it's write 1,000 words a day for four days, publish, recover for three days, and then do it all over again. It's a weird feeling I can't put into words.
Tried to work on my "gold-eating gunslinger" story; haven't made any traction on it. I want to, it feels good to write, but it's just not coming together after that first amazing chapter.
On brain drugs:
I found a weird sort of equilibrium- if I take my meds and then follow it up with some coffee, I hit a sort of balance between CALM AS HINDU COWS and WIDE AWAKE, ALERT, COILED SPRING, READY TO GO.
It doesn't actually fix my anxiety and depression, but at least I'm somewhat functional.
On brain problems:
You watch all these shows and shit- people have anxiety, PTSD, depression, et cetera, and the solution is a one-shot I CAN DO IT and then everything is magically a-ok. It's a tragedy it doesn't work that way in real life. I want to scream THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS, FUCKO but what would that accomplish? I feel miserable either way.
So to all my fans back at home, I HAVE A PLAN. That's not the kind of thing you want to hear from someone that is suicidal, but that's just how it is.
Between where I live and another town, there's a dirt road. Follow the dirt road, and turn off, and travel out into the wilderness for a while. There's a few ghost towns here and there left over from Colorado's silver rush. Just a couple of free-standing buildings here and there. IDEALLY you'd want to drive a jeep or a truck or something with a lot of muscle and big meaty tires, but if we're looking at a Final Solution, then who gives a fuck?
Just drive out there in my piece of shit car, find a nice quiet spot, put my gun to my temple, take a deep breath, and let everything go. They'll never find my body.
Currently impossible; late winter storms have turned the area impassible. I can't actually drive out there. I'd need a better car. Can't all get what we want.
Why? Why would you do this? Because it hurts on a level I can't describe. I used to be on top of it. Thumb on the pulse, finger on the trigger look upon my works ye mighty and despair. I used to be ambitious, disciplined. Now I'm just hurting and terrified, and no drugs or counselling seems to fix it.
Still trying. I promised myself that I'd try as hard as I could for as long as I could. If you make a promise, try to keep it. That's even moreso important if it's a promise to yourself. You can't break a promise with yourself.
I have a choice: either I'm terrified all the time, or I'm just numbed up from the brain drugs. That's not exactly a fucking incentive to go on living.
And let's say i beat this thing: somehow my existential terror disappears. What do I have to look forward to? Another thirty years as a wage-slave before I die? There's no percentage in that; I'm just buying time and saving money to pay off my funeral.
Funerals are fucking expensive. Even if my mother sold off her house and all its contents she couldn't pay off a funeral. Not exactly the kind of parting gift I want to leave, so suicide with a missing body is logical.
All paths seem to lead to nowhere. Even if I win I still lose.
Man, I am one morose motherfucker.
I wonder if it's a trained reflex, or categorically the same response as an addiction. You need your social media fix.
breaking the habit might be tough.
On writing:
I feel like I'm making inroads. Also, I feel like I keep slipping backwards. I'm progressing forward, but i feel like I'm neglecting fundamental things in order to pump out a chapter every week.
Historically, I'd write until i couldn't write anymore- hours, days, weeks, whatever- just work myself to burnout, take a break and recharge, and then keep going. Nowadays it's write 1,000 words a day for four days, publish, recover for three days, and then do it all over again. It's a weird feeling I can't put into words.
Tried to work on my "gold-eating gunslinger" story; haven't made any traction on it. I want to, it feels good to write, but it's just not coming together after that first amazing chapter.
On brain drugs:
I found a weird sort of equilibrium- if I take my meds and then follow it up with some coffee, I hit a sort of balance between CALM AS HINDU COWS and WIDE AWAKE, ALERT, COILED SPRING, READY TO GO.
It doesn't actually fix my anxiety and depression, but at least I'm somewhat functional.
On brain problems:
You watch all these shows and shit- people have anxiety, PTSD, depression, et cetera, and the solution is a one-shot I CAN DO IT and then everything is magically a-ok. It's a tragedy it doesn't work that way in real life. I want to scream THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS, FUCKO but what would that accomplish? I feel miserable either way.
So to all my fans back at home, I HAVE A PLAN. That's not the kind of thing you want to hear from someone that is suicidal, but that's just how it is.
Between where I live and another town, there's a dirt road. Follow the dirt road, and turn off, and travel out into the wilderness for a while. There's a few ghost towns here and there left over from Colorado's silver rush. Just a couple of free-standing buildings here and there. IDEALLY you'd want to drive a jeep or a truck or something with a lot of muscle and big meaty tires, but if we're looking at a Final Solution, then who gives a fuck?
Just drive out there in my piece of shit car, find a nice quiet spot, put my gun to my temple, take a deep breath, and let everything go. They'll never find my body.
Currently impossible; late winter storms have turned the area impassible. I can't actually drive out there. I'd need a better car. Can't all get what we want.
Why? Why would you do this? Because it hurts on a level I can't describe. I used to be on top of it. Thumb on the pulse, finger on the trigger look upon my works ye mighty and despair. I used to be ambitious, disciplined. Now I'm just hurting and terrified, and no drugs or counselling seems to fix it.
Still trying. I promised myself that I'd try as hard as I could for as long as I could. If you make a promise, try to keep it. That's even moreso important if it's a promise to yourself. You can't break a promise with yourself.
I have a choice: either I'm terrified all the time, or I'm just numbed up from the brain drugs. That's not exactly a fucking incentive to go on living.
And let's say i beat this thing: somehow my existential terror disappears. What do I have to look forward to? Another thirty years as a wage-slave before I die? There's no percentage in that; I'm just buying time and saving money to pay off my funeral.
Funerals are fucking expensive. Even if my mother sold off her house and all its contents she couldn't pay off a funeral. Not exactly the kind of parting gift I want to leave, so suicide with a missing body is logical.
All paths seem to lead to nowhere. Even if I win I still lose.
Man, I am one morose motherfucker.