depression

I’m really struggling with depression lately, which is why I haven’t updated. I’m trying very hard to not let myself sink to the bottom, but it’s hard to try to swim while fighting it when you’re on your own. I miss my mom, I miss Wendy, I miss Tara. I miss lots of things. I try so hard to give myself goals and to work on achieving them, and I was making some headway. But now I’m sunk again, and it’s pretty bad. I struggle with the urge to self harm, but I am not at that point. It is discouraging that the urge is back though. I haven’t done that in a lot of years.
I guess this is a bit of a release valve. Nothing literary, or even well written for that matter, but it helps with the pressure.
just a bit.

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

~Edgar Allan Poe

 

 

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family

The last few weeks I’ve been recovering from surgery. It was my knee, or right below it, I suppose, so the problem has been with getting around. I’m healing well and am ahead of schedule with that. However, I get to feeling better and tell myself I’m still healing, but then I go and do something excessive anyway and re-injure myself. I’ve always struggled with this. I feel guilty if I’m not up doing things and I get irritated at my body’s limitations. Even while I sit here, I’m having sharp pains run up into my hip that I’ve been studiously trying to ignore, but they seem to be getting worse.

I have too much time to think. I think I’m the most isolated person I know. No family and no friends.. I thought my husband would be both to me.  My mother died when I was young and my father was abusive. I took care of my brother, and apparently no one noticed the horror we were living. To be fair, I never told. I had no reason to trust anyone. All that’s in the past, but I see now that I’ve been trying to make a family all my life. There have only been a handful of people I’ve become close to, so when I let someone know me like that, they become my family. That would be ok with me except that people who are not blood related can leave any time. Meanwhile, the few blood relations I do have don’t know me. Tara knew me best, and she is my family, but we haven’t spoken in years, so that’s not much good. I can’t talk to her, or anyone, about the things I’m interested in or what’s on my mind. I see things all the time, even now, and think “Oh, Tara would like that…” but I can’t get it for her or tell her about it. I’ve always been a giving person.. too much so at times.

Enough.. I’m hurting and tired. I’m going to go watch a horror flick and cuddle my cats.

Familiar dark places

I’ve been here before, many times. I was foolish to think I had left this place for good, and now I am without any support whatsoever. I am more isolated than I’ve ever been even in a lifetime of loneliness and it adds to my vulnerability.

The Eliot poem ‘Prufrock’ has been caught in my head, or parts of it at least. The part that says

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

scuttling across the floors of silent seas

feels like me. That and the ending with the mermaids. Hell, I think I posted it not long ago.

So here I am, isolated, without my independence but with someone who does not wish for me to be here after it’s been given to him. I cannot turn to the solace of the woods that I have found since I was a small child because there is only swamp. I’m scattered, shaky and trying not to look too deeply into that pit yawning at my feet. I’ve fallen in there before and it’s hard to escape.

Discipline in my writing has always been a problem for me.  I’m going to try, once again, to get in the habit of writing regularly. I’ve been out of it for so long that trying to write more than diary posts feels like clawing my way through. However, even diary posts are more than what I’ve been doing.

Do you think a gift goes away without use? Is it an infinite well that only needs to be tapped, or does it dry up? Sometimes I’ll have a thought, an idea, or just a phrase come to me and think that I need to remember it, but if I don’t write it down, I forget. How many good ones have I forgotten? I’m not old but I’m certainly not getting younger. I should have been where I wanted to be by now, if only I’d had discipline. Still, better late than never. I think I have  a fear of success, but I’m not sure why. The first time I sent my writing out, it all got accepted. Then I didn’t submit anything again for years. Next I started working on building a reputation. Again, all my writing was accepted, but I kept going with it for as long as I could, getting accepted at more prestigious publications. Two chapbook collections released, and I had a fan base. This went on for a few years I guess… and the last poem, and probably my best, got an honorable mention in The Year’s Best Science Fiction and Horror. That’s a very well known anthology, with a lot of sales every year. And then – nothing.

I became disabled, and I was fighting to keep my house. I took on more and more stuff to make money on the side.. selling vintage items, photography, seeds and plants. It kept me busy. More than that, I think I lost hope a bit… because poetry just doesn’t pay well, and I was fighting so hard to survive that I didn’t have it in me to write. When I got married, I had planned to go back to my writing, with the hopes of finishing a book. Unfortunately, I couldn’t seem to write anything. It was all crap.  At first I stuck to it, but day after day of crap discouraged me and I quit trying. Instead I concentrated more on my photography.

So this is me, giving it another try. I just started with a new therapist and one thing I have to do is have something to talk about every week. I can use this for that… and to help me get back into the habit. I need to succeed at something. I know that all my publications were successes, but I guess that’s not the same as a book. Something I could make appreciable money from. Money shouldn’t matter but it does. I don’t need to be Stephen King. I don’t think anyone else could possibly be that successful, except possibly his son. But to one day see a book I wrote on store shelves would be a huge achievement. I just wish I had someone who would share in my achievement and be proud of me. That should be Brian but I don’t know that he would, or if he was, that he would bother letting me know. And I kind of need to know. I need that encouragement to keep going. I miss the friends I had. Wendy… long dead. Tara… who may as well be. I keep hoping she’ll return but that hope fades every year. She is family, no matter how pissed off we might be with each other. I don’t know if she feels that way… I doubt it, but it’s true. I can hate what she’s done but not hate her.