Posts Tagged ‘self-loathing

24
Oct
19

I Did a Bad, Bad Thing

It isn’t the first time. My brain, background, and situation frequently lead me to such moments.

When I was very young (probably no more than six; before Kindergarten, anyway), I had a shiny mylar He-Man balloon on a stick. Loved it. Then I got mad. Don’t even remember what about. So I popped it.

I remember feeling a savage sort of glee as I popped it, then shredded it, then twisted the stick until I could break it into small pieces. I remember a sensation not unlike grief when I calmed down and realized what I’d done.

It didn’t get any better. Later, furious at a teacher who had determined that my book review of Stephen King’s It wasn’t appropriate and made me redo the assignment (on Bunnicula, if memory serves), I yanked a model X-Wing from the fishing line that held it on the ceiling and shattered it into as many pieces as I possibly could. I’d worked very hard putting it together (I was never very good at doing models, especially those that involved glue; even as a child my hands didn’t work right, and the smell of the glue aggravated my asthma), and adored it even though it wasn’t quite right. Again, didn’t care in that moment. I wanted to hurt something or someone, and the more treasured the object, the better I felt. The sorrow, regret, and self-loathing came after.

Later still, wounded by the betrayal of the woman I was in a relationship with at the time, I took a Commodore 64, a Color Computer 2, an Atari 2600, an NES, and a Pikachu Nintendo 64 (and probably would have added the PS2 and PS3 to the pile, if they weren’t already broken) and destroyed them. There was glee as I pried off the keys, tore the wood panelling apart, cracked the RAM chips and shoved chunks of the motherboard into the garbage disposal. I haven’t really collected games since. I usually try to have current hardware, and my game shelf has a small array of whatever I’m playing at the time or haven’t finished yet. But an entertainment center with a carefully curated collection designed for display and a number of retro consoles/computers? Nope. Never again.

All of those (and other events) were before official diagnosis and medication. But last night, I succumbed to it once again.

I’m not going to say why, because it makes me feel and sound like even more of a whiny bitch than I already am, but I opened up Pages and deleted all my manuscripts. Then went to iCloud and flushed them from there, too. I don’t have backups. I don’t have hardcopies. They’re just gone, except for anything on Wattpad or here, which is nowhere near all of it (or even most of it.)

I don’t know if I’ll come back to it. I signed up for NaNoWriMo, but don’t think I can handle it. Don’t know if I want to. The grief hasn’t really hit yet; I’m still in the rage mode and fighting the urge to delete myself from the internet entirely. This blog, my Twitter, my Twitch, the books that are still in KDP. Just poof. My computer is in lockdown – thanks to depression and COPD, I am not physically or emotionally motivated enough to hook it up to commit such a purge – and the options to do so are not available from most mobile apps or the mobile versions of sites, so they’re safe for right now. But the urge is strong.

I don’t know what’s going to happen from here. If I suddenly disappear from your feed, you’ll know. I’m sorry.

22
Oct
19

What’s Stopping You?

Every creative person hits a wall or a block from time to time. But sometimes those blocks become ridiculously huge, and your ability to chip away at them shrinks to nothing. Even worse, when someone or something is constantly building that wall, it becomes a losing game to keep smacking away at it. It’s akin to bashing your head against a wall repeatedly, thinking sooner or later your fractured skull will actually break the concrete.

What stops you? What internal or external influence adds bricks to that wall? How do you counter them?

For me, it’s being online. Going online is unpleasant. I’m painfully socially isolated, and want to interact with people. I acknowledge that, as a writer, if I want people to read my work, I have to interact with others. But it feels like any attempts I make are met with explanations of how I’m a horrible person and should kill myself. I get that at least once a day, and while the might of the block button is strong, my mental issues are stronger. I will fret over it all day, either assuming they’re right, I am a horrible person, and I should commit suicide, or I will be fuming at the person who said it for being just plain wrong in whatever assumptions they made that led them to say that to me. Or both. Well. Maybe frequently both.

That usually ends with naptime or some fresh scars on my arms. It almost never ends in me returning to the keyboard or accomplishing anything of relevance that day.

I don’t know how to block it out, or how to chip away at that wall.

Having just moved (and still fighting with my employer and SSI in a vain attempt to get paid, at least for the 9 months I’ve been unable to work, which they still want to fight even though I now have four different doctors all in agreement that I’m messed up), I can’t even hit up my go-to comfort food. There is no Popeye’s in Albany. This is a terrible crime that should be rectified, posthaste. If you’re listening, corporate overlords of delicious fried chicken.

Anyway. Back to the question at hand; what builds your wall, and how do you try to break it down? Let us know down below.




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