The Voice

No, not that crappy reality show, but the elusive tone of a writer’s writing that let’s you immediately identify them. It’s the one thing I’ve been thinking about most over the past hours. When I was in graphics we called it the look and feel. The marketing types refer to it as your “brand”.  The “branding” thing is more about making people into a culture. That’s interesting and all, but the feel of the writing itself is the starting point.

All I know is that it’s a hard thing to find. Surely though, this is it right here, right? This? My words? But no, surely that’s not all. No, it’s my unique style of wit (or lack thereof). It’s what makes me, well, me. It’s my stupid jokes and random references to Swanson’s TV dinners when nothing else will do or the fact that I just have to remember a blurb about Alpha Beta supermarkets RIGHT NOW!

It also happens to be the thing that makes my first book complete crap.

Now, ok, that may be a bit harsh, but the truth is while it may be the first real fluid story that came out of me, the voice telling it is an alien one. There is humor in it, even some of my humor, but by and large it’s a foreign perspective. I don’t know what to do about this. I don’t know if I should pursue it or start fresh with another project that I know is closer to me. Everyone has that first crappy book in them. I’ve gotten mine out. Do I release it into the wind or try to release it into the world? Is it representative enough of me to do so?  It’s certainly got a lot of me in it, but my voice isn’t there (whatever that is!).

I suppose all writers go through that period of discovery where they fumble through this and that. Was there a time when Enya didn’t quite sound like Enya or Springsteen didn’t quite sound like Springsteen? Did anyone other than them hear it? Was there a time when Anne Rice read like someone else or Stephen King? That’s the big question, what to do? I need to hone the skills and sharpen the instrument.

I’ve put a lot of work into the book. I’m proud of it. I  also hate it by now. I’m sick of looking at it. I’m sick of thinking about it. I want to work on it. I want it done with. I want it to be better.  I avoid it. I need to sit down and make myself edit it. It stares back at me like a baby that needs a nappy changing and I, knowing how bad it’s going to be walk by just one more time then run back to it feeling like a neglectful mother. It’s forever revolving. I never have enough time. It’s a horrible feeling, that damned unpublished book…

Either way, I see now just how wrong it is in a bunch of places, how the character who is the main is really just one of many in an ensemble piece, how it may be written in the wrong perspective and how another of my pieces may just be the me that’s dying to get out. I just don’t know if I should move on to that. It smacks of giving up and letting the first kid fall by the wayside. I didn’t make it perfect, no, but that’s all the more reason to give it the attention it deserves.

Damn it, I hate it when I answer my own questions.

It needs attention. It needs to be the best it can be so I know I did it. Period. Then I can make the next one better and more me. Then the next, then the next. The next may have some broad cracking Swanson TV dinner jokes in an Alpha Beta or buying meat lumps. Who knows? The future is work ahead that I hope I don’t hate like I hate this one.

They tell you a lot about writing but hating what you make isn’t part of that pep talk.

Creativity. Check.
Expression. Check.
Inspiration hitting you randomly. Check.
Amusing your friends writing about them. Check.

Hating the hell out of it. Wait..what?

Yeah, let’s see that in the NanoWriMo Pep talk after you’ve finished your fourth revision and you just want to burn the thing. It’s hard. It’s hard to keep sounding like you and not like whatever show was playing behind you when you were typing at 2 am. Just in the interest of being honest, it happens.

So, I’m going to put aside my differences and try to shake hands with the manuscript and try to once again work on it and this time find me in it. That might be what finally makes it not suck. Let’s hope it doesn’t suck! Huzzah!

I’m Free

Sitting here, I’m reminded of how I’m oft discouraged by comparisons. I’m thinking about how I’ve said the same thing five ways. I’m thinking about the three spiders that have attacked me out of the blue over the last week and wondering why. (My grandmother was right, they are out to get me!) I’m also thinking about the fact that the letter that I wrote as a template for the educational committee was completely and utterly replaced by something else, nothing that I wrote surviving. (Grumble.) I am contemplating all of these things at the same time.

It occurs to me as I sit here with tea I have yet to add the water to, that I could concentrate in one of two directions. Something has happened. I feel something quite new as I sit here. Freedom. Neither black nor white. All good or all bad. I know that is quite a feat for me. In the past I have been all extremes. In the present, I feel…ambivalence.

As I add the water to my spiced tea and the aroma rises, it’s sort of all good. I do feel positive though I can’t really figure out why. Do I need a reason? I think I may have put on too much perfume oil. That plus chai means it smells like a head shop in here. Maybe that’s what’s leading me to deep thought though I half expect Cheech or Chong to walk in. In my town, it wouldn’t be odd…Maybe my upbeat mood is due to the boy singing Sir Mix-a-Lot’s Baby Got Back, which is hilarious. Whatever has me positive, I can accept good despite the bad things. That’s new  along with the ambivalence.

Right now, I’m also realizing that I  think that I’ve finally moved past my broken heart. It’s taken a long time. I never thought that I would make it. There were days I never wanted to wake up again. I will be honest, I was destroyed. I trusted someone (for the first time since my marriage ended) enough finally to lay myself bare and he turned his back on me. We moved from grand plans of the future to polite, obligatory greetings. It was terrifically painful. Finally though, I can be real and realize that I am worth more to myself than to continue to hope for someone who can so easily live without me. Whatever I was, a distraction, a brief encounter, I have easily slipped into the past for him and that was agonizing for me to realize. In the present, I feel free of that oppressive pain. I finally think that I can accept my life as complete the way it is, another thing I never thought would happen.

In the past I always thought I would be wanting, needing, longing for a partner, a second half. I said as much in my dialogues during the single woman blogging challenge. I conceded that there were good aspects to being alone but I also conceded to fearing I’d never have that connection. I see that I may not need another half since I’m not really missing anything other than another person’s complex set of personal issues, challenges and needs. I can barely pick up my own stuff and put it away. I don’t need to clean up after anyone else! I already have my own issues to heal too. I have a son to love, I have myself to love. I can be happy now. There’s nothing missing. It can be good now as it is. If only we could have a puppy, but that may be too much responsibility too…

What a revelation. If this is what it means to be mindful, to be in the present and be fully here now, it’s the lesson I’ve been trying to learn. A million self-help books and therapy sessions all telling me to be here now. Not in the past,  not in the future, just sitting here sipping my hippie tea with a plethora of things on my mind at once and being ok with that. A little milk, some work, some trippy music, I’m kind of good.

Wah Wah

I feel like Charlie Brown right now.

Aaugh!

Totally like Charlie Brown. You know, nothing goes quite right for that kid and he’s always discouraged. If only he’d learn to stop comparing himself. If only he’d stop listening to other people’s opinions. It’s a horrible habit, comparing. It’s also not really fair. As it usually goes, we compare people’s best of’s with our blooper reel.

Here’s what brought me to this. Yes, I’ve written about comparing before. I’m a girl. It’s all around us. Younger. Firmer. Hoisted in push up bras. Anti-gravity miracles. Air brushed. Blemish free. Cellulite free. Fourteen perpetually. It’s the way of the world. Intellectually, of course we know what’s going on, but our poor brain inundated just sponges it all up. I’m on a tangent. Let me get back to the point.

It was a writer.

A while ago, I was on about how I didn’t finish a load of classes because I don’t do well with people who do things instantly perfectly if I don’t. Of course, they probably didn’t do things instantly perfectly, but to me, that was moot. She’s beautiful AND saves baby seals AND has a degree? Just stone me to death already.

Anyway, the writer.

I started reading a book I’d been meaning to read. I’ve been fidgety and have had a hard time of it, but I’ve been making good progress with it. The words were simply but elegantly put together, the sign of genius. It’s the kind of writing that looks effortless but every word makes a mountain of difference. They painted a picture expertly woven and I had the feeling that I had no business writing a book. I had no business writing a letter. Hell, I had no business writing my name. She was that good.

That thought hung on me and left me in a real funk for a while there until I remembered that comparisons are an evil thing. They stop me in my tracks. I may not be adept as she is. I may not be meant to write in that manner or style. I may be meant to do something altogether different. So, today, without even thinking about it, at a parent meeting at my son’s school, there was need of a draft of a letter to send to parents and straight off without thinking I thought. “I’m a writer, I can do that.” I volunteered.

Now, of course I kvetched over the thing and worried about letting anyone read it so I made myself email it off immediately before I could get too weird about it in my head. I volunteered. I wrote the thing. I sent it. I hope it helps. It’s a simple thing. It isn’t Dickens for crying out loud but I was shaken for a while there to let anyone read ANYTHING I’d written. Hence, this.

Maybe I’ll never write as well, maybe I’ll be spurred on to write better, or maybe I’ll just have to remember to keep making myself get back up and doing it again and again whatever the result. I just have to remember that an apple is an apple, and I’m me. Damn she’s a good writer. One day I may be too.

Square One

I’ve wanted to post a lot more than I have. There have been a lot of daily prompts that I’ve found interesting and could have made funny. I’ve wanted to be funny. The problem is, I’m back to where I’ve started feeling weird. I’m in the midst of an anxiety attack. Square one. Not a great place to be. Not funny for sure.

One of the prompts was called Mirror, Mirror and wanted to know what you see when you look, you guessed it, in the mirror. Lately, with my recent weight gain, it’s been less like the evil queen I’ve so identified with and more like those boobie dolls Cher was making in the Witches of Eastwick…but now, I’m to shaky to even look. The mirror is showing me a strung out junkie but not because I am, but because that’s what I feel like.

Yay for my psychiatrist. He has tried. Really he has. He’s tried a number of combinations to make me feel better but I think we’ve yet to get it right. As of now. the stuff I’m on makes my skin crawl. I want to do laps and squats and run away and back again to get the feeling in my legs to stop. I can’t sit still. Writing is really hard as is sitting to do my job of data entry. I, of course, have some pills for that too, but it’s up and down. Ugh! Some days I feel exhausted and just want to sleep, others I want to exercise all day, which you’d think would stop this whole weight problem wouldn’t you?

That’s another thing. I’m disappointed. I’ve gained a full half of my lost weight back. I can’t tell you why. Self-sabotage? Self destructive behavior? When I look in the mirror, I’m not sure who’s looking back; the queen, the Borderline, the good listener, the aspiring writer, the loving mother, the anxiety-ridden mother, the self-conscious overweight woman, or someone else.

I was in the bathtub earlier and it occurred to me that no matter which was true, and I took a good hard look at what was in front of me, that I didn’t hate what I saw, boobie doll or not. I was okay with me. I may not be the ideal of the 99.9% but I think I’m ok. I think it’s ok to like me the way I am . The only thing I’m not ok with is the way I feel right now. I want to feel normal, whatever that is. Not strung out, not exhausted, not full of the heebee jeebies, not needing to run a marathon, not needing to sleep; just able to sit down and read a book or write a post like anyone could. I don’t think that’s too much to ask for.

Lucky Charms

Because it’s my birthday and in keeping with the theme of creativity and this month’s theme of past, present and future, I’ve decided to ask everyone, do you have anything lucky when it comes to your creativity? How did you find it? Is it still working for you? Do you think there may ever be a different one?

I know it falls under the umbrella of superstition, but if ever there was a group of people who have weird ritual objects and superstitious habits it would be writers …and baseball players maybe, but writers are known for it. From Stephen King’s descriptions of writers who save a single cigarette and match for the ending sentence, or save only one copy, or several for good luck, to Emma Thompson’s sitting in the rain to think of scenes in Stranger Than Fiction while always smoking. I’ve heard of rituals of exercise, laps, lucky writing socks, you name it. There are as many as there are writers. For me, it’s an object…or rather, a person that’s my lucky thing. An actor.

I’d seen him before, many times, but one day at the end of one show I was watching there was a preview of another so I left it on while drying my hair. I have no idea what happened, but there was this look on his face, everything shifted for a minute and I felt like something pierced my armor. It’s a hard thing to try to explain, but since then, I have never gotten his voice out of my head when there’s a character coming on.

He’s shown up suddenly in all sorts of random ways always right when I’ve needed to focus. For a while there, I thought it was a sign. Serendipity, you know? Perhaps I had someone looking out for me after all from somewhere. Now, I just think he’s good luck, like those lucky writing socks, a way my brain decides to kick into gear. All of the really good characters I’ve written have been him in some way. Of all things, an English actor, but then this is me, what else would it be??

Now though, I don’t see him much anymore. Not randomly, anyway. Occasionally there will be a Facebook post or something, but strange and sudden appearances? None. I don’t hear his voice anymore. I have no characters growing anywhere and that’s the most frustrating part. I don’t know if the effects of my medications on my creativity, which I’ve looked at in-depth in other posts, or if I’m just meant to move on to a different muse.

I can’t imagine there being something else, but then I never imagined having a good luck actor in the first place. Ha! That’s because it’s sort of mental, but in a good way I think. I mean, when it worked, I did a lot of work I’m proud of. It was a blessing I wish I could get back. I’ve actually gone as far as buying autographed pictures, two, which I have up at my writing desk. I think somewhere in the back of my head it might urge something on like the Monkey Paw, an artifact of significance! (I try not to touch them, ha!) That’s even more mental, but we writers do have our quirks and he’s been a big one of mine.

Please sound off about anything you have to do before working! You do three counter-clockwise laps around your desk before writing you say? I say, awesome. If it works, it works!

Where’s That Shoe?

I wanted to post daily and use the daily prompts, but I’ve been a bit under the weather lately. Not sick, per se, just unhappy, stressed, you know the drill. Life stormed in when I was hoping for a slight breeze. Nothing’s quite going as I’d hoped this week, which brings me to today’s subject: Tell us about a time when everything actually turned out exactly as you’d hoped.

This was a while ago when my son was a toddler. It had been ages since I’d been out to do something I wanted to do and my family agreed to watch the boy so I could go out once. It’s been about the last time I’ve had that offer, but at the time it was so what I needed. I can’t recall how it came to my attention, but there was a vampire ball at the goth club in the city that I  had been aching to go to.

I was going to a ball.

For background, I spent my entire teenage life devouring Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles and reading as much Gothic literature as I could find with a vampire theme: Carmilla, The Vampyre by Polidori, Dracula, supposed true tales from history anthologies, short stories, you name it. It was my thing.

When the night came, I had managed to find a hair piece that was just what I needed to get my hair in to the style I was hoping for. I’ve never been able to do hair worth a damn and mine always falls, but this worked.  My dress was great, I managed to find a corset that fit, I had the boots, the makeup, and the will to get there. I set off on my own a little nervous to drive in the city. I figured that I’d never find the place and was amazed at how easy it was and not only that, for any of you familiar with San Francisco, I actually managed to find a parking space! Downtown! I was maybe a half block away.

Now, my shyness makes things impossible for me when I go places alone. I end up going and standing on my own like the Smiths’ song goes. I went in not quite knowing what to expect. I had my idea of going and finding a nice quiet corner where I could sit and watch people. I managed to find that and a drink, checked my bag and then wandered.

The second I stepped into the downstairs space I felt like I had suddenly landed on my home planet. Everyone was if not elegant, in something that I could admire. The lights were dim and cycled red and white, the dance floor was full, there were men in top hats and velvet coats, women in gowns, kids dressed like the frog brothers from The Lost Boys and a guy even dressed as Blade. I was an appreciative audience.

Everything that came on was a song that I knew and most I knew every word to. I walked down the stairs slowly with my gown in my hands and managed to get some male attention. My shyness undid me a bit, but I felt so at home there just watching people.

I met a woman who said I did the place justice with my demeanor and struck up a conversation. In the midst of it all, I had the perfect moment. The music suddenly changed tempo and everyone came out to the dance floor for a waltz. Women with their dresses twirling and the men with their coats flowing out behind them as they spun; it was my dream. The only thing better would have been if I’d had a partner to dance that waltz with.

It has been a wish of mine ever since that I will find someone willing to wear an outfit like that and waltz with me as my Dracula at the Vampire Ball. One day I may. That night, I had no idea, but the guy who would become my future best friend was in the crowd. I had no idea that a few weeks later I’d meet him and start a grand adventure. It was a beautiful beginning and a great night.

I’m Late!

In keeping with the theme of the creativity challenge I just looked into here, and keeping with the theme of my new body art, I’m looking very hard at the future. Looking at where I’ve been and what’s happened recently, the future looks like a good place to spend some quality time. I’ve also been noticing for the past few years that I have no real sense of time. I get lost in my head and then look up and as the Pink Floyd song says, ten years have got behind me. I did indeed miss the starting gun and I’m feeling like I need to start running to catch up. In thinking that life would start “when” whatever happened, I forgot that life is going by right now. That is why I’ve reminded myself in the flesh of my time flying. I have the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland now tattooed on the opposing arm from my beloved Captain Hook.

As I said in my last post, happiness really seems to be hinged into having something to look forward to. I’ve made a few things I’ve wanted to do for a while and am finally looking in to. Some of them are a little odd for me, some will be difficult beyond belief, and some are, well, tedious but necessary. The bucket list is where I started and a some new crafting ideas came to mind.

Learn to make new things. This includes my recent foray into knitting which is going…ok. (I made a stretchy swatch…yay?) I don’t really have the patience for it or the stamina. My attention is short lived. I like to have the thought, execute it, and move on to the next. Knitting is a slow process and I’m hoping it’ll help me create calm (or it’ll make me start screaming and throwing yarn), we’ll see. I’ve also decoupaged some new things recently which I hope will be well received. I’ve added animal bones and feathers and things. It’s evolving.

Learn piano. I used to be a musician. Cello mostly. I’d like to help my son play the guitar he got for Christmas and accompany him as well. I took piano briefly but since I think it would be just the greatest thing to have a harpsichord in the drawing room (it may be a dining room but damn it, I want a drawing room so it is thusly dubbed) to play when I’m having fits of melancholy in a lacy dressing gown in the quietude of the night. Isn’t that a nice portrait? I just need some wind to blow my curtains while I play and I’ll be in my own novel. Hey, a girl can dream…

Create a writing space. I have seen just marvelous spaces created in closets: book nooks, computer stations, and yes, office spaces. I need an inspiring and peaceful place to collect my thoughts and concentrate and it just so happens that I keep half of my closet cleared out. It used to be for inviting room for someone else to come in, but I need an office and that trumps imaginary friends at the moment. I just need the oomph to redecorate and I’m there. I wonder if I can fit a chandelier in the closet? Hmmm…

Learn a language. OK, yes, I did for a while entertain learning Latin. I entertained it before I looked it up and the complexity made my eyes bleed. I’m sure I could do it if I could give it 100% of my attention, but there’s not a whole lot I can give all of my attention to at this point. I’m thinking of starting with Spanish since it will undoubtedly come in handy where I live and work. It’s on the list when I get to it. I just would really like to dissect things like Stephen Fry using Latin phrases. I’ll get to that one day I swear and be ever so impressive!

Get my book published. This is the mother of them all. Now that I’ve signed up to get an editor and committed to pursuing it, the task seems to grow exponentially to the point of alarm. I don’t know how exactly I’m going to manage to do all of these platform building things between work, raising the boy, and keeping myself going. There don’t seem to be enough hours in the day but I know I’ll only be happy once I’ve truly tried and given it my all.

It’s a big list, a tall order, and a long road. The only thing I can do is start. One foot in front of the other foot, repeat.

Doubt

I’ve written a book.

Yep, a full on, 300 page manuscript that I’ve rewritten a good four times. I’ve kvetched, I’ve redone, I’ve rethought, and planned. I’ve spent a good year’s time avoiding the next steps because it involves getting other people to read it. How odd is that? But I’ve recently crossed that hurdle and signed up for crowd-funding so that I can hire an editor, which is no small expense.

The small amount of feedback I’ve had has been mostly positive, though it was put to me that perhaps, having only taken a single writing class, that I was getting ahead of myself, which may be true, but I’m still pursuing the dream. I’ve had to get myself fired up to do these things. A few positive signs here and there keep me going, but I have to say, today I’m hitting a doubt patch.

It’s been a long time since I’ve tried to read a novel just because every book I’ve read lately has had to do with either mental health, writing, publishing, or other non-fiction subjects. Today I started one I’ve been wanting to read for a long time.

Within a few pages, I noticed myself dissecting sentences, picking out and repeating similes, obsessing over structure and taking note of how the scenes opened, the portraits were painted, the wonder of the plot, and I was reminded why I love to read. It also came to my attention that my work is generally not something I would read. I started to compare. It didn’t turn out well for me.

I tend to get intimidated when faced with other people’s work. God knows, that’s how I ended up dropping most of my art classes in college. Painting: someone drew better so what was the point? Out. Writing: someone wrote better, the same. Music, film, photography, all ended the same way, though I still do all of those things in secret because I’m driven to.

When it comes to the book though, I want so much for it to be good. Of course, that’s  the point of an editor, to polish. I know my idea is good. I know that there’s something there, I’m just not sure I’m clever enough to write it. I can’t help but think that there’s someone out there who could write my story better, which is a toxic thought really. What came out of me is mine alone, but comparisons are making me doubt.

I’m terrified of having the review come back bad. I’m scared that I can’t do it, but behind all of that there is this need to try. Of course it’s horrid right now. It’s my first attempt at a book, but if I don’t go all the way with it, I know I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll sit and wonder what could have been if I hadn’t been so intimidated, so afraid. I suppose my fear is that it won’t be as good as it could be, that I can’t adequately translate what it is I see in my head, and that is frustrating. I also have trouble handling criticism. I take it as a sign that I’m just not good enough, not to try harder and work on it, but to just quit. Not helpful.

My big dream is that someone, and hopefully more than one, will truly like the story. That’s all anyone who writes really wants in the end, for something we make to translate into someone else’s experience, for the story to be meaningful to someone; a little bit of their life that was considered time well spent and enjoyed.

I suppose my lesson is not to compare. I should celebrate that I wrote a book in the first place, whether it be good or bad, it’s an achievement. I’m just never satisfied with small victories. I need to get to the next step and not stop until it’s the best I can do and all I can do. Then I can truly say I’ve tried. I just wish my brain would get out of my way. In the meantime, I really wish I could sit and enjoy this book! I’m going to try again…

Happy?

What does happiness look like to you?

Happiness: that ever elusive state of bliss. It’s funny, when I read this topic it occurred to me that I can’t remember the last time I laughed. Really laughed, not the obligatory chuckle or sarcastibitch response to something ridiculous. A real, body-shaking, belly laugh is what I’m talking about.

I tend to equate happiness with smiling people in photographs, laughing friends at a cafe table, people having fun at the park playing frisbee or whatever…

My particular brand of happiness is a little harder to quantify. It looks more like contentment than joy, more like looking forward to something than doing something. These moments are short-lived for the most part. I guess it points to my having trouble being in the moment. The last time I can remember being happy was when I was making plans for something. I had a vision of something I was truly looking forward to doing and experiencing. I couldn’t wait. I was hopeful. I *gasp* smiled!

Now that those dreams have collected in a pile of ash, I have to ask myself, what is it that will make me happy now? What indeed does it look like? Is it sitting by the window on a rainy day with tea and a good book? A quiet afternoon looking at paintings in a museum? Perusing a library? A day on the shore? Those have been contented moments for me, but happy?

I’m challenged to remember happy. How sad is that?

I was happy when I was in love. How cliche…I believed that the whole universe was on my side. Everything looked bright and beautiful. I suppose that’s happy, or in retrospect, delusional, though it felt like happiness. I smiled. I had a bounce in my step, I smelled flowers and yes I had something to look forward to. The more I think, the more I keep coming back to that. The key to happiness, at least for me, is a purpose, a plan, something you can’t wait for because it stirs your soul. Day to day life has been missing soul-stirring enjoyment for a long while.

I’ve decided to renew the bucket list. Ever since my close call on the cliff a few weeks ago, I’ve been frightfully aware of my limited amount of time. There are some things that I think I would get enjoyment out of: learning to play the piano, learning to knit, learning Latin or Spanish, singing in a choir, getting my butt to England finally, making new friends, and getting my darned book published.

Adventure and companionship seem to be the essence of life and singing and playing music used to really bring me real joy. Hey, I remembered something!

Day 31: Who, me?

Post a picture of yourself and tell us your story.

Yeah, ok. I’ve been dreading this day ever since I read the list all the way through. Is there really much else that needs to be said? I’ve doled out a heck of a lot of personal information over here! Mainly, I just don’t care for talking about myself. Isn’t that funny for someone who’s decided to blog? Hahaha!

So, firstly, yes, it’s a picture of me so it counts! That face right there, that shows you everything. I’ve never been one for grey areas or being able to hide my feelings. I’m either at ok, pissed, or depressed without many gears in between. I’ve always been sensitive, and told that fact to the point of insanity. I just always thought I just had deep feelings. I’ve been proud of my sensitivity, but there’s been a destructive side that hit badly in High School. It’s a time of dubious relationships anyway, but feeling every rejection as deeply as I did, I felt tormented a lot of the time. People said I exaggerated, that I was overly dramatic. I just took it as a slight and that they hated me. I thought everyone did for the longest time.

As an adult, my relationships remained rocky and I remained moody. My marriage came and went with its share of drama, and the aftermath of that was nearly too much to handle. I started having heightened anxiety and derealization episodes at this point. When I found out I was pregnant by the guy who’d just left, got kicked out of my house, and lost my job, I’m amazed I didn’t crack. I know I came close. I came treacherously close to suicide on several occasions. I couldn’t find work for well over a year and started counseling and antidepressants.

I was lucky enough to have real family support and a place to go for a while. Things held steady once I started my new job and I’ve held it together with ups and downs until recently when the strain of everything finally caught up with me.

This year I had a breakdown. I collapsed crying on the floor, hallucinating. Again, I was incredibly lucky to have support in the form of a friend. I took some time off, went to a therapist for the first time (All had been counselors before) and went to a psychiatrist.  Severe Panic Disorder and Severe Depressive Disorder were the words of the day. I’ve been working in all of the issues that brought on anxiety, lack of proper boundaries, mood instability, impulse control, anger, and when I was reading a book about dealing with someone else in my life who is undoubtedly a narcissist, I came across dialog on Borderline Personality Disorder.

I kept reading. I cried.

I took my notes and concerns to the therapist and everything began to fall into place. The more I read and watch, the more things make sense. I don’t fit every single criteria, but more than enough. It’s both wonderful to have a name for it and to know that there are others who have this experience, but it’s still a scary diagnosis. I’ve had to look straight at my behavior which is uncomfortable, but I’m more than willing to do it. I don’t want to be this way. I want to feel better and I want other people to want to be around me. I want good relationships. It’s all I want actually. Friends. A partner someday. To raise my kid into a healthy adult. The normal stuff.

So, this is the condensed version of the past 31 days of rambling. It seems like I’ve touched on about everything though I wanted to be slightly more irreverent and droll over the past month. It’s a hard subject to make funny, at least for me, being right in the midst of it and beginning to get a grip on what it all means. I can only hope this is helpful somewhere.

So, now would be a good time for you to go put on some fuzzy slippers and read something funny! I am… Happy New Year to all of you. Love and Luck for the year ahead 🙂