The Fungus Among Us

Heh. Totally cheesy title, right? I should be ashamed of myself, but … yeah: sorrynotsorry.

It’s been raining in my corner of the universe. And, when I say “raining”, I mean RAINING. We have had non-stop rainy days for, I think, around 3 or 4 weeks. It’s been unseasonably cool, too. I love cool and rainy weather, but even I’m beginning to think, “OK, Universe … enough is enough!” Well, actually, I thought that until it stopped raining yesterday and today, and our temperatures soared up into the high 80s/low 90s. At that point, I was all, “All right! Let’s have more rain and cold, please!” Yeah. I guess I’m never happy.

I think I’ve mentioned in here a few times that I try to do daily walks with my dogs. My Springer loves to walk, and we usually do quite a hike together. His preferred distance is about 3 – 3.5 miles. My Boxer/Hound mix doesn’t love to walk. She loves the idea of it, but not the reality. She is afraid of everything, so I feel like we are having a great day when I manage to get her to go three blocks from our house.

I love to walk my dogs just after it has rained. I’m not a morning person, but I like to go early, when the sidewalks are still wet and the air is still cool — before the day warms up enough to make things feel steamy and sticky. I love to watch my Springer splish-splash through the puddles and squish through the mud. He’s a mudder, and he loves to come home all grungy and dirty. My Boxer/Hound is a princess, and she seems to skim over the ground with a light step. The mud doesn’t get on her at all, and she wouldn’t think of splashing through a puddle. She just gives me a look and daintily steps around them.

So I was walking my dogs earlier this week, in between rain showers, and I had to stop and stare at all the mushrooms that had appeared. It seems like these guys just pop up overnight, any time it rains. I’m from South Texas, and we don’t really have mushrooms there. I mean, I guess there are mushrooms somewhere … but the scorpions probably ate them or something. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the sheer surprise I feel every time I see them suddenly appear. Of course, in a couple of days — once everything starts to dry out a bit — they will be gone. So I guess they leave as suddenly as they come. I feel this is one of the mysteries of the universe. Or, maybe just of my universe. It’s not a huge mystery, but even small mysteries can be pretty neat.

I feel like my writing inspiration and ideas are like this. I feel like they are the fungus that lurks in my brain, waiting for a chance to pop up out of nowhere. They always appear unexpectedly, usually when I’m in the middle of something else and can’t drop what I’m doing to head off and write or create. They pop up a lot while I’m walking. I think there’s something about walking or exercising that gets the creative juices pumping. But, they also breed in the shower. So … maybe walking/exercise and running water? I dunno. That seems kind of weird, even if it is true. Or, maybe it’s weird BECAUSE it’s true. But let’s not think too hard about that.

And in true fungus fashion, my ideas seem to disappear just as quickly as they appear. I don’t know how many times I’ve thought to myself, “Self, that’s a FABULOUS idea! I love that idea! I will NOT forget that idea!” And, of course, by the time I sit down to work on said idea, it’s completely gone. If I listen closely, I think I can hear the teeny-tiny “pop” it makes as it disappears into the nether, never to be seen again.

Or, maybe, never to be seen again until the next time I walk in the rain or stand in the shower for an extended period of time. I would test this theory out, but my skin gets all wrinkly. And my husband keeps complaining about the water bill. I mean, really … doesn’t he get it? I’m creating here!!

 

The Sum

We are the sum of all of our experiences. This is a great saying, isn’t it? Said by someone who is famous and much more clever than me. Of this, I am certain, even though I am currently too lazy to go and look up just who this clever person is. Or was. Or whatever.

No, it’s not that I’m too lazy. It’s more that I know what will happen. I will go off to find this one tidbit of information. And, in doing so, I will run across something else that looks interesting. Maybe it’s a cat picture. Or a link about a dog who learned to play chess. Of course, I will feel almost compelled to click the picture or follow the link. Before I know it, I will look up from the keyboard, realize it’s past midnight (which means my daughter has been left alone at school for a gazillion hours and I can expect a friendly visit from “the authorities” the next day), and I will have gotten nothing done all day. Because I will have allowed myself to get sucked down into the rabbit hole wonderland that is the Interwebs. No, really. This is how they get you. I think it’s a plot by the cats to take over the universe, one click at a time. Well played, cats. Well played.

The sum of all of our experiences. In theory, I like this idea that everything I have gone through, everything I have learned, everything I have seen or tasted or felt or believed, everything I have survived, everything I have laughed at … That all of it, somehow, mashes up together in some magical sort of potion that makes me the person who is, right at this moment, sitting at her desk and clacking away on her keyboard in the hopes that words will come out of all her effort. And in the further hope that these words will make some sort of sense. This is a total crap-shoot, even on the best of days. But we do our best with what we have.

I love the idea of taking the things that haunt me and using them for something else. Maybe I can even make something beautiful out of what, to me, has been utter and complete shit. As writers, isn’t that part of what we do? We internalize those experiences and brood on them and mix them together to create new characters and worlds and adventures. Because, if something good or beautiful comes out of our pain, it almost feels like the pain was worth it. Like it counted for something. I am not sure I can explain it, not really, but this feels important to me. It feels important that the pain should count for something. That it should go back out into the world transformed into something better: something beautiful or meaningful or brave. Maybe, this would mean I was in control of my own life. Yes, painful things happened to me. But those experiences don’t own me. Instead, I own them. I can make them dance at my whim.

I think this is important, too: to feel as if you are in control of your own life. I have never felt this way. I mostly feel small and afraid — a tiny, tiny speck within a never-ending universe. Insignificant and not quite really “real”. I think some writers are incredibly brave. I admire the way they do exactly the things I can’t do, which is to speak from their experiences and their dreams, even if it hurts. I am not brave at all. I started writing in order to pretend to be someone else. I wanted to be anyone other than the person I was, and writing offered that to me. I could pretend to be amazing or talented or beautiful or loved. Now, I face my second twenties without quite knowing who or what I am. I look into the mirror and don’t recognize the expression in the eyes of the person staring back at me. I want to know her. Now, I find myself no longer wanting to pretend. Instead, I want to write for the person I am today. I want to find her and hold her and tell her things are okay. I want to tell her she is okay. But I find, perhaps, I have spent too much time pretending. And now, when I need them, the words don’t come as easily or as readily. Maybe this is natural. Maybe pretending is easier.

You see, I am a little bit stuck. I find myself trapped between wanting to pretend and needing to tell the truths of my own life. There are memories and experiences and feelings which I have held close — oh so closely — all my life. I continue to hold them next to me even now. I can feel them, deep inside, next to my heart, festering. And I think to myself, “One push of the keyboard. Then another and another. What does it matter? It’s only words on a page, and those can’t hurt anyone. If you let them go, you’ll be free.”

And yet, I can’t seem to do it. No matter how much I need to write my truths, I can’t bring myself to take the action. I come close, but always fail to do it, in the end. Is it a misplaced sense of loyalty? Is it a misplaced sense of responsibility — this idea that I am responsible for the way other people feel? I do know words can hurt. I know this probably better than most people. Is it all right for me to chance inflicting hurt so that I can heal? Is it fear that holds me back? Maybe no one will believe me. Or, perhaps, it’s the small child who still lives somewhere deep down inside of me. She knows better than to talk about anything that happens at home. She has been told this all her life. And some lessons are impossible to unlearn.

I am the sum of all my experiences. They have made me a person who has compassion and care for others. They have given me the ability to mother my child with humor and humility and joy. They have taught me to laugh at life and at the world around me. They have done so many good and wonderful things for me. But they also hold me back. Because I can’t let them go. Amid the gut-wrenching realization that this will never end for me, I want to cling to hope. Because my experiences taught me that, too: If you are alive, there is always hope for things to change. Maybe I can’t write about the things I need to say. Maybe, for today, those experiences remain locked inside of me. But tomorrow is a new day. And so is the day after that. And I’m still alive.

Quicksand

Sometimes, I feel like I’m stuck, unable to move forward … unwilling to move backward … and trying my best to shimmy-shimmy-shimmy my way sideways, just enough to get a little bit of breathing room in my life. I’ve never been stuck in quicksand, but this is what I imagine it would be like. Well, minus the whole “you’re going to die momentarily” aspect of the ordeal. Sometimes, I almost wish I would die momentarily. Just so the cycle of torment and self recrimination would end.

Okay … so, no, I don’t really want to die. Except, well, sometimes, yes, it does feel like this could be a good idea. Figuratively, anyhow. And then I tell myself I’m being overly dramatic. I roll my eyes at my reflection in the bathroom mirror while reminding myself that no one gives a shit about me or my problems. And why should they? And then I go along my merry way. Except … that feeling is still there. That feeling of slogging forward — painfully, slowly, one foot in front of the other. Not because I want to or even because I think it’s a particularly good idea. But because it’s what I’m supposed to do. It’s what’s expected.

I suppose I’ve always had an over-developed sense of “duty”. I was one of those kids who did homework as soon as I arrived home — and started with my most-hated subject first. I was a person who stuck it out through three soul-sucking years of graduate school, obtaining a degree that tossed me into one miserable job after another. If it had been up to me, I would have walked away. Right up to the very moment I walked across the stage and received that damn diploma, I would have walked. Run, more like it. And yet, I stayed. Because it was expected. Because it meant so much to other people. I’m the person who does all the shit work in my house. Not because I like it. Or even because anyone ever says thank you. But because it has to be done.

Writing used to be my escape. When I needed a break from the expectations and the obligations and the weight of all the hopes and dreams of the people around me, I would pretend to be someone else. I could be free and do anything I wanted — whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. It was liberating and terrifying and beautiful and awful and just … everything. All at once.

But now, even writing has become quicksand. There isn’t any freedom in it. There is only the fight to carve out time from the merry-go-round of errands and wants and needs and requirements and just … crap … that is a busy life in a large metropolitan area in the US. And there is the drudgery of slogging ahead, trying to make progress, trying to prove something to myself and to everyone around me. I am worth this. I can do this. I have a voice. I can use it. Except, apparently, I can’t.

Writing the Right Words

I wrote today! On my book, even. Huzzah!! I would like to say this means my super long-standing block is broken, but I know better. That old saying about counting one’s chickens before they hatch springs to mind …

There are a lot of things in my life that make working on the book difficult. Many of the physical set-backs (like all the stuff I am expected to get done within the span of a day) are easily overcome. Or ignored. Sometimes, if the writing is good, they get ignored. This is actually a fantastically exhilarating feeling: to write and write with giddy abandon, not even wanting to stop for food or sleep. This hasn’t happened for me in a long time, and I miss it.

Other things are not so easily overcome. These are the mental hurdles I’ve struggled with now for several years: depression and anxiety and fear and this feeling of malaise that manifests itself as a complete lack of faith in myself and my writing ability. I know I need to power through these things, but it is difficult. Yesterday, I had a good “powering through” day. I managed to get through all the new edits and bits I had written previously — time consuming work, but necessary in order to pick the story up after a long absence. Today, my “power through” didn’t work quite as well. I didn’t get as much written as I would have liked, but I made some progress. I’m putting that in the “win” column.

Right now, I’m writing a fight scene. This is probably the worst spot for me to try and reenter my story, because I hate writing fight scenes. There is so much mental choreography involved. I feel like I have to be aware of where every hand is and the placement of every foot and how each weapon moves through the air. It can be mentally exhausting. And I never feel like these types of scenes turn out properly. Ah well.

Maybe I should short-cut all of this by making my character a pacifist … OK. Not really. But it’s a fun thought.

Trudging Through the Gray

I feel like I need to bring a duster with me today. Maybe one of those fluffy feather ones that are so big you wonder what bird could have possibly “donated” the building blocks for it. Or just a good, old, trusty Dust Buster. Love those guys. They get into all the corners and manage to give my dogs an excuse for an exhilarating round of excited barking, all at the same time. Gotta love a household appliance that multi-tasks. Anyhow, I can see the dust has piled up in my absence … and the “cobs” have begun to string their webs from the corners once more.

So … Where have I been? And what have I been doing? It has to be something big and wonderful and ginormously be-awesome to keep me away from this place, right? Something just short of miraculous, perhaps?

Oh, how I wish that were true. How I wish I could pop back in and say, “Hey, you guys!! I’ve been writing and writing and writing like a mad woman! And I’ve gotten SO DARN MUCH done on my book! And it’s almost finished!!!” And then I would get up out of my chair and do a little dance in front of my desk. The dogs would join in, even though they would have no idea why we were happy and dancing. They’re dogs; they’re happy all the time. And we would all dance and bark and laugh and be happy until I realized the cat was glaring at me in disapproval, which would immediately remind me to employ proper decorum. “Proper decorum”, in this instance, of course, consists mainly of planting one’s hiney firmly in one’s desk chair. No hopping or whooping or dancing about. It’s … unseemly.

The truth, as often happens, isn’t nearly so bright. And it’s a lot less fun. As is typically the case when I am absent for an extended period of time, I’ve been struggling with some stuff. Winter has been hard, and my depression has not been kind. I’ve spent a lot of time just sitting around, staring at my computer … staring at the wall above my computer … staring out the window at my snow-covered yard … before sighing and giving in to that little voice that keeps whispering to me that a “Diagnosis Murder” power marathon is a fantastic idea. Just to give you an idea how many times my inner “I can’t do this” voice has won out, I’ve managed to watch all eight seasons of “Diagnosis Murder” in the last month. Yep. It’s not pretty, but it’s the truth.

I had it all planned out to crawl back over to WordPress and dust off my blog over the weekend. It was time — not that I felt I had anything much to say, and not that I felt any more like being “present” in the world around me. But I got sick this weekend. I have a kidney infection, so I’ve probably been sick for some time without realizing it. These things don’t happen overnight — even though that feels exactly like how it happened. Anyhow, there’s something about feeling too weak and crappy to get out of bed and feeling entirely too nauseous to stay in bed that really takes away all one’s creative impulses. Even looking at text in a book or on the computer screen made me sick to my stomach. It was neither pretty nor fun. There was much whining involved.

This most recent foray into the Depression-verse hasn’t all been bad or a complete waste of time. I’ve figured out some stuff about my book and about my writing and about myself. Not small things, either. Big things that feel important and weighty. I still don’t quite know what to do with these things, but they feel … real, somehow. I don’t know how else to explain it. I feel I need to write about these things. Ideally, to blog about them, but, failing that, at least to make journal entries about them. But, somehow, I can’t seem to make this happen. As real and important as these things feel to me, they also feel new and raw — a scab picked away from a healing wound. And I don’t know what to do about that or how to say it or how to make it all matter.

Still, there is hope in learning something new. It lurks at the bottom of the gray — that little, prickly feeling along my spine that tells me these things matter and reminds me I’m alive. There is hope in being able to sit quietly and stare at the wall. Maybe one day, there will be new thoughts and ideas, instead of this blank canvas of nothingness inside my head. There is hope in figuring out who I am, what I want, and where I want to be. There is hope in trudging through the gray.

 

For Whom the Bell Tolls

It tolls for me.

Or, something like that. And I thought, at first, it was the bing-bonging herald of abject failure. After some reflection, I have decided this might not be true. Perhaps it’s not the sound of failure at all, but the sound of my mind and creativity being liberated from the mire and the muck of that dreaded phrase: “have to”. After all, I just used the words “bing-bonging” and “abject” in the same sentence. Could someone who is a complete and utter failure do such a thing? I think not.

But I sense you staring at your computer screen, reading these words with your head tilted to one side and a quizzical expression on your face. “What,” you wonder, “is this nutty woman nattering on about now?” So, let me explain …

Night before last, I decided NaNo was over and done for me. I started off the month woefully behind on my word count. I managed to catch up, which thrilled me. I also managed to catch a humdinger of a cold, which, needless to say, I found less than thrilling. This month has been a whirlwind of stuff: errands and after school activities and vet appointments and church meetings and family obligations and piano lessons and on and on and on. This is the endless, merry-go-round cycle of my life. I know this. But, somehow, things seemed to get kicked up a couple of notches this month. I know this is because of NaNo. It has happened before, and I even expected it, sort of. Anyhow, I am now at a point where I’m standing in the middle of life’s freeway, watching the holidays coming at me full-blast, their headlights bearing down on me, and I have concluded there are only two choices: jump for safety or get plowed into roadkill. I chose “safety”, by the way. This is not always a forgone conclusion. I have chosen “roadkill” in the past. I’ve decided the likelihood of me hitting the 50,000 word count before the end of November is slim. I’m at about 30,000 words, so it could happen … maybe.

But here’s the thing: I realized I don’t even care.

This is huge for me. HUGE! This is (I think?) my fourth time participating in NaNo. I have proven I can write 50,000 words in a month. Don’t get me wrong; this is a stunning accomplishment. I applaud anyone who can pull it off, and I felt incredibly proud of myself in those years when I managed to hit that elusive goal. But NaNo became just that for me: a goal. It became all about hitting the final word count, instead of being about getting some time in with the muses and some work completed. Every year that I hit the word count, it was like I got to the end of November, looked around, and said to myself, “Well, great. I’m done! Where’s my web badge?” I didn’t pursue the projects I had started. I didn’t finish anything. I just stopped and left everything dangling once my word counter hit 50K.

This year has been different. Perhaps it’s because writing, at the moment, is not fun for me. I no longer enjoy working on my in-progress book. I hope I will get back to those feelings of giddy happiness with it, but I’m just not there right now. Right now, it’s all about slogging forward. And making progress with the new scenes that need to be included in this story. And working the story around to where I know it needs to be. And delving into emotions and thoughts I might not want to explore in order to get to know my characters a lot better. None of this is fun for me. My characters have begun to feel like people I invited over for a party, who then set up camp in my house, ran up a huge phone bill, and ate all of my food. This year, even though my word count didn’t pile up as quickly as it had in years past, I felt really good about the fact that I was moving a long-standing project forward. 

And then it occurred to me: I needed this attitude adjustment. I can’t afford to hit the final word goal for NaNo and, then, walk away from this project again. It can’t be all about the act of “winning” this contest-thingie or about proving to myself that I am a writer because I can write 50,000 words in 30 days. No. It has to be about making progress and getting something completed. It has to be about THE WORK, not the goal. It has to be about breathing life into this story that has simmered in my brain for so many years now. Because I am a writer, and because I need to own that for myself, instead of treating it as if  it isn’t real. As if I need someone or something else to validate it for me.

So, for perhaps the first time in my life, I have decided to walk away from a challenge. I may hit 50,000 words, and that’s all right. I may not hit 50,000 words. And you know what? That’s all right, too. I feel lighter already.

Glitter Me This

I think I have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating: I am not a “girly” girl. I like big, slobbery dogs and muddy, rainy days. I like jeans and old t-shirts and sneakers or hiking boots. I like motorcycles and fast, loud cars. And, sometimes, I forget to brush my hair every day. I know. I probably shouldn’t admit that out loud, but there ‘ya go. My poor mother always wanted a girly girl, I think. I must have been such a disappointment to her, considering I spent most of my childhood covered in dog, cat, or horse hair from hours spent with my pets, and I much preferred mucking out our horse enclosure to dances and parties.

But then, there is glitter. Yes, you read that correctly: gloriously, grandly, glittering glitter. In all its many forms and shapes, I think glitter is one of the great equalizers between those of us who are less than feminine and our girlier counterparts, whom we both admire and fear. And do not understand — at all.

And so I found myself staring at day 3 or 4 of NaNo. I had written nothing of consequence. I think I had about 350 of the thousands-plus words I was supposed to have written by that point in time. I should have been feeling pretty darn low about the whole thing, except I had discovered a new nail polish, which is an almost exact match for Tiffany Blue. In case you didn’t know this, Tiffany Blue is also one of those “great equalizers” between the girly and the not-so-inclined among us. There is something magical about that particular color; I can’t explain it.

Anyhow, my “Tiffany Blue” nails were making me pretty darn happy in spite of the frustration and annoyance of having heard the clomping of boots on the floor as my muses  had run screaming from the room. After a bit of additional rooting around in my nail polish stash, I came upon a bottle of glittery polish. I figured, “what the heck? I’m not writing, anyhow …”, so I applied the glitter over the “Tiffany Blue”.

And … BLAMMO!!

Thousands of words behind … yes. Feeling the hot breath of failure on my neck … oh, hell yes. Suspecting I am not at all cut out for this “writing thing”, no matter how much I wish otherwise … double-hell-yeah.

But I had Fairy Princess Nails. With glitter. (GLITTER!!) Which meant all was right with the world — at least, in some corner of my brain.

 

Muse Wrangling and Herding Cats

All right, kids! (Well, we’re all kids at heart, right?) It’s November, and we all know what that means, don’t we? No, not Thanksgiving and turkey dinners. Not football season and crisp autumn mornings. Not gorgeous splashes of color on the trees and overly frisky dogs in the cool weather. Not even the “official” start of Christmas shopping season at the end of this month. Oh no … I’m talking NaNo, people!

I know: You guys had this from the very first sentence. You’re all writers, too. I love that about WordPress. It’s kind of like being in the same club or something. Or, well, what I imagine it would have been like had I ever been in a club as a kid … which I wasn’t. Let’s move on, though, before I start to wonder about my anti-social tendencies and what they might mean. *ahem*

Truthfully, I should probably whisper the dreaded name so that my muses don’t hear it. How does one whisper on a blog? Maybe if I put it in brackets and italics, like this –> {NaNo}. I’m convinced that, once my muses know I’ve decided to join in this yearly mental flogging, they will head for the hills. Or, even worse, sit around my brain eating pie and demanding fresh coffee. My muses are like that. I suppose it’s a lucky thing they don’t seem to read my blog. Score one for me!

In theory, NaNo is a wonderful thing. I love the thought of it, particularly since I am someone who is perpetually mired down in the doldrums of writer’s block. Every year, I think to myself, “Self, NaNo is here again! This is a great time to get the gears working. Let’s dust off this idea and give it a whirl. We will get so much done!” I slide into November full of eagerness and excitement. I just can’t wait to get those ideas down and make progress on some projects.

In reality, that 50,000 word goal … Well, it kinda looms. Over everything. In a menacing sort of way. If it had a voice, I am certain it would constantly chuckle Mwuahahahahahaha as it eats away at my free time, compounds my feelings of guilt and inadequacy, and generally turns me into the kind of crazy person who talks to herself in the grocery store and forgets to brush her teeth and hair due to lack of sleep. And my muses, all of whom seemed so excited and eager at the prospect of getting their two cents into whatever ridiculous plot bunny winds out of my brain, end up wandering off to find better things to do. It’s worse than trying to herd cats. At least cats are fuzzy and mostly cute, which makes it easier to live with the fact that one cannot herd them. Muses … not so much.

At any rate, here’s to November. Here’s to all of you guys who decide to take on the booger-beast known as NaNo. Good luck and good writing to you all. I hope we all make progress on our stories. I hope we all have fun and still find time to laugh — at ourselves and at the world around us. But, most of all, I hope we all remember to shower … at least every other day. Or so.

Godspeed and good writing, my friends!

 

The Hamster in My Brain

So, I had this lovely post idea all about how wonderful and cozy rainy days can be. Because, at the time I thought of this idea, it was raining. A lot. Unfortunately, life got in the way, and I didn’t manage to write it while it was still raining. Once the rain stopped, my post idea, which had seemed so lovely and appropriate while the drops were falling, kind of fizzled. (It’s raining again today, though, so my “rainy day” post may still happen. More on that anon — I hope.)

After that, I decided I would write a completely different post. This idea, too, hit home with the force of a thousand hammers ringing against the steel trap of my mind. “Self,” I said, “This … THIS(!!) will be a wonderful post. A fun post. The post of the century.” And my Self replied, “Yes, I think so, too! Let’s do it!!” This was particularly exciting, because my Self is seldom so unequivocally supportive of anything I decide to do. She generally hangs back and reminds me of everything that possibly could go wrong and why whatever it is I want to do falls into the category of a Very Bad Idea. Seriously, she’s no fun at all. Sometimes, I hate her.

Anyhow, finding my Self and me in total agreement, I set off to compose my post ‘o’ golden goodness. I hummed under my breath as I headed over to Flickr to search my photo files for appropriate images, and, as I composed the perfect opening paragraph in my head, I swear I could hear choirs of angels singing in chorus in the background. There is a slim chance this noise was simply the trilling of my phone … but, no. Let’s not go there. This was such a great idea, it deserved a heavenly chorus.

 

A funny thing happened on the way to Flickr. I accidentally ran across a clip from the show Friends. I made the mistake of clicking on said clip, and … Well, really, I can’t bring myself to admit it was truly wrong or a mistake. It was a very funny clip. I enjoyed it a lot. I even LOL’d, but in the real world. That first clip was so funny, I thought to myself, “Self, we’ll just watch one more. One more, and then we will head to Flickr and find our photos.”

Funny Friends clips are like potato chips. Apparently, one can’t be satisfied with “just one more”. Three hours and about a hundred clips later, I looked at the clock on my computer, realized it was almost two in the blessed AM, and dashed off to bed, still chuckling under my breath at the zany hijinx of my favorite Friends characters. I told myself I would write my beautifully golden, earth-shattering, universe-preserving post the next day. That way, I could enjoy my moments of happiness without feeling guilty.

And so, here it is — not the next day, or the next, or even the one after that. I am sitting here in front of my computer about four days after my giddy gallop through memory lane via funny Friends clips, finally ready to jot down my lovely thoughts. Isn’t life beautiful and grand? It is, really. Even on the bad days, life is beautiful and grand.

Except … I have no idea what my golden post idea was. That’s right. The perfect, beautiful, chorus-from-heaven post idea has left the building, folks. I’ve racked my brain, trying to remember it. I’ve looked through all the scraps of paper containing random notes scattered over my desk. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Which is why you are now sitting here, reading … this.

I can only apologize, from the bottom of my heart. And, of course, face up to the only conclusion possible, based on the foregoing events. That’s right: My brain is powered by one very cute hamster, tripping along on one very squeaky wheel. And right now, he’s laughing his furry butt off and feeling oh-so-smug about life. The angelic chorus from a few days ago? At the moment, it sounds more like: “squeaky-squeaky-squeaky”.

Little Victories

Today, I am celebrating the “little victories” in life. Sometimes, life can run us over, use us up, hunt us down, and, in general, leave us feeling like something the cat dragged in … ate … and, then, barfed up onto the rug. I’m not proud to say I’m all too familiar with that side of life. The past two or three years have been rough ones for me, mostly because of depression, but also because I’ve felt unmooored. Lost and wandering, with no safe place to land. It’s hard when your internal and external lives are both chaotic, leaving you feeling as if you have no way to turn — no set direction in which to go, and no way to get there, even if you did.

 

My creative life and, in particular, my writing, were hard hit by these emotional and mental struggles. “Hard hit” is a rather gargantuan understatement. Things pretty much ground to a halt. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t create. And I didn’t have the energy to care about any of it all that much. But, underneath, I felt myself dying a little bit more each day. A little bit of whatever it was that made me “me” slipping away with each lost word and unfinished project. I told myself it didn’t hurt. I told myself none of it mattered. I told myself writing wasn’t for me, so I was better off. I told myself … well, lots of things.

These were all lies. Were they good lies? Were they necessary lies? Were they bad lies? I don’t know. At this point, I don’t particularly care, because I feel just recognizing them as the lies that they are is a big step forward for me. Little victory number 1 — and a hard-fought battle.

Little by little, I feel my spirit and my burden becoming lighter — still there, but easier to carry. Perhaps this is because I now have a place to go, where there are loving arms that will always welcome me, and where, at last, I can see I have worth. If you’ve lived a “normal” sort of life, you probably can’t understand the power of realizing, finally, that you are a person worthy of love and respect. I can’t explain it, but, even now, just in typing these words, the power of the emotions I feel threatens to overwhelm me. For perhaps the first time in my life, I know I am real. I know I am good, even if I struggle. I know I am worthy of love and respect. Little victory number 2 … although, really, it’s an enormous, earth-shattering victory. Even so, my pedantic nature forces me to cling to the theme for this post.

All of which brings me to my final “little victory”, which happened today. After two and a half (or three? yikes!) years of begging, bribing, threatening, and sobbing in heartache, I sat down today to write … and I managed to get my character across the street and into a tavern. I know. It doesn’t sound like much, but, for me, we’re talking about the literary equivalent of swimming the Atlantic Ocean. Without floaties.

This doesn’t mean the hard times are over and done. My depression is always there, lurking around in the background, whispering to some part or other of my brain when I’m not looking. And I don’t know if I’ll always have the words I need when I need them. Tomorrow might find me pulling my hair out in frustration and weeping as I stare at the ceiling and wonder, “Why?!? Why?!?” For today, though, the words were there. And that’s good enough for me.

Little victories: I’ll take as many as I can get.