In a strange wa…

In a strange way, I had fallen in love with my depression. I loved it because it was all I had. I thought depression was the part of my character that made me worthwhile. I thought so little of myself, felt that I had such scant offerings to give to the world, that the one thing that justified my existence at all was my pain.
Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation (1994)

This…. This feels like me.

Kinda. In a squinted-eye way… Like when you don’t have your glasses on and are trying to imagine what the squiggles on the sign mean.

I’ve been on the cusp of major depression more than once. There has always been a reason to pull back, though. Like a dog. When I was in a vicious cycle, calling myself useless, ashamed that I wasn’t even walking my dog often enough, he didn’t judge. If I got up and walked him, he was cheerful. No shame or judgment about yesterdays failings, just what was or wasn’t done now.

I’ve always known that they only way out of the pit it to climb out myself. I haven’t always known how, though. Say… with cleaning. You can tell me all day that I need to clean more. But how do I remember what needs to be done when? How do I remember how to motivate myself, how do I think to vacuum before I am ashamed of it?

It is so much more difficult than it seems. Because the goal involves making it look easy!

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Why-s

I have always loved reading, and always wanted to write. But my family… fell apart early. I was the first kid in my class to have parents divorcing.

And I was happy they divorced. It meant that the way they treated each other, the way dad treated us, was not normal. I remember thinking that. That it was good, because dad was wrong, and now I had proof. That his approval was unobtainable was ok, because I would never need it.

But it did crimp my writing. In school. I mean, mom and dad went through custody battles for years. I was convinced that if my writing about summer vacation mentioned us being broke, or anything else objectionable, the teacher would tell dad and he’d take me away.

By the time I started trying to just write at home, I was hung up on approval. I can never get dads approval, but I’m so critical of my own self that is hard to award my creations with approval.

And nothing kills the muse like the critic in the back of my mind saying ‘yeah, that sucks, it’ll never work, the plot holes are impossible to fill’.

I’ve got to work on that.

I’m so critical of my cleaning skills that I don’t clean often because it turns into a clusterfuck of stress. How is that helpful? Luckily, I’ve found unf*ckyourhabitat, it has good advice to get around that.

I’m critical of my relationship skills, and my fiancee and I argue… pretty much any time I let my critic talk me into something.

I need to learn to accept myself. My creativity, my past, my future. My life won’t be what I truely want until I relax and accept that what makes me happy is what makes me happy.

I cannot listen to flylady- shining the sink is senseless to me. But A freshly scrubbed bathtub is a promise of a long soak after I’m finished vacuuming.

My fiancee couldn’t buy me a ring when he proposed. In part because we were living together and I’d told him that purchases that looked like a fraction of rent needed my ok. Even so, I make more money that him. So I bought the engagement ring. And I’m ok with that. I don’t like jewlery, the ring is a symbol that I am taken. If my man gave me jewlery as a gift, I’d be upset and ask him why he didn’t just buy dinner… fix me a cup of tea, even. Fixing a cup of tea for me is worth more (to me) than a bouquet of flowers. Why? Because, it shows that he pays attention to how I take my tea, and that he wants to go to personal effort to make my bad day better.

I love him. So he isn’t perfect… Neither am I. But I feel like he does more for me, than I do for him. Because he brings me tea.

I need to remember that.

To the dark, my love.

So I’m flawed. Did you have a point?

So I am sarcastic and deeply in love with being a smart ass. Should I be a dumb ass, like the people who are most irritated by me? So I hyper-correct people at work, should I let them make mistakes that can literally cost the job of the manager on duty? Or worse, make a customer ill?

So I criticize myself, should I stop? How… How could I just stop? How do I not notice that I made a minor mistake, without risking missing something more major? How can I stop being a critic, and start… Being a participant?

This blog is for the darkness. The shadows in my head that I have to explore, if I want to bring my creativity out.

This is for the darkness. For participating. Because life isn’t all sanitized and cheerful, but that doesn’t mean is isn’t worth it.

To the dark, my love.

“The difference…

“The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”
― Mark Twain, The Wit and Wisdom of Mark Twain

I always want to write, and nearly always fail. Why? Because I’m obsessed with having the correct word, the perfect synonym. I need to remember – is a lightning vs. lightning bug, or is it more tan pants vs. khaki?