Today is one of those days. You know, the kind of day that grips you by the jaw, the throat, the heart? The kind that mangles you like a chew toy? I can’t explain it other than to say it’s LIFE.
Might it be LIFE AS A WRITER? I’m not sure because I’ve been a writer for so long, it’s hard to remember what LIFE was like before.
There was one day I thought about driving into a tree. It was YEARS ago. I wasn’t suicidal then, nor am I now. But I did, briefly, wonder what death might be like if only to take away the pain in my head.
This day is not one of those days.
But it is a procrastination day, a lay-about and rot day, a things-are-so-overwhelming-I-might-as-well-do-nothing day. And on these days, I logic my way into thinking it’s better to do nothing. Maybe that’s true. But what’s also true is that if we let every day be that kind of day, we will make ourselves feel worse.
And I don’t feel so bad, not really.
There is no migraine. I have enough food, clothing, shelter. I suspect I have enough love though I’m not sure how one would measure that kind of thing.
So what do I do about these days? I deal with them.
And then I work on the novel I’m writing. Or I do a load of laundry. Or I justify not getting some exercise. Or I eat some extra snacks.
Or I face what’s been eating me. Today it’s the tomorrow that’s coming. I have an extra long list now that I’ve rotted this weekend.
And I only have myself to blame.
One of the tasks I want to tackle has to do with ALL MY STUFF. Can I get and stay organized? Can I put the clothes I no longer wear in boxes and bags for Goodwill? Can I find a new Goodwill since the convenient one I used to know about is permanently closed? Can I create space in my closets and cupboards so I can stop shoving items in as if a magic portal will open and swallow them for me? This has been a lifelong problem of mine.
I started hoarding skincare, haircare, and makeup products (among other things) since I left my last temporary foster home when I was eleven. It was part “I have control now” and part “I can make myself less ugly now.” And a gazillion parts, “ooh, what is this? What is that? I need options if I’m ever going to land upon the exact combination of THINGS that will make me feel whole.”
I have come to believe there is no such combo. There is only being human and learning to heal from trauma over many years to find I have everything I need within myself. I have rot and determination, anger and love, pain and health. I am my own melting pot of existence. And if I carry all of these opposites, it means I have the weakness and the strength to overcome inanimate excess.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe it’s because I am mostly writing to myself. And I think nobody will read this anyway. There is something so calming in that thought. I am usually one who writes to be read, speaks to be heard. But what if I can write more for myself and to myself? I don’t know what it means, but I already feel less pressure. I am going to finish my novel. I’m very close to the end and getting ready for beta readers and researching agents. I do want people to read my books. But mostly, I want to write them…because that’s what feels good on days like these.