There’s already enough

Heavy sigh.

If I were to take as long healing from all the crap I got growing up as it took to brainwash me into thinking I was a piece of shit, I’d be 76 and counting before I got over it. That’s the thought that elicited the heavy sigh, a depressed feeling, and anger over time never fucking being on my side.

I hate my family.

Gods…I know I look awful when I’m at the gym. Catch myself too often too deep into emotion. I tear up, my face turns red – I’m sure I look either like I’m about to have a heart attack or a nervous breakdown. Or both. It’s what happens. My body moves, stuff shifts and suddenly I am overwhelmed by memories and emotions. Therapists really should think about doing sessions during work-outs. At least in my case.

Gotta go through it. Free up whatever got blocked. Breathe. Fucking breathe. That’s the only thing I can think of, when it hits me. My feet move, time ticks on, but I’m unaware of any of it. Just stuck somewhere deep in a half hidden memory that’s full of old, built up muck. I’ve only impressions left over. Impressions of regret, and anger. Why did it go down that way? Why couldn’t I have been one of the lucky ones born into a family that cared?

Don’t talk to me about fate. I’ve always felt like I’m paying forward in this life, and it sucks. I was never a kid who enjoyed frying ants or ripping off the wings of flies. I don’t have that mean streak in me. If I’d been a shit in a previous life, wouldn’t it have shown up early on? I think so. But I was that weird kid who’d get up at 4 am to sing the sun up. I talked to trees, and cried over injustices.

And if the secret to reaching zen is dealing with people shitting on you all the time, I must be some freaking holy zen master.

So why do I find all of this so fucking difficult?

Haven’t I learned anything?

But, hey. I don’t have social niceties. Was never taught them. Don’t get hidden agendas, or most faux pas (what IS the plural on that, anyway?). And if I had a nickel for every time I heard about how ‘different’ I was…well, I still wouldn’t be rich. But I could buy a cheap meal for myself.

So what’s stuck in my craw today?

Other than the welling up of old memories and feelings, I guess I’d have to say it was what happened at my language lesson. Yeesh. You know, questioning any of this makes me wonder if I’m not just some drama queen timing things out and demanding my fair share of attention. Nonetheless, I noticed a definite difference between how I am treated and how my fellow student is treated. The effect was heightened for me because we had another new volunteer teacher sit in with us, to learn how a lesson might be. I think she looked at me twice. The remainder of her eye contact was reserved for my fellow student. And rightly so; the majority of conversation took place between my teacher, the newbie, and the other student. I was not included. I was not asked questions. I searched for things to say, to include myself…didn’t feel it was well received. They turned, they listened, but they didn’t follow up with statements or questions. Am I being paranoid? So difficult to tell. The other student is not as far along as me, and both instructors might have felt she needed more practice speaking. That’s logical. Still. I’ve an undeniable feeling that something else is going on, something I’m not catching onto. I hate that.

Mm. That’s the second thing I’ve said I hate.

Decided something. Had a weird few minutes during the script read through. I was outside with the director and someone the director knew was leaving. The guy asked me – twice – if I was the director’s wife. My reaction: laughter. I’ve thought a lot about that, and realized it might have sounded derisive to the director. Like I was laughing at the idea that we could be married because I found him unattractive or whatever. I wasn’t; I was laughing over the idea of anyone even conceiving ME of being capable of marrying someone. I’m just a bit worried that my hilarity will be taken the wrong way, and I don’t want any misunderstandings over my lack of social skills. So I’m gonna bring it up to him. Remind him of that moment and explain myself because I didn’t at the time. And I don’t need anyone else thinking I’m a shit.

There’s already enough.

Numb me out

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Struggling again. Sciatica pain has stopped me from doing more than just walking (which hurts). Now that I’m close to the end of my radio drama script, I took the time to really look at the terms and conditions on the BBC site. Those lovely terms and conditions have changed. Thanks, Brexit. Now the BBC won’t accept anything from outside the UK or Ireland. So I feel deflated, and like I’m working my ass off on one more thing that will never see the light of day, because of course I haven’t received any reply from the place running the competition….

I’m so fucking useless.

And sure, there’s one or two places out there that will do my hard worked script for free. …How insane have I been lately, thinking a radio script written in English has a chance in Hell as I sit in the Netherlands, surrounded by Dutch? Just about every English speaking country is under some isolationist spell at the moment; don’t even bother submitting if you don’t live here. Fuck.

Right now, I’m wondering if I haven’t made every wrong decision I possibly could have made. Shoulda done this, shoulda stayed there, shoulda said yes to that, shoulda, shoulda, shoulda…

Sundays suck.

Keep telling myself to keep going. Forge ahead. Pull myself up by the bootstraps. Obscurity does not necessarily equal shitty work.

It just makes it damned hard to keep the faith.

I take a little comfort from the fact that the door to acting is still open to me. I worry about my ability to physically get through it; to stay healthy, to keep my back feeling good, to be able to walk and move…these are real concerns for me. But at least I have that chance. I have something that gives me hope, and cements my determination to perform on stage again.

Writing isn’t like that. Feels like I have to beg at a table for scraps. Please, please consider this…please read my work…please, someone, answer me! Wonder who I should be blowing. Wonder if I would blow said person to have that chance.

…Have two weeks vacation. Two weeks, essentially, of Sundays. Gods! Will I even survive it? …Why was I looking forward to this time off?

Oh, yeah. So I could write. Go back to spinning my wheels. Churn out another tale no one will care about. Another script no one will ever perform.

Needless to say, I’m dragging my feet on contacting everyone about a read through. I’ll do it, regardless of how I end up feeling. I said I would, so I will. But I’m dreading it a bit. Dreading hearing whatever they think they need to tell me; the story is bad, the timing is off, the characters aren’t real, it doesn’t read well, I should try doing this or that, change the action – whatever. Can’t imagine anyone saying anything good about it.

Tomorrow I can pick up my refill of codeine laden pain pills.

Just in time. Numb me out.

Losing battles; winning the war

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Trying to be as brave as everyone seems to think I am.

I have at least progressed enough that I can say “I’m really depressed” to my brother in the morning without throwing a fit, or bursting into tears because he can’t just see that I’m depressed. I don’t like that look of concern he gives me when he knows I’m not doing well; he’s heard my darkest thoughts, and I know my suicide ideation frightens him.

He offered – and I accepted, tho reluctantly – to head off into town with him yesterday. Down to the comic shop, where I don’t really do much other than stand (or sit) and talk with the owners while my bro sorts thru comic bins looking for the few comics he’s missing in his runs (uh, comic story runs, not the runs in one’s pants). But it was okay. The guys are nice, and I get to hear real Dutch speakers speaking real Dutch as fast as real Dutch speakers speak. The store is moving to a new location this week, but I’ve been told that from their sort for the move they’ve found some Slave Labor Comics that I’ve got first pick of. Yea! Hopefully some Milk ‘n Cheese. They’re angry little bastards and always good for a laugh. Also picked up a Dark Horse indie with some early work from Moebius and the guys gave it to me for free, just asking for another batch of my blueberry muffins.

Then it was off to our local Turkish pizza shop for a deluxe Turkish pizza, warm and wrapped in aluminum, which we took outside and ate on a public bench in the fine weather.

And I felt okay. Okay to be out and in the world. I need to get out of this apartment MORE. Out, good. In this tiny apartment, looking at the same four walls, gazing out the windows like a prisoner from her cell – that’s not good.

Can I admit to not being okay when I’m alone right now? I know that’s not fashionable; we’re all supposed to be grown up and independent. But I need someone with me right now, just to keep my head out of my own ass. Distract me. Give me a hug and tell me it’ll be alright. Don’t let my mind go down those same, worn paths of worry. I’ve deep ruts in my psyche from doing that over the years.

Another 24 hour headache. Probably stress related.

Today is another battle in the war against depression. I’ll get to the housework I neglected yesterday. Get outside and walk in the sun. Find something to keep me occupied and amused. Find some way to help me pass the hours until I can sleep again.

How many battles can you lose and still win the war?

Please

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Four days of hard exercise this week. 15 minutes on the cross trainer, 30 on the bikes, 40 on the treadmill, and 15-20 doing free weights. I’ve sweated. I’ve felt it in my butt, my thighs, my calves, my biceps, my triceps, my hips and my stomach.

Still not happy. Not crying, either – at least not on the outside. Is the exercise working? Maybe. I’m not reduced to a snotty mass, sobbing away in bed. Still feel a failure. Still feel a loser. Still giving great consideration to every knife or sharp object I pick up: will this do to properly slit my wrists? No intention of doing it today, or even tomorrow. But some part of me is planning it at some point.

I find myself dispassionate even about my own suicide: what difference does it make if I find it sad or pitiful? It is what it is.

Had a meeting with our accountant. Nothing like talking to a strict bean counter to make you feel like shit. You never make enough money, you never do the right things. I hate it. Heard a lot of ‘this isn’t good’. Doesn’t help that the one time I tried to say something I had my head bit off by my bro.

I’m relegated to the back seat of my own life.

Somehow my bro can still enjoy comedy tv and relaxing in the evening. I’m not so lucky. I spend half the time with my stomach in a knot, missing every joke because my mind is full of worry and anxiety.

*sigh* We have an extension on the deadline to gather up all this info for our upcoming appeal. I just want it done, one way or the other. This uncertainty is fucking awful.

A friend has pointed out I’m being really tough on myself lately. Can’t help it. Don’t know if I’ve done anything worthwhile. Trying to keep in mind my accomplishments, but they all turn to dust and become meaningless. Who cares if I’ve written all this stuff that no one but a few have published? Who cares if I put together businesses and charities? I haven’t made money, and that’s the bottom line. No money, no passing go. All the experience in the world doesn’t make any difference.

Sad. Sad to realize some hard truths this late in life. Sad to feel I’ve made all the wrong decisions. Sad to know there’s no way to correct any of it.

Guess I’m hoping if I commit self flagellation enough, some deity will take pity on me and a way forward will open up.

Please.

jack

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Still deeply unhappy. Smiling is something I’m thinking about now. I paste one on my face when I think it’s appropriate. And yes, sometimes a real laugh comes out of me, but then it’s back to stone-face, as I call it: too unhappy to twitch the muscles of my face into a smile unless something in me says ‘hey! put a smile on; you look weird’.

So unhappy on so many levels I don’t even want to talk about it.

Gotta go out and be among people today. Talk to them – in Dutch. Gods. Will go to the gym after class. Keep trying to get those endorphins to a level they take over and make me feel better no matter what.

Can’t remember exactly how long I’ve had my hearing problem. I think this is the third week. Still not right. Still have continual ringing. Still can’t hear some things. Next week I’ll make the four week appointment with my doc to complain about it.

Smoking too much. Don’t actually know I want to stop. The goal is to die BEFORE my bro. That thought scares me. It scares me to think I value myself so little. It scares me to think I’m that scared. But I still see the alternative as destitution and loneliness, and that scares me more.

Think I just have to stop with all news. It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion. My anger levels rival that of a 20 year old; I’m too wound up and passionate about these things and I can’t find any sense of calm.

No hot water in the building this morning, so no morning shower. Lovely. That always seems to happen to me: plan to take a shower first thing and there’s no hot water. Nothing to wash this grump off of me.

Don’t want to do this. Don’t want to be alive. Don’t want to try so fucking hard anymore.

And don’t ask me what I do want. You can’t give it to me. You can’t give me a healthy body. You can’t guarantee me a safe future.

There’s nothing you can do, and talking about it ain’t gonna do jack.

Nothing to lose

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Don’t know how long all this exercise bullshit is supposed to take before I “feel better”. Yesterday I pushed so hard at swimming I came back home and passed out for an hour and a half nap. My body is tired. I’m not in panic mode, or crying mode…but I’m not happy, either. Isn’t it all ‘get out and exercise; you’ll feel better right away’? Those endorphins are firing, whether or not I’m feeling it.

Why ain’t I feelin’ it?

Got a message sitting in my FB inbox from an on-line acquaintance. Just can’t seem to answer it. While he didn’t own supporting 45, he did own the ‘anyone but Hillary’ attitude – well. I can put two and two together. It’s not that I don’t want to answer it; I do. I just can’t bring myself to write inanities over every day nonsense when I know in my heart the person I’m writing to is responsible (by at least one vote) for the man who’s putting his entire family in power, wasting millions on extra security, selling everyone’s private information, cutting millions off from health care, and drilling on public lands, into power. Well, you helped elect that pussy grabbing, lying, cheating, narcissistic mother fucker! Saying “I didn’t know what we were getting into” ranks right up there with “it was a sexual emergency” in a rape case for me. And while I’m tempted to needle away at that issue, citing my friends who are ill and losing health care, the land that’s polluted, the disparity in pay, the inequality in American society – the truth is, unless I’m out to fight the BIG fight, I don’t want to get into it. This ain’t a big fight; this is one person I met online many years ago who’s ignorant.

Yet I can’t help feeling that even that attitude is wrong: am I not discounting him, his intelligence (if any), his opinions by saying he’s not worth it?

Sure. It’s my coping mechanism. It’s also my fuck you to all of them; that’s essentially what you’ve said to me over the years; here it is right back at ya. Does that foster understanding? No. Is it ‘right’? No. So the message sits, until I cool down enough or grow up enough to deal with it without being an ass.

That could take a very long time, indeed.

Somedays I think it would be far easier to feel righteous if I didn’t have such strong morals. As it is, my moral compass just tends to muck things up for me. Lands me in the grey, every time. Have not yet learned to be true to myself while simultaneously being compassionate to others. I’m either true to myself and brutal in what I say, or I’m compassionate and stuffing something down.

Work on my new script is almost complete. Unless I find a major issue (and I don’t think I will), I’ll be able to send it out next week. My bro suggested sending to RA groups. He thinks they might want to do it as an ‘educational’ thing. Guess I will; what have I got to lose? As long as it’s by email, the answer is nothing.

I got nothing to lose.

 

Whittling away at life

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Going to take a moment to blow my own horn, ’cause yesterday I did something nigh impossible for me: I wrote a synopsis.

WOOOHOOOO!!! *TOOT*

A true industry synopsis is the driest piece of writing in the world. Give me an instructional text over a synopsis any day of the week! As a writer, I’ve long been aware the synopsis is my Waterloo. Been horrible at writing them ever since I learned what they are. I say too much, am too poetic, and get so frustrated by the process that I’ve learned in my old age to delegate synopsis writing to someone anyone else.

Ah! And yet, there a synopsis sits: dry as a bone, not one flavor of the real story in it, just action, action, action. Took me close to two hours to write a half page synopsis; that should tell you how much I hate it and how difficult I find it.

I’m pleased with myself.

Yea! 🙂

Got to the gym yesterday for an hour and a half work-out. It did NOT clear my head and it did NOT make me feel better, other than a slight satisfaction over knowing I least got up and moved my fat ass. Today is swimming, and dodging people perilously close to drowning. Meh. What I’d give for an hour alone in the pool. Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll all be out sick.

Still no word from the theatre group.

Feeling a little put out lately. Did a lot of work on spring cleaning over the weekend, getting to all those hard to reach places you don’t usually do ’cause it’s just too much trouble. And what’s sitting on my floor today? Dust bunnies. Where the fuck did they come from? I almost knock myself out climbing and kneeling and reaching to clean up every bit of dust in this tiny, tiny space and within 48 hours there are dust bunnies running wild on the floor again?!? Yeesh! I mean, I like the whole clean look, but is it worth it?

Asking myself to do a page of language exercises and a page of reading in Dutch each day. No more than that. I keep having to make the commitment to learning the language, over and over again. Ach! It’s such a slog. My reading is about a 10 year old level, but I’m still unable to flesh black and white Dutch words into full color pictures in my head. Yes, if you give me a simple sentence I’ll understand what’s going on, but I’ve got no nuance to go with it. When I read English, it’s like watching a film in my mind. I don’t get that with Dutch, and it’s bugging the hell out of me. Yet I also know the only way to get to that point with my reading is to keep bloody reading!

Reached part seven of Anna Karenina. My left hand now bears the brunt of that huge tome as I read. Just can’t help thinking that if I was to hand in a manuscript with paragraph long sentences, interspersed with dozens of commas, that were actually several sentences strung together, but used the old English writing, in the mode of the classics, to push the boundaries of what we now take as simple sentence structure, surely and without a doubt said manuscript would be cast aside the moment the first acne faced assistant, paid far too little and embittered over his own flagging writing career, laid eyes upon it. 😉 The only way to even begin getting away with that is to do a re-write; Anna Karenina: Zombie Killer (not a bad idea, tho I don’t know if it’s worth typing the entire manuscript in my computer in order to do it).

Next on the English chop block: The Iliad by Homer. Figure I’m doing two things at once with my reading list. First, I’m reading the classics I haven’t read yet; and second, maybe if I keep my English reading at an equal (tho different) difficulty level I’ll be more tempted to read in Dutch.

Still can’t hear a bass guitar play. The Police are topping my music rotation because they shelf their instruments high enough even I can hear them.

…How can everything seem to take so long, yet I often feel there’s not enough time in the day? Waiting to hear from people takes forever, yet I can go out and do a few things and suddenly BAM! It’s mid to late afternoon and I’m sitting down to write or read my stuff for the first time. Couldn’t those things get reversed for once? I hear from people promptly and my errands take a fraction of the time so I’ve loads of writing opportunities? But no. Instead I worry I’m counting my remaining years by how many times I do the fucking dishes.

I’m just whittling away at life.