Waiting to Exhale... or, Holding Your Breath Until You Pass Out

I detest feeling the way I do currently.

My head is killing me softly (with its song).

The depressive part of my cycle is waning, but much like a menstrual cycle that will not end, I'm left dealing with the stinky, slimy remnants of my uterus... er, brain... except I can't sop this shit up in a feminine hygiene product and throw it away. This, I gotta deal with.

My discovery of an unsettling reality yesterday sent me home in a fit of tears. I held them as best I could while still within the walls of my workplace, but once I hit the sanctity of my car, it was no holds barred. There was practically snot flying on my drive home.

Upon my arrival, my eldest child also came home... from an equally unpleasant day... and being the self-involved little shit that most teenagers are, she let fly on me. It was rough. I had pain in my head that was searing my grey matter and here she is standing in front of me, absolutely losing her shit about her stupid math teacher and his bullshittery. 

I had to excuse myself and go to my room.

There, I exploded into more tears of self pity, until I had drained the tank and was left with only the after sobs. It was around that time that Stretch sought me out and came in to continue her earlier tirade. She didn't notice my bleary eyes, nor the wet pillow beneath my face... she was intently focused on her own angst.

Typical for her age.

I gathered myself together and headed back down to the kitchen... there was work to be done. I realized whilst in the throes of despair, that there is no benefit to agonizing over my findings... it will not solve my problem. The only way around it, is straight through. I gotta suck it up and find my path.

Work is still painfully boring, but I do have a short term solution for that. I have discussed with my boss about taking an advanced excel course on line. I have a small budget for education and it fits. This will give me a few days of something to do. It will also help me moving forward in whatever I do after this job... which is something I will need to focus my attention upon at some point in the not too distant future. I'm grateful for this job at this time. It has gotten me back out into the world and forced me out of my self-inflicted withdrawal from the world. The company in the office is good and the Board, although antiquated and stubborn as fuck, provides entertainment for my silly mind.

What I need to do right now is write a book.

The problem I'm having is that everything I type is flush-able. My creativity and clever word-smithing is broken. Seemingly beyond repair. I have a few ideas that I would really like to explore, but every time I think about organizing any of them into a readable format, I snap shut just like a cow's asshole at fly time.

My "Bedtime Stories" idea would be comprised of naughty stories... most of which, I already have written. I would just need to beef them up slightly. The idea would be to write short, fun to read, fantastical pieces, meant for bedtime consumption. This is seventy five percent done already! Why the hell can't I bring myself to package it up and submit it to a publisher. It isn't as though I don't know where to send it. I get emails every day looking for essays and short stories - and they PAY!!!

Is it because I am too afraid of rejection? I know I crap on my stuff all the time, but if somebody else did? I dunno if I could take that. Might I implode? If I lost the idea that I could write... I might lose myself all together. Seems like a gross miscalculation of risks right there.

But... if it was well received... imagine the boost that would give me. It could be life changing.

Today, I read back through some older posts from this blog. There are a few pieces of which I am proud. I know I have it in me to write in an entertaining and engaging way. I find that is helpful to me... particularly when I can look back at previous years around the same time and realize I suffer the same pain year over year... and it is going to pass... I just gotta hang in until the manic takes over again. Then my dopamine and serotonin levels will shoot up and I'll be all happy and furtive and... well... potentially dangerous again. But that is where I can create.

It's never simple with me - ever notice that? 

I'd also like to write about the 'joy of financial ruin and bankruptcy' and all the fuckery that accompanies it. I don't know if my pride could take that, but it is something that is screaming to be written. I feel that if I could be funny and charming, while still imparting the level of severity that accompanies these types of decisions and solutions... if I could make the ruination of my life as a whole palatable, maybe I'd sell a copy or two...  

Again, the risks seem a tad high.

Until the next wisp of oxygen comes my way, I'll just be over here... holding my breath... waiting to come back to life.

D-Out