I feel guilty about not writing these entries daily. I am struggling to keep up in my notebook too. It's just been a difficult week. Last week it was food poisoning and dentist appointments. It was being depressed and going out to do stuff with the family. This week it is depression again and now I've got some kind of stomach bug. I feel miserable.
I'm trying to get back to blogging daily by any means. It is an uphill battle because scumbag brain is telling me that any entry I make is worthless and a waste of electrons. It is very frustrating. Still, I'm trying so I guess that counts for something. The weather today is awful. It is cold, rainy, and windy. I think we're somewhere in the mid 40s (Fahrenheit) at best temperature wise. I put my plants out on the back deck in the hopes that we were past the last frost. Now I am concerned that I have just about killed them with the cool temperatures.
I'm seriously contemplating giving up on attempting to garden. I have a hard time staying on top of weeding the small flower bed out front. I have a hard time staying on top of watering things out on the back deck. I haven't purchased any plants. I haven't planted any plants. I feel like I'm a fraud because what kind of witch can't keep a garden of any sort? Even my houseplants aren't doing too well.
I had this image in my head of how I was going to do things. I was going to grow up and have a job teaching. When I wasn't busy teaching, I was going to write books and sell them. At the same time, I was going to raise a family and keep a garden. Well, I'm not teaching. The books I write aren't really selling that well because I have no clue what I'm doing marketing them. I am raising a family with a loving and wonderful husband who supports me in everything. I can't manage to keep a garden going to save my life. I've tried for the last three years. It just goes wrong. Usually when I get depressed because I forget about the plants out on the back deck.
I am frustrated and kinda hurt because I keep falling short of goals. I know that this isn't because I am a bad person. I know that this isn't because I'm some how flawed. I know this is a consequence of the executive dysfunction that goes with my cPTSD and bipolar. It still hurts. I just don't know how to 'get over it' or how to live with it. It seems like every time I turn around, my brain malfunctioning is making problems in my life. I hate it. I hate how I can sit here and look at my piles of notes and have no idea where I was going with them because my mood is shit and I can't access the memories of what the plan was.
The bullet journal helps when I remember to write in it. But it doesn't seem to be enough for all of the writing I am trying to do. A therapist said maybe I should give some of this up. I used to keep seven blogs. I shut down two. I've got a third that I post so infrequently on that it might as well be shut down. I barely post on a fourth blog. I feel like I just don't have the spoons to do this anymore.
It hurts to write that. It hurts because I feel like I have had so much of my life robbed from me by the things that have caused me to struggle with writing. The creative injuries in my life range from having my journals read out loud and mocked to having my poetry savaged by someone I highly respected to as far as being physically hurt for not writing the 'right' kind of thing for someone and having my words written in my private journal used against me in an attempt to destroy my family.
And that therapist's 'well, maybe you shouldn't do it if it hurts' is just another knife in the back. That's like cutting off a painter's hands and telling them they should just go find another life. That's like breaking a dancer's legs and telling them that they shouldn't have attempted to dance to begin with. Writing is an intimate part of who I am. But scumbag brain brings that therapist's advice up now when I get really depressed. Scumbag brain brings up how I was hurt because I didn't write sexy enough erotica for a man who was sexually assaulting me on a regular basis at the age of 14. Scumbag brain brings up how my journal was used as evidence against me to paint me as a dangerous crazy person.
Scumbag brain is not my enemy, but scumbag brain is my enemy at the same time.
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