Today has been a busy writing day but not in the fun way. I haven't touched book four's final revisions in the last week because life keeps getting in the way. I spent my day working on therapy oriented writing. Then I was doing more word vomit/therapy writing on the manuscript from April's Camp NaNoWriMo. I honestly don't know if I am going to finish this thing.
By the time I had most of that done, I had to be on duty as Mom. The kids got home from school all excited to play outside. It was a good afternoon for it, not too hot or humid. While they were playing, I was doing housework. It is now eight thirty in the evening and I finally got to sit down and do some blogging. I wanted to hit all of my blogs but this is the only one I have time for today.
I'm frustrated with the utter lack of performance of my book about how to be psychic. I don't know what I'm doing in the sense of marketing. As such, I know that I am overlooking something obvious and I'm sure if I just knew that one thing I'd actually reach my market. It probably would help if I wasn't such a social-phobe. I keep hitting the same wall on all of my social platforms.
I'm depressed and I am struggling not to let it get to me. I'm less depressed than I was a few weeks ago. I guess that is progress, but, I am still not well. That makes me feel as though I would be a burden or that my posting about depression would make me an attention whore in the eyes of my audience. The only reason why I am blogging about it here is because it is literally the only thing on my mind right now aside from why the hell can't I write about something pleasant or literally anything other than my past trauma right now.
I have no therapist so I have to use my journals. It is exasperating and exhausting. I have one where I have been writing about my fractured sense of self and my dissociative issues due to complex post traumatic stress disorder. I have another where I write about my day and mood issues there. And then there's this manuscript that has just turned into a continuation of a previous one which was a full notebook of word vomit about past trauma. I started that project wanting to write some light and fun erotica. I got three pages in and then I just had it stop. No inspiration. No ideas. My plots and plans all looked flat and useless. What I had written felt false and useless. So, I did what the greats tell you to and just started writing whatever I had in my head at the time.
That shit got dark fast. I find myself feeling some despair over the idea that I may be just stuck writing about this stuff for a long time and possibly go years before I finish this book series. All because my disabled brain can't hack the emotional labor of dealing with the fall out of a lifetime of repeated trauma on top of the emotional labor of the Great Work of my book writing. Or should I say, I can't handle the emotional labor of the Great Work on top of all the trauma processing I'm doing.
I keep writing in circles and going over the same ground but revealing more details as I do so. It's painful and I don't enjoy writing it. But I have no other way to get it out. I attempted art journaling to express it. That didn't work so great. Because I'm blocked on the artistic front just about entirely. I haven't drawn a sketch of a live subject in almost ten years. It isn't because I haven't had opportunity, I just haven't had the heart to do it. I don't know why. I could be drawing the the birds that come visit our range of feeders in the big tree out in the front yard, but I can't seem to do it. I struggle with my fictional plant sketches because I feel like they're just not good enough for daylight.
I know it is all tied together. I know that some emotional trauma is keeping me back and all of this writing is part of the process of excavating and healing that trauma. Knowing that is how the process works, however, does not make it easier.
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