I struggle with feeling like my work is legitimate enough. My self-confidence is a bit hindered by the truckloads of trauma that I have been dealing with. Seasonal affective disorder on top of that just makes me feel even more certain that my work is awful and I am engaged in pure vanity. Scumbag brain is a real ass at times.
I've taken to writing poetry again. I feel like it is awful but I am still doing it. My hope is to eventually put together another book of poetry and maybe sell it. I don't think I'll make much selling my poetry, but it would be nice to have a few more pennies in the bank. I feel like I am not smart enough to figure out how to make marketing work. I start reading and researching it. I get overwhelmed and then I have a minor panic attack. After that, I start at square one and the cycle repeats itself.
It is improving as I am getting a better handle on my anxiety. I don't know how much of the problem is my anxiety pissing all over the place like a terrified chihuahua and how much of the problem is trauma informed programming. When I was young, I was told repeatedly that I wasn't going to go anywhere in the writing industry with out my domineering mother as my marketing agent. For some reason, she thought that I was going to do as she dictated in my writing and then she was going to sell it and profit off of my work. Because you know that marketing agents get a 60-40 split on the revenue. Or at least that's what I was told over and over again when my parents realized that I actually had some talent.
I'm not talking to my parents now because things are just ugly between us. And I am realizing that I just don't have the spoons to go through the emotional gauntlet of games that my parents play for the sake of feeling like they have power over me. It's hard this time of year to continue the practice of no contact. I know that they're getting up there in years and I doubt that my brothers are going to step up and take care of them. My brothers are not the most reliable of people at times. When my second book came out, my parents came around complaining about their financial woes and the pains of aging. I knew they were sniffing for money.
I guess they assumed that I had a book contract or something. I stonewalled those efforts and felt awful for about a month after. I'm sure that they're sitting there, pissed off that they couldn't retire at 60 and just rest on their laurels. Nobody told them that children are not a retirement plan, I think. Anyways, they poisoned that well with the head games they played with us until we were out of the house. They still play head games. For a while, I was trying to make things work with them. No one told me when get togethers were happening. I was expected to just show up and spend time at the farm whenever I wasn't working or something. I don't know. All I know is that I became the bad guy for not showing up for family gatherings that I was never informed of.
I recently read something about the artist Enya. Apparently she is estranged from her family. There is some resentment from her relatives and they said in an interview something to the effect that she was 'off living like a queen in her castle.' That struck a chord when I read that. I realized if I had gotten a big book contract and I didn't share any of it with them, my parents would make that argument. They'd say that I was being selfish and ignoring how much they sacrificed for me. But, here's the thing, I didn't ask them to sacrifice anything. Even after I got disabled, I didn't have them sacrifice a thing. I had my student loans forgiven due to my disability. When money got hard, I didn't go to them with my hat in hand asking for help. Because I know that any help from them comes with strings and obligations attached.
I'll make this work on my own. I'll find allies in the writing community. I'll find help from other places. I'll be damned if I go back to them for anything. All they'll want to do is tear me down and try to break my will.
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