Lately on Medium

I should really set myself a schedule of when to update here what I have been writing over there, but I’ve been posting pretty much daily over there just like I’ve been over here and wouldn’t I be a bad blog friend if I didn’t promote my shit everywhere?

In reverse chronological order:

When He Asks How Long I’ve Loved Him – which is actually something I wrote years and years ago about a man I haven’t seen in almost ten years now, but I suppose it’s worth a read if you want to get me a little more than you ever did before.

Oh, December, Here We Go – in which I talk about goals for the month

I keep finding more words for Love – which is a poem I never thought I’d write all these years later, but I haven’t gotten laid in a long time so I guess my mind keeps gravitating to the sex I USED to have and the people I used to have it with.

“Had I really succeeded in anything else” in which I ruminate even more, as I often do, about why I feel like an unemployable failure but also channel JK Rowling’s hopes and dreams and determination to let rock bottom bring her back up again

Sleep is Not for the Weak – in which I talk about how I keep nodding off like an old lady, and also depression

and finally,

A little story about depression and sleep and how they go so great together. a locked story for Medium members (though non-members can read 3 free stories a month) in which I talk again, even more, about how depression affects my sleep, and how I’ve been feeling about some things in general.

I’ve been writing in two places every day for a week and have felt better about myself than I have in ages even though I’ve also felt worse than I have in ages. I am not really sure how to reconcile that at the moment, but I am going to keep on typing, because when I do, everything else drifts away.

Want to help me make a living writing? Or maybe just buy me a cup of coffee? That would be sweet. Thanks for reading, always.

Tenterhooks

sometimes i think
about hanging
swinging from a rope or
something easier like
a leather belt
and a doorknob
and really leaning in

sometimes i think
about drowning
about being the girl
who walks into the water
with rocks in her pockets
because wouldn’t that
be easier for everyone
maybe almost beautiful

sometimes i think
about car accidents
fires
shootings
or the sweet bliss of
a terminal cancer diagnosis

or maybe just
one fucking good reason
besides being a mother
to stay alive

i wait on tenterhooks
and when they say
it gets better
when they say hang on
because they don’t see
these hooks in my back
holding me up
i must turn away and
tune them out
because
how can you not see
these hooks in my back

how can you not see
that hanging on is
the strongest
bravest
most selfless thing
i have ever done

i will walk barefoot in winter

Photo by ME! - Cheney Meaghan

we are
getting closer
to that time of year
it won’t be appropriate
for me to come to you
for comfort

if i do
people will be apt to stare
and maybe even call the police
if my coat looks too heavy
if they think i’m carrying rocks
and not sea glass

but for now
i’ll still go
i won’t make eye contact
with the normal boardwalk strollers
as i kick of my shoes and socks
and step down into the sand

because i just don’t care
what you think anymore

i will walk barefoot
in winter
past the gates suggesting
i keep out
but i won’t keep out
i have never been one
to heed signs or suggestions

because i don’t care anymore
and i know sometimes i need
the sting of broken shells
and rocks and glass and the unlucky
fish hook in my heel
and obviously i need the sting
of the water in the winter

but shh, listen, i’ll tell you
one of my favorite little secrets
to the water, it isn’t winter yet
the water holds in its sun sparkle
the remaining warmth of the months
it was bathed in starfire

shh,
i don’t care anymore
i’ll walk barefoot
into the water in winter

it’s only December now
we have
such a long ways to go

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

– JK Rowling

Too Late Today

I don’t know what to write today, but I came here anyway with fourteen minutes to spare in the day, because it’s NaBloPoMo, and it’s a thing I do.

But the thing is, I already wrote almost four thousand words on my novel today even though I didn’t want to do that either.

I encouraged my struggling, grumbling homeschooler to do the easy things she felt like she couldn’t do, because among the many things I need to accomplish, I haven’t figured out how to help her instill confidence in herself yet, and really, how could I when I don’t have much of my own?

I have a huge deadline in a day and a half that I don’t know whether I’ll meet, especially if I keep up with all these other obligations I’ve thrown in here and there throughout them, like a dumbass, because I just can’t say no to people, apparently.

And when I’m stressed and crunched for time, I stress eat, ice cream and chocolate and then I think how ridiculous this is, as I committed myself to tracking things with MyFitnessPal again.

Again, again, because it’s always again.

I don’t know what to write because when I left church yesterday, a place that I’ve just recently begun going to and finding comfort, I find out that dozens of people were shot and killed while sitting in their own church, looking for the same kind of peace that I’m starting to think none of us will ever find.

So I’m not very okay, and I don’t know what to write today, but I’m here.

I’m here.

Themes of Scum and Such

This morning I thought I’d better start planning the month out, decide which weekend to take Elise to Pumpkintown, make sure I get a babysitter for one particular potentially fun Saturday night, don’t forget the Salem book sale, etc.

Then I had a heart attack because when I looked at my calendar I saw it was October 15th, and the month is already half gone.

I thought this year would feel painfully slow.

I thought that the pallor of getting Trumped was going to make this year one of the worst of my life, but it definitely hasn’t been. It hasn’t been much of a year, but it hasn’t been close to the worst for me, so there’s that. I wish I could say more for the rest of the world. I wish I could say more for my own kid.

The days are long but the years go by so fast.

Thanks go to The Shins for that truth bomb.

These last six weeks of days have been particularly slow for me, but surprisingly not as slow as I thought they’d be – not as long and hard as I thought they’d be.

I decided to homeschool Elise this year, and I decided in August. This is all very new, and I went into this not knowing what the hell I was doing, and I am six weeks in now and not only do I still not know what I’m doing, but I feel like I actually know less than when I started, because so many of the things that I thought might work for us have failed miserably.

However. I haven’t once, for even a moment, regretted my decision to pull her out of school. I haven’t written about it at all yet, and I’m itching to, but don’t even know where to begin.

This story has themes like:

  • I’ve completely lost faith in the public education system
  • I never felt good about private or charter schools in the first place
  • kids are fucking cruel and ruthless 
  • the way we measure and value success in America is absurd
  • if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree it will always think its a failure
  • I just want to make the best of things and enjoy life, that’s it, why should that be so hard for people to understand?
  • If Elise isn’t happy, why does any of this matter?
  • We’re all going to fucking die in a nuclear winter pretty soon, so #YOLO? Right?

Eh, I don’t know. I’m a pessimistic Debby Downer, but I don’t want to be, I really don’t. I think it’s just ingrained into my DNA to want the best for everyone, and from everyone, but to never expect it, so basically, everything feels like one big disappointment.

Photo by Alex Ivashenko on Unsplash

Depression, derp, this lying whore. I’d love to ascend up out of this pond scummy hovel I’ve accidentally built in my brain, or my brain built for me. That bitch.

At least I’m in a place today where I can see things as they are. Things are shitty, but I’m a master at staying perky and acting as if things are fine. It’s when the mask slips that I have to worry about myself, and when people really worry about me.

But, I wonder, I’ve always wondered, what’s underneath that mask?

Finding out what’s under there, seeing what’s left buried, is something I’m very interested in. I’d like to just take this quiet journey into the wilderness by myself like I’ve done a time or two before, but losing your mind to find yourself just isn’t fun alone.

And of course, it isn’t fun without a lot of words spilled on pages.

Spilled ink. It happens.

Frequently, lately.