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Friday
Mar022012
Self-Doubt Is Extremely Attractive
Friday, March 2, 2012
So, I wrote something that poured out of me with great force the other morning after not being able to sleep. Insomnia coupled with early morning writing seems to be my magical formula for creativity, because it happened a few days before that, too. Of course, this is not sustainable over the long term if I want to become an old person who doesn't hate being old, and I'm kind of bitter about that. I would rob myself of sleep for the rest of my life if I could flow like that without destroying the body that carries me around.
Not only have I not figured out how to flow like that all the time, but, when I do, it paralyzes me for days and weeks afterwards. I get this idea in my head that what happened was merely an uncharacteristic paroxysm of some sort, as though I did not really have a hand in writing something that satisfied me.
Of course, I'm writing this now in between double fisting barbecue peanuts and buttered popcorn, because, although I had a hysterectomy well over three years ago, I still get to do the hormonal hula, and it's hard to see anything with clear eyes when I've regressed into an incarnation of my fourteen-year-old self, wallowing in self-pitying dysmorphia bouyed up by neck pimples and five pounds of water weight.
Let's all have a moment to weep over the fact that I couldn't get my wedding rings off without greasing myself up with butter this morning. I know. It's deeply tragic.
Also, I'm pissed at a bird that keeps singing like it's spring outside my window, because I've checked the weather, and he's a damned liar, I'll tell you what.
My father once told me that good writers could write under any condition, even in war zones. I don't know why he was giving me writing advice. He's a hockey player, and I don't think he's had to play hockey while a scourge of pimples overtook his neck. If he had, then he would be more understanding of my creative woes.
That's a lot of words to say wah wah wah send me a wahmbulance.
Pass the chips, please.
Not only have I not figured out how to flow like that all the time, but, when I do, it paralyzes me for days and weeks afterwards. I get this idea in my head that what happened was merely an uncharacteristic paroxysm of some sort, as though I did not really have a hand in writing something that satisfied me.
Of course, I'm writing this now in between double fisting barbecue peanuts and buttered popcorn, because, although I had a hysterectomy well over three years ago, I still get to do the hormonal hula, and it's hard to see anything with clear eyes when I've regressed into an incarnation of my fourteen-year-old self, wallowing in self-pitying dysmorphia bouyed up by neck pimples and five pounds of water weight.
Let's all have a moment to weep over the fact that I couldn't get my wedding rings off without greasing myself up with butter this morning. I know. It's deeply tragic.
Also, I'm pissed at a bird that keeps singing like it's spring outside my window, because I've checked the weather, and he's a damned liar, I'll tell you what.
My father once told me that good writers could write under any condition, even in war zones. I don't know why he was giving me writing advice. He's a hockey player, and I don't think he's had to play hockey while a scourge of pimples overtook his neck. If he had, then he would be more understanding of my creative woes.
That's a lot of words to say wah wah wah send me a wahmbulance.
Pass the chips, please.
categorized in health, writing and blogging and tagged in PMS, depression, seasonal depression, writing
health, writing and blogging and tagged in PMS, depression, seasonal depression, writing 
Reader Comments (4)
I totally get this. And you're funny while you wallow.
Here I am all hormonal and weird and out of sorts and itchy (nowhere specifically, just figuratively) and I have no chips. That sucks.
Eeew... sticky keyboard! ;-) Pimples suck, especially when they sprout up in a wrinkle just because getting old and having teenage skin are somehow not mutually exclusive ailments. Ah the indignity of womanhood!
This, yes, this:
"...and it's hard to see anything with clear eyes when I've regressed into an incarnation of my fourteen-year-old self, wallowing in self-pitying dysmorphia bouyed up by neck pimples and five pounds of water weight. "
Sending you virtual chips.
Um. I like your quilt. I'm convinced that aliens have come to town because every single woman I know has the strangest cycle ever going on. In nine months we're all going to give birth to identical, silver-eyed, creepy children. I just know. Until then, enjoy the chips!