Like a Monkey

This whole week has been ... so depressing. I have no motivation to do anything. I have all sorts of things I'm supposed to be doing, but I just can't stand to do them. I should be writing in a private journal instead of on my blog. Who knows who reads this thing anymore and who I would hurt by admitting that I feel awful and have been feeling awful for days now. I haven't had this kind of a depression in years, but here it is ... and I forget how to deal with it.

I think I used to be wooden. I would just force myself to be numb as I got up, got dressed, ate something flavourless, walked out the door, sat at my desk, worked, studied, had brief interactions with others and then finished the day and loafed in front of the T.V. all night. I don't allow myself that kind of indulgence anymore, because that's what I think of that kind of behaviour. You can't just push your feelings aside all the time ... or at least I can't. I cried hysterically in public four days ago. I don't think I have ever been sincerely hysterical before, where I was honestly FREAKING out and couldn't stop myself. Usually, I just talk through my difficulties with someone until I find my answer. I've been calling everyone, trying to figure out a way to deal with it. I feel like I'm lost in the Pointless Forest meeting people who were previously friends and now they're strangers.

The rock man says, "Your dreams are worth pursuing, even if they amount to nothing."

The tree says, "It doesn't matter what you create as long as you're successful."

The pink dancing lady says, "Let go of your obsessions and live free."

The two-faced man says, "If something's popular then it must be good."

The bird says, "There are no shortcuts."

And I stand in front of the hole that has no bottom and stare at it until I start to hallicinate.

If artistic struggles aren't enough, there's enough on my 'real life' plate to make a grown woman weep - a grown woman has been weeping - me. But I keep shovelling down the food, hoping that I'll eat enough to keep the birds away. Yet, I feel like everything except my art - my writing - has an element of chaos that I can't predict or control, so that whether my plate of food is angel food cake or dead flies - it doesn't matter - I can't control it and influencing it one way or another may be a serious mistake. So, it's better just to choke it down rather than question it. My writing, however, feels like something I should be able to control - something that only I should be the master of.

I'm having this trouble with my writing because my reason for writing is bad. Usually, I hate everything I read. I pick something up and think, "This is practically porm." Pick up something else and think, "This is so corny, if I put in on the stovetop to burn we could have popcorn with butter." Or, "So predictable, I could tell you how it was going to end after reading the back." I hate everything. And everytime I see something poorly executed, it drives me away from a genre. I want to waltz to my own tune. I have been so good at that in the past, but now I feel betrayed by a fickle friend, fickle fans, and a me that isn't strong enough to understand that hardly anyone is as uncompromising and loyal as me or able to bear a grudge as long.

My writing feels like all I have, because I can't stop life from happening. And I don't seem to be growing up quickly enough or throwing my faults away fast enough. I'm a kitten.

And now I'm standing at the edge of the Pointless Forest and the sign reads, "That plate of food that you are forced to snack down on is that thing that will make you the adult you need to be to write what you want and be strong enough to take it."