what do I know?
If no one encourages me to write, now, why would they encourage me when I’m doing the far-out stuff I yearn to? They won’t. So why is that lack of encouragement stopping me? Why do I feel stuck in place?
When I’m feeling down, I have noticed that very often I do in fact “talk myself into” a better mood/wyxzi. I go to Twitter to share this better mood with others, and hopefully to connect with someone. Only then does my better mood seep away, often to be replaced by despair. I very easily catch other people’s moods, good or bad. But other people don’t catch my good moods. Which adds to me feeling invisible, overlooked, unappreciated.
I want to stay anchored in the human world . . . partly because I keep hoping that someone somewhere will actually care about what I’m doing. I don’t think that’s going to happen. It never has before. How many adventures did I have when I wasn’t preoccupied with who to tell them to? A lot more than I’ve been having recently.
Most of the people I’ve known the best have been profoundly un-curious. About the world. About themselves. About anything really. They want the world to be predictable, stable, ordinary. They hate surprises. They hate change. It should not continue to surprise me as much as it does that people like this . . . will not like me. This does not mean there is anything wrong with me, or that I am an unlovable monster. It means merely that we are not “good fits” for each other.
I don’t know how other people don’t go completely off the rails more often dealing with feeding themselves, day after day after day. I spend more spoons on worrying about food, or ignoring that I’m hungry (because I don’t “deserve” to eat right then because Reasons) than anything else, including worrying that I am actually dying of some undiagnosed thing.
I am a bundle of anxieties. I come from a long line of people who are bundles of anxieties. I would like to cope better than finding ever-new ways of disguising that I’m addicted to behaviors or foods that “soothe”, temporarily, my out-of-control symptoms.
Before I die of whatever actually kills me, I would like to accomplish some of the things I’ve been thinking about doing since 2008. If it wasn’t for Chesapeake Bay looming in the back of my mind, daring me to write about it, I honestly don’t know what would’ve held me together through all this crazy shit. Thank the gods I’m a writer after all.