I miss writing a journal. I forget how cathartic it is. Now I just forget stuff. I never have the time to write it all down. My thoughts are all over the place. I keep thinking I have ADHD but who the fuck doesn’t think they have ADHD these days? I mean, I could go about getting checked, but I just lost my doctor (again!) and I’m already overwhelmed, like I can’t do this right now.
I guess the real problem is that I never get to spend time alone anymore.
When I do, I feel guilty.
Gotta get back, gotta mind the kids! Can’t let people think I’m a fucking lazy person.
I’ve been re-reading Columbine by Dave Cullen, and honestly, the thing that hits me the most about this readthrough is all that time I used to have to just dwell in my own angst. What I miss the most about being a teenager is being alone. Thankfully, I wasn’t in the kind of negative mindset that made me violent. Perhaps violent with myself at times, but I was always looking inward for escapes. The amount of daydreaming I used to do. There was so much I figured out about myself back then. It was safe and nice and calming.
What I miss the most about being a teenager is being alone.
Now I just feel like I need to potato my way through a day, just sit, just rot, just grow eyes all over. Everything I see gives me anxiety. Every time I walk up with my son to pick up my daughter from school, I worry about their hands getting cold. I worry about them playing tag and tripping on the sidewalk. I worry about them getting his by a car because the drivers in the area are all fucking speed demons who don’t give a fuck about school children or them getting hit by the car. I get enraged. I yell. I panic because THE KIDS ARE NEVER PAYING ATTENTION TO THEIR SURROUNDINGS.
Fuck, I hate it.
Then, when we get home, they’re always taking up space in the doorway, shedding their coats and boots. I’m trying to get the door closed to shut out the world. I gotta hang up their coats and put their boots away and they immediately ask to watch YouTube and I lose it every single time. My daughter always apologizes when I do. Then I apologize. I always have to explain myself.
Mom is just very overwhelmed. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
I have to give myself a bit of credit for being able to explain it, but now I know that my daughter is always constantly trying to prevent me from losing my shit. I feel bad that she’s inherited this from me. I guess it was inevitable, though, and when I can, I try to assure her when a problem is MY problem and not hers. If she still feels bad, she can just give me a hug if she wants to let me know she cares.
I can’t be a perfect mom, but at least I’ve acknowledged that fact with myself and with my kids.
I just feel like I need to potato my way through a day, just sit, just rot, just grow eyes all over.
So yeah, I need to prioritize my time alone. I only ever get that at night, but I’ve been trying to take more time to journal. Otherwise I’m just watching YouTube myself, numbing everything. Growing more eyes, I guess. For a while, I kept saying that all my time watching Woodstock 99 footage was writing research. I used to get so high and I’d feel better, but now that I’ve given up the pot for Lent, I guess I’m utilizing my nights a bit better. Dunno. Sometimes I just give up writing and go to bed.
Because of course, with all the anxiety and dread and heavy doses of coffee comes sleep deprivation, and I really need more sleep.
Writing is still hard. I don’t often fall into the spell of guilting myself over not writing, but I still compare myself to other people. It’s taken me like 6 months to write what I have of the Woodstock 99 novella. I feel like things should come together better once I finish this fucking draft and get the plot sorted out. Then it’s just editing (which is the part of writing that I enjoy the most!). Editing makes me feel more immersed, when scraping this story out of me doesn’t feel like I’m wrestling myself open, trying to scrape out a plot like it’s a fucking PAP smear.
Everything about my WIP has hit a more personal level. It’s been hard to get it out. I’m sorry about the PAP smear reference. Maybe it’s too graphic for the internet. I don’t want to offend anyone. I’m just like, really feeling angsty right now.
I could probably write another short story. Just take a break.
I just want to distract myself.
I have all these old stories that still need homes, but I get stressed out jumping between submitting and writing. Submitting stories is just so stressful and I’ve honestly still got so much angst around submitting after the whole agent R&R fiasco. I’ve got all these fucking ideas. You know, a big old pile of them that makes me think I’ve got ADHD again.
Sometimes I just want answers. I’d kinda like to know if I’m ADHD or not. I’ve literally always been like this. But going about getting answers would just be adding a bunch of new fucking things to my To Do list and I fucking hate it. I refuse to do it.
I do not want to fucking to it.
I just want to distract myself.
I want to buy a pair of fucking balloon jeans online.
I found a pair of vintage ones are are like $40 on Poshmark.