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maryI want to keep a record of where my brain is at lately. It's not particularly pretty, and is really fucking triggering. Don't click if these things are a problem, please -- my crap should not harm others also!
I don't want to make those who love or care about me worried, so also please don't read this if it's going to upset you on my behalf. I'm okay, I promise. I don't want you to be concerned that I'm in a bad place or anything. It's all oooooooookay.
In a couple of days it'll be a month since I finished writing New Novel. Audrey drew a fucking awesome picture for me when she finished reading it, and Beckah and Kati both expressed that they thought it was pretty neat. I sent it to a couple of people I know who are "in the industry" or whatever you want to call it -- an editor I went out for coffee with last year, an agent who's expressed interest in working with me in the past, and a friend who's a successful young adult author.
And I totally, totally know that These Things Take Time, and that it's not like livejournal where you hit 'post' and then half an hour later start getting response comments. I know that even Harry Potter and stuff like that got rejected a zillion times before a publisher said 'why not, let's give it a try'. I know it'll be months more before I hear anything from any of these first round of people that I've sent it to, and that as much as I'd like to believe in my special magical wonderful snowflake genius, the first round (and second, and third, and so on) of responses are most likely going to be "thank you, but no".
I know each and every one of these things in my head. I'm not the melodramatic nineteen-year-old I was the last time I did this with a manuscript; I'm not going to get the first extremely polite rejection and flounce off to write nothing but fanfiction for six years (which I don't think was a bad decision, all things told, because it sure as hell made me a better writer and a tougher snowflake, and made me lots and lots of friends to boot. It wasn't a bad decision, but it was an immature reaction nonetheless). I can do this. I can weather it. I know I can.
But fuck, it's HARD to be in limbo, to try to start on another book and shove the thoughts of New Novel out of my head as completely as possible. It means that I'm stressed out and second-guessing every word I put down in Next Novel -- which is still only at about 12,000 words after a month of prodding and poking due to this -- because what if I'm complete and total shit, what if I'm a deluded idiot wasting my time even pretending to be a writer, what if this is the biggest fucking joke in the world and I should just fucking woman up and kill myself already instead of pretending that there's any point to my continued existence?
Okay, so maybe I am still kind of melodramatic. But that's genuinely how I'm feeling lately. I'm useless and pathetic and needy and stupid and ugly and ridiculous and worthless, and I just want to be good at something. I just want to be able to point to some objective, irrefutable thing like a published book and be able to say I may hate myself but at least I made this.
That's the thing: when you hate yourself, genuinely hate yourself, there's no point in trying to make self-confidence and self-worth come from within. Right now I hate myself so much that last night I took a razor blade to my stomach for the first time in over six months. I'm not proud of that at all, and I hate myself even more now for being so weak and needy and pathetic and fucked-up. But I just hate myself so much. I want to destroy myself, make myself bleed, punish myself for being such a worthless piece of shit.
And I know, I know that this is a really really fucked-up state of mind to be in, and that I should put Next Novel on the back burner and devote my energy to reeling myself back from this dark headspace. But I can't stop writing, because writing is the only time I don't feel worthless and miserable and useless. It's pretty much the only thing that makes me feel justified in existing -- the only other thing that does it is spending time with no-longer-wee-babysitting-charge, and one of the few lessons I actually took from the therapy I had six years ago was that I can't invest self-worth into the children of family units that I'm not a part of -- I used to do it with my baby brother and sister before I moved to Melbourne, and my therapist from 2005 said that this was a very bad and destructive thing to do because the kids in question are never going to need me like I need them, and eventually the family unit will move away from my life and then I'll feel abandoned.
I don't think that's what's going to happen with the little girl in question here, because I think she does need the friendship/older-sister-ness that I can offer her, and the fact that I am outside her family unit is a positive because it means I can be an impartial confidant and companion to her when stuff is stressing her out. Being almost-eleven is fucking tough for the most balanced of kids, and I want to be there for her. I don't think that's a wrong or unhealthy impulse to have. But my brain is broken, so who knows if that's a correct judgement or not.
I've also stalled badly on losing weight. I lost 5kg in the first three weeks of January and I've only lost 3kg in the months since then, because I'm just so fucking tired and exhausted and weary and stressed out all the fucking time that the thought of getting on the treadmill or having a fucking weight-loss shake for dinner makes me want to curl up and cry. I know I just need to be more self-disciplined and to stop being such a whiny little princess about it, but I get overwhelmed and then I just curl up in bed and don't want to move or think or get up or do anything.
I have all these friends I adore who are going through awful times right now, too, and I want to be there for them, I want to be the strong and supportive friend. I can't fall apart, I can't be this weak and pathetic and stupid wreck while they need me. And nobody wants a friend who is a moody depressed self-hating piece of shit anyway, so even if they weren't hurting I wouldn't want to be like this around them. It's not my turn to be the fucked-up one right now, I don't get to have the luxury of misery while they're going through shit. I need to suck it the fuck up and deal.
And it's getting into winter and cold which means my back and my arm and my knee have started their yearly aches, which means soon I'll have to give in and start using my cane again, and that always makes me feel a thousand times uglier and more self-indulgent and pathetic and useless and shitty. And even though in my head I know that this is a fucked-up double standard, and that I don't feel that way about other people. Same as I don't feel that way about other people's weight, not at all. The rules are different when it's me.
In happier news, I went out with a bunch of the usual suspects for Claire's birthday on Friday night, and it's amazing how good doing tequila shots and staying up until 2am having deep and meaningful discussions about the relative merits and disappointments of Never Let Me Go vs Black Swan feels. Friends! They're great. I love them.
Also I camwhored! Woo! Usually I wear more grown-up shoes than that to work, but the CEO was out of town on Friday and so I cheated a bit and wore boots.
OH AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, The Golden Rule. Justin Timberlake, Andy Samberg and Lady Gaga teach us all an important lesson about an important topic. I just. I cannot fucking deal with the beauty and magnificence. They are everything that is right and good in the world.
Also can we please talk about how Jason Todd is a strawberry blond who reads Pride and Prejudice? Comics you are my favourite and I love you ALWAYS.
I don't want to make those who love or care about me worried, so also please don't read this if it's going to upset you on my behalf. I'm okay, I promise. I don't want you to be concerned that I'm in a bad place or anything. It's all oooooooookay.
In a couple of days it'll be a month since I finished writing New Novel. Audrey drew a fucking awesome picture for me when she finished reading it, and Beckah and Kati both expressed that they thought it was pretty neat. I sent it to a couple of people I know who are "in the industry" or whatever you want to call it -- an editor I went out for coffee with last year, an agent who's expressed interest in working with me in the past, and a friend who's a successful young adult author.
And I totally, totally know that These Things Take Time, and that it's not like livejournal where you hit 'post' and then half an hour later start getting response comments. I know that even Harry Potter and stuff like that got rejected a zillion times before a publisher said 'why not, let's give it a try'. I know it'll be months more before I hear anything from any of these first round of people that I've sent it to, and that as much as I'd like to believe in my special magical wonderful snowflake genius, the first round (and second, and third, and so on) of responses are most likely going to be "thank you, but no".
I know each and every one of these things in my head. I'm not the melodramatic nineteen-year-old I was the last time I did this with a manuscript; I'm not going to get the first extremely polite rejection and flounce off to write nothing but fanfiction for six years (which I don't think was a bad decision, all things told, because it sure as hell made me a better writer and a tougher snowflake, and made me lots and lots of friends to boot. It wasn't a bad decision, but it was an immature reaction nonetheless). I can do this. I can weather it. I know I can.
But fuck, it's HARD to be in limbo, to try to start on another book and shove the thoughts of New Novel out of my head as completely as possible. It means that I'm stressed out and second-guessing every word I put down in Next Novel -- which is still only at about 12,000 words after a month of prodding and poking due to this -- because what if I'm complete and total shit, what if I'm a deluded idiot wasting my time even pretending to be a writer, what if this is the biggest fucking joke in the world and I should just fucking woman up and kill myself already instead of pretending that there's any point to my continued existence?
Okay, so maybe I am still kind of melodramatic. But that's genuinely how I'm feeling lately. I'm useless and pathetic and needy and stupid and ugly and ridiculous and worthless, and I just want to be good at something. I just want to be able to point to some objective, irrefutable thing like a published book and be able to say I may hate myself but at least I made this.
That's the thing: when you hate yourself, genuinely hate yourself, there's no point in trying to make self-confidence and self-worth come from within. Right now I hate myself so much that last night I took a razor blade to my stomach for the first time in over six months. I'm not proud of that at all, and I hate myself even more now for being so weak and needy and pathetic and fucked-up. But I just hate myself so much. I want to destroy myself, make myself bleed, punish myself for being such a worthless piece of shit.
And I know, I know that this is a really really fucked-up state of mind to be in, and that I should put Next Novel on the back burner and devote my energy to reeling myself back from this dark headspace. But I can't stop writing, because writing is the only time I don't feel worthless and miserable and useless. It's pretty much the only thing that makes me feel justified in existing -- the only other thing that does it is spending time with no-longer-wee-babysitting-charge, and one of the few lessons I actually took from the therapy I had six years ago was that I can't invest self-worth into the children of family units that I'm not a part of -- I used to do it with my baby brother and sister before I moved to Melbourne, and my therapist from 2005 said that this was a very bad and destructive thing to do because the kids in question are never going to need me like I need them, and eventually the family unit will move away from my life and then I'll feel abandoned.
I don't think that's what's going to happen with the little girl in question here, because I think she does need the friendship/older-sister-ness that I can offer her, and the fact that I am outside her family unit is a positive because it means I can be an impartial confidant and companion to her when stuff is stressing her out. Being almost-eleven is fucking tough for the most balanced of kids, and I want to be there for her. I don't think that's a wrong or unhealthy impulse to have. But my brain is broken, so who knows if that's a correct judgement or not.
I've also stalled badly on losing weight. I lost 5kg in the first three weeks of January and I've only lost 3kg in the months since then, because I'm just so fucking tired and exhausted and weary and stressed out all the fucking time that the thought of getting on the treadmill or having a fucking weight-loss shake for dinner makes me want to curl up and cry. I know I just need to be more self-disciplined and to stop being such a whiny little princess about it, but I get overwhelmed and then I just curl up in bed and don't want to move or think or get up or do anything.
I have all these friends I adore who are going through awful times right now, too, and I want to be there for them, I want to be the strong and supportive friend. I can't fall apart, I can't be this weak and pathetic and stupid wreck while they need me. And nobody wants a friend who is a moody depressed self-hating piece of shit anyway, so even if they weren't hurting I wouldn't want to be like this around them. It's not my turn to be the fucked-up one right now, I don't get to have the luxury of misery while they're going through shit. I need to suck it the fuck up and deal.
And it's getting into winter and cold which means my back and my arm and my knee have started their yearly aches, which means soon I'll have to give in and start using my cane again, and that always makes me feel a thousand times uglier and more self-indulgent and pathetic and useless and shitty. And even though in my head I know that this is a fucked-up double standard, and that I don't feel that way about other people. Same as I don't feel that way about other people's weight, not at all. The rules are different when it's me.
In happier news, I went out with a bunch of the usual suspects for Claire's birthday on Friday night, and it's amazing how good doing tequila shots and staying up until 2am having deep and meaningful discussions about the relative merits and disappointments of Never Let Me Go vs Black Swan feels. Friends! They're great. I love them.
Also I camwhored! Woo! Usually I wear more grown-up shoes than that to work, but the CEO was out of town on Friday and so I cheated a bit and wore boots.
OH AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, The Golden Rule. Justin Timberlake, Andy Samberg and Lady Gaga teach us all an important lesson about an important topic. I just. I cannot fucking deal with the beauty and magnificence. They are everything that is right and good in the world.
Also can we please talk about how Jason Todd is a strawberry blond who reads Pride and Prejudice? Comics you are my favourite and I love you ALWAYS.