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valarltdI've been sick for over a month.
And today it all caught up with me. I slept a lot, loafed around feeling weak and managed to eat some soup and crackers. My sole accomplishment is getting dressed. Oh and finishing the last 4 rows of crochet on a set of heel-less and toe-less socks.
I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I don't want to write or craft. I don't want to do anything but sleep.
And I know it's seasonal depression as the sunlight starts to fail.
And depression lies.
I know it lies. But I keep listening to its lies.
It tells me I have no talent. I can't paint or draw or sing or anything. Crochet and knit? Really? Those skills are jokes. People make cruel jest because they got something knitted or crocheted.
It tells me I can't write. Or rather, that I can write, but nobody wants to read what I write. In the m/m world, they want pretty white boys with glamorous jobs in a nondescript city, having lots of vanilla sex as they fall in love. Because everyone wants to imagine it could happen to them, male and female readers alike. Yawn. I stand by the opinion I formed in 3rd grade: Why would I want to read about something that could actually happen to me? I want grand sweeping epics and stars blurring to hyperspace and beautiful fae lovers and a million other things that never were. And it reminds me that my books invariably turn into muddled shite about 3/4 of the way through, especially if I don't have a partner keeping me on track. It reminds me that none of my books are ever as good as what i imagine, they never manage to tell the story I meant to tell.
It tells me my husband is stupid. And I talk to him as if he is. I lose patience with his double-checking habit and spell things out as if he's five, step by step, my voice dripping with annoyance and contempt.
I hate being sick. It makes me more myself than usual and I can't put up the semi-pleasant facade of being human.
"If you can't handle me at my worst, I don't blame you. That shit is ridiculous."
And today it all caught up with me. I slept a lot, loafed around feeling weak and managed to eat some soup and crackers. My sole accomplishment is getting dressed. Oh and finishing the last 4 rows of crochet on a set of heel-less and toe-less socks.
I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I don't want to write or craft. I don't want to do anything but sleep.
And I know it's seasonal depression as the sunlight starts to fail.
And depression lies.
I know it lies. But I keep listening to its lies.
It tells me I have no talent. I can't paint or draw or sing or anything. Crochet and knit? Really? Those skills are jokes. People make cruel jest because they got something knitted or crocheted.
It tells me I can't write. Or rather, that I can write, but nobody wants to read what I write. In the m/m world, they want pretty white boys with glamorous jobs in a nondescript city, having lots of vanilla sex as they fall in love. Because everyone wants to imagine it could happen to them, male and female readers alike. Yawn. I stand by the opinion I formed in 3rd grade: Why would I want to read about something that could actually happen to me? I want grand sweeping epics and stars blurring to hyperspace and beautiful fae lovers and a million other things that never were. And it reminds me that my books invariably turn into muddled shite about 3/4 of the way through, especially if I don't have a partner keeping me on track. It reminds me that none of my books are ever as good as what i imagine, they never manage to tell the story I meant to tell.
It tells me my husband is stupid. And I talk to him as if he is. I lose patience with his double-checking habit and spell things out as if he's five, step by step, my voice dripping with annoyance and contempt.
I hate being sick. It makes me more myself than usual and I can't put up the semi-pleasant facade of being human.
"If you can't handle me at my worst, I don't blame you. That shit is ridiculous."
