Be warned, I have been writing on my other blog. I have been attempting to rewrite a shit novel. I think I mentioned that.
I have also been skipping meals and watching my step. But all I do is watch myself miss my footing. Don't read on if you aren't interested. Hell, don't read on if you are. It's my oddness to have to write shit to cope, not yours to read it.
Sometimes I feel that I am slipping away. There are flashes, sustained in places, where I feel at home, where I feel that I know myself and am happy with who I am. Then, other times, I feel my balance going and it's like the world is moving. Then it's not the world that is moving and wobbling and being strange, it's me. It's my own crevasse that I have fallen into.
Football, a foul, a stupid mistake, but one that I made knowingly. And, straight away, I'm back where I started. This has been building for a while, it's been threatening to come through for a long time and now, now it's coming through. Small starts: a missed mark or two, a homework that hasn't been checked. This then moves through Tilly feeling hacked off for some reason, compounded by a falling out with the children and then purified through the time of the month or else through hormones generally. Add in huge amounts of illness - usually augmented by an increased surge of hypochondria - and so I feel bad even more. Combined with the already low feeling that I cart around this is usually enough to knock me off balance. And so it has proved again.
We end up watching shit on the TV. Shit that Tilly likes rather than stuff we both watch. She ends up writing more, I end up taking solace in games late into the night. Then it starts. I'll seek out some porn on the internet and I shall look for a new thrill, the next thrill. The last time, the last time isn't enough in this mood and the further I plumb the better I feel because the further I plumb the more the guilt I feel matches the actions that I take. At this point a further push is required. Off-hand insults at work, maybe a thoughtless comment from a student, something that I perceive could have been done better or not done for one reason or another. And then I'm on to not getting up in a morning. I'll skip breakfast, I'll skip lunches or eat sparingly, and this will leave me weaker once again. And that's how it's been going, of course it has.
Thus, frustrated and generally feeling downj it won't take much to push me into a full depression. The foul at football was enough, of course it was enough, how could it have bee anything else? A comment on my writing online from someone who did not enjoy it, reasonably pointing out that my writing is more of the same and that it has passed tolerance for them. I can see why, my creative sparks are easily extinguished and easily dampened down from sparks to ash. It's how I roll. Let's be brutally honest, I have never actually completed a story since I started writing. I have written little snippets, vignettes, all my life but I have never worked at them or taken them to their conclusions. I have never managed to work on something more than once, everything I have ever written has been written as a first draft. First drafts that are plugged onto the page until I lose interest or the next shiny thing distracts me.
My lack of consistency in my writing is bad enough but at least there is something at the end of each project, some hope of improvement. But this, too, is a chimera. I cannot improve from what I am doing because I can't stand to read the sort of shit that I end up writing. Case in point is the blogging that I do and the rewrites that I plan and then never carry through to completion. My wordcounts lower little by little. The time spent staring at empty white space lengthens and so I feel worse and worse about my writing. You could say it was a crisis of confidence but it is overblown to do so. Mainly what is happening is the fact that I am not really a writer. I am a charlatan.
What does that mean for me? It means that I write in rhetorical questions and spew forth diatribe on sections of writing that don't really go anywhere. Blogging and reposting and watching pornography on the internet. And no one reads all of what I write anyway, no one reads the things that I write publicly and, if they do, they say something nice and throw-away without really understanding the problem. The problem? My problem. My inability to actually write. I do not write any more than Catholics have a capacity to be guiltless. I go to church now and again but I haven't had a proper conversation with God in a long time. I know that He knows what is going on and I know that He knows me. I know that, as I have been created by Him, He loves me. But, at the same time, I have no idea what that actually means.
Oh, woe is me, there I go again. It is simply a statement of fact, I don't know love at all. Take my relationship with Tilly as a good example. I thought that a goodly portion of marriage was physical, in hugs and kisses and sex, and that I as being different and clever when I said that I would not need to have sex all the time. The innocence of not knowing. But after being denied sex for so long and having been introduced to the frankly bizarre concept that my wife does not wish for more than a single orgasm in sex, that she has no requirement for anything other than missionary position and no desire to try anything else... She views my expectations of physicality as being a hold-over of teenage fumbling. Maybe it is for her. But... I never had that. It's jealousy I guess. Or something. Longing. Sadness. Ruefulness.
Words of warning and welcome:
This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. Obviously it started out as a blog about my cross-dressing but it has developed a great deal since then. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.
It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the New Readers' Page above this and the tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!