Going crazy (venting post) · 5:02pm Jun 15th, 2020
Okay, so before everyone freaks out, I am writing this as a kind of stream of consciousness, like a journal, and I need to get shit out of my brain. I do have a private one next to my bed, but I wanted to try something out. Maybe help some people understand why I am taking so FUCKING long to write. Don't be alarmed if this goes down "the rabbit hole."
Stuck. I've been stuck in an empty house and I need to get out. Get OUT. Left alone, I shut down and I do nothing. I run from the nothing. Games. Movies. Porn. ANYthing to run from the feeling, run from myself. And then I realize I am doing nothing. Guilt. And I run from the guilt. Run from the fact zi'm running. Never ending. Look at the clock. 4 am. FUCK A DUCK! Sleep. Nightmares.
Three days in an empty house and all the while work is my release. Get out, in body not in mind, and then have to go back. Hate it. But wanted to be alone. Looked forward to it. Until I hear nothing. See nothing. Nobody. Alone. So pathetic. Whoa is me. Little boy pretending to be an adult. Not true, but feels that. Run. Keep running, boy! Keep running, so you don't feel!
But even the things I turn to leave me empty, and thrill me no longer. Didn't I enjoy this game once? Didn't I smile once? Now it is a chore. I feel drawn back to the numbing glow of the screen against my will, telling myself the next time it will fill me. The next one will do. The next one will do it. The next one will open the doors of my mind and the tingling sensations in the back of my brain will come back.
But the numbing drug, which no test will ever detect, is doing its job too well. Memories aren't numbed, all feeling is gone now. I want to feel happiness too. Joy. Fulfillment. I know how to find it, but the effort to walk away from the keyboard takes so much effort. And I'm not doing anything I want. Not even writing.
The WRITING! It's infected now! How many times must I delete my work? Hoe many chapters before were edited this badly? I know what happens next, but what is This? Assault? Attempted rape? I didn't want that! Get it out of my story! It's a horror to me. A dying faun on the side of a lovely trail. A black spot on a beautiful scene, but an abomination. And I still feel nothing. Writing with no feeling isn't writing. It's homework. But I can't give this up. I can't stop the signal. Never stop the signal, Mal.
But I can't run anymore. Repression just builds up a flood, and the dam is cracking. Let the waters flow again. Feel again. Even the things I fear to feel. How else can it be conquered except by facing it? The Giant, Despair, rises against me and locks me away. But there is a key somewhere, so close, that will open and door or lock in Doubting Castle. Reaching out for truth and help, yet it's the very thing I have run from because it forces me to hurt. The surgeon needs a willing patient. The infection in the wound is deep. Let him cut it out. The more it hurts, the more he's doing his job. Grit my teeth. Force myself to open my eyes.
"Open your eyes, Nicolas."
*a scream and a good ending to a good rock opera*
(Nice.)
Face the music. Easy to say. Not easy to do. Write. Don't stop. On paper if I must, but don't stop.
For them? For me? For me. They are wonderful, fill me up with confidence. Validation. But true recovery needs to be because I love myself enough.
You know how the story ends. Yes. It always told me. Couldn't hide from it. Even before it ever touched the screen. You knew the ending. But it cannot be rushed. Cannot be pushed. Let it come. Time for walking in the sunshine a little longer. Then darkness. Then out into a new Day. "Every New Day." "On Distant Shores."
Damn. Don't edit. Let it be. Let it sit. Show them. Everything so cooped up in my head a little insanity need to leak out. Vent. Expel the poison.
"...and Vomit these toxins. That's tearing these solids and giving it space, but seasons to give. She reached out in sorrow and vanished the land, no past or tomorrow..."
That had nothing do with anything. What is with these song references? Sing. Ah yes. Sing. Vent with words of beauty. Or truth. Ah. Hurt so good. Come on baby. (don't even like the song, but it works)
Gotta end somehow. I'll be alright. Not just belief. Fact. Been through worse. This too shall pass. No blade in the hand. No worry about tomorrow. Get through it. But willing to do the work, it comes sooner.
I am alright. Just need to see it. So hard when you're numb. So you reach out. The joy. The thrill of stepping out into the sunlight. So I write this outside. A smaller screen in hand. But I look up at the clouds, hear the birds, see the sun, feel the breeze. It feel good to be out.
Had to get to out sometime.
Hope things get better
We feel ya, man. Dunno what to say, except to tell you you've got a willing audience.
I'm the 14th person to read this, so you've successfully led two dozen randos down the roller-coaster-esqe train of thought you were on. And you did so at O' Dark Thirty in the morning. So you've done one reasonably impressive thing today, which, at bare minimum, makes you 100% more productive than my lazy butt.
If you feel like this sort of venting helps, we'll be here to read your journal!
-cc
5285450
5285440
Thanks, guys! Without going into gory details, I am getting better. And I have been making steps to ensure it remains that way. I'm picking up pen and paper immediately after this, as the story must continue. Your encouragement means more than you know.
(Random thought: how the FUCK does a guy start writing erotica and end up getting encouraged and loved by his audience with his personal life issues? I mean, of course I get it, but putting it in theses terms, I mean... life is hilarious!)
5285511
It truly is, isn't it? But hey, it just goes to show the solidarity of the fandom and the genuine kindness of people. I'm looking forward to seeing what you put out next but also hope that you take it easy and don't rush it.