Where are? Where have you been? I know you have not forsaken me, but it feels a lot like it. Worse yet, you continue to supply me with new and exciting story ideas; more so, in fact, than I’ll ever have time to write. Additionally, you’ve given me ideas for blog posts and essays (like the one you’re reading now.)
Please, where does this madness end!?!
It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I am the epitome of gratitude. You could even argue that I’m contradicting myself. The crux of the matter is, all the ideas in the world will get me nowhere if I’m not motivated to write them. I set multiple alarms to wake up between seven and eight thirty AM, but I don’t get up. I only want to sleep, despite getting a good night’s rest. If I forced myself up, made coffee and proceeded to work, in all likelihood I’d be okay. I’d be happy. I know that in my heart. In my head, however, when I’m barely awake, sleep trumps everything. Even if I do get motivated, other factors are inevitably at play…and one of them is sly, real sly, slithering around inside my body, disrupting the neurons in my brain to fire at will, resulting in agonizing, often debilitating pain. The other factor isn’t nearly as intense, but trying to get moving with a demanding four year old isn’t exactly easy. Please don’t misunderstand me: I love and cherish every moment with Carter, and I am not blaming him, but he needs to learn to be more independent and self-reliant. I need to instill these qualities in him. I just don’t know how… If any of you have any suggestions, all are welcome and appreciated.
And waking up late discourages me because my whole day is put on hold, and subsequently started late. All of which is to say that depression and Fibromyalgia are vicious monsters. It is an endless and vicious cycle. A cycle which desperately needs to be broken, and which I feel powerless to stop.
A lot of this is mental and physical, I get that. I really do. They are dominant, and unfortunately I’m the type of person that makes decisions based largely, almost solely on my emotions. I’m finding it almost impossible to overcome, to fight through the mental and physical, and just work. I know that is what it’s going to take.
Then there’s my ongoing struggle to concentrate on what I’m reading. Like I’ve said in a previous post, I’ve been fighting this for over two years now. Two years and three months, to be precise. Needless to say, it has become very, VERY old, to the point that I’m tired of trying. Why bother writing if I can’t really read, you know? As an artist/creative and on a personal level, that’s not good enough. Think of it this way: have you ever heard of a writer that doesn’t or can’t read for pleasure? That’s the equivalent of a musician that doesn’t listen to others in her/his field; a painter whom only looks at and admirers their own work. These things just don’t happen. If they do, it is very rare. Not only that, but how can they expect to learn and grow? Without doing these things, one’s creativity and imagination become stifled. To quote Stephen King:
“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.”
To clarify what it’s typically like for me, I thought I’d share. Usually when I sit down to read, fully intent on breaking this horrid beast, I’ll be going along and the words will form vague pictures in my head and I can kind of process what’s going on, but at the same time, the words are more like a drone. It feels as though I’m not fully awake, despite having two or three cups of coffee by that point.
Other times, I’ll do just fine, although that’s increasingly rare. Making matters worse, I’m starting to see it effect my focus when I’m watching television. I’ll be fine at first, and then my mind begins to wander. Once I’ve “come-to,” so to speak, I have to rewind the program because I don’t understand what exactly is going on. In essence, it causes me to miss important steps. Like walking into the middle of a film and expecting to understand it. Admittedly, I’ll catch key phrases and random (all too random,) sentences, but I’m not processing all of it. I’m missing the Big Picture.
Are you seeing the pattern here? Because I am. I’m living it, and it makes me mad. It angers and saddens me. Speaking bluntly, it pisses me off.
Worse of all, I know by experience that I’m fully capable of writing two thousand words (sometimes more) a day, but without reading, I’m only doing half the job. What’s the point, truly? I hate mediocrity.
Am I being selfish? Seriously, I’m starting to think that I’m putting the needs of everyone else below mine. Like my family’s secondary, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. I love them very, very much.
I hope to hear from you in the comments section below.:)