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Why the words don't come.
Oct. 13th, 2012 10:49 pmI've been unproductive in both writing and blogging lately (the latter being obvious to you guys) (lately meaning... since June, when it comes to writing), and that's a stress thing. The writing has been slowly getting better; the blogging slowly worse, but I've had a frustrating couple of days, so I wanted to get it off my chest. Also i promised y'all a blog post a week, so it's owed.
The problem is, the stress isn't rational. Megan and I are financially better off than ever. Several other obvious stressors I've had before are also lower, not higher, than ever before.
And yet, I've been having what I can only describe as anxiety attacks. They started earlier this year; I don't remember how much earlier. Before my productivity problems in writing, anyway. (Two years ago my best year for writing was 40,000 words; this year i am over 100K, clearly productivity problems are relative).
What happens is, I have an intense episode, between, say, two and twenty minutes, where I am paralyzed and preoccupied by the fear of my own mortality. I think I mentioned this before. Not fear of death, mind, of mortality. I don't think I'm going to die any time soon, but the prospect that it will happen eventually, not just to me but to everyone, and that tehre is no knowing what if anything comes next, makes me want to scream and weep and throw up and throw things. Of course, I don't. I just sit there being dizzy and angry and fed up at myself, and try to think about something else, or put some fucking rational perspective on the thing, and eventually I succeed and life goes back to normal.
I don't like talking about this. I don't like posting about this. it makes me feel vulnerable, and worse, it makes me feel crazy. Growing up with a clinically paranoid father, being crazy is my biggest fear. Hell, even these existential panic attacks can't rival my fear of senility, insanity, delusion... just, fuck no, okay?
Sometime around midsummer, I think, I started to find coping mechanisms that worked. The attacks got less frequent. Even when they happened, I could ride them out with relative serenity in five minutes or less.
Now they're stepping up again.
In another couple months I will have health insurance. After I get a doctor to figure out if I have depression or ADD or both, conquering these things is priority numero uno. Hell, I'll mention it in that first appointment, because maybe it's connected, even though these are new and my other presumptive neurochemical difficulties date back at least to when i hit puberty.
I'm just impatient. Worst of all, these things both give me an awareness of the limited time I have on this sphere, and simultaneously, they waste my time. I refuse to spend the next sixty years losing, what, call it point six percent of my time to these things? That's five months. I could write a novel in five months. This bastardly little inconvenience is cutting a novel out of my lifetime potential productivity.
I hate it.
I guess, this year, I've had more than my usual share of spiritual doubts and struggles with faith. But it's hard to tell which was cause and which was effect, and I've made it past the worst of those, too, so doubt that these things are only... what, theological aftershocks?
I do not know what is going on inside my head. I do not like it.
I would appreciate commentary. I would not appreciate advice. Please distinguish between the two in your responses.
Thanks for listening.
The problem is, the stress isn't rational. Megan and I are financially better off than ever. Several other obvious stressors I've had before are also lower, not higher, than ever before.
And yet, I've been having what I can only describe as anxiety attacks. They started earlier this year; I don't remember how much earlier. Before my productivity problems in writing, anyway. (Two years ago my best year for writing was 40,000 words; this year i am over 100K, clearly productivity problems are relative).
What happens is, I have an intense episode, between, say, two and twenty minutes, where I am paralyzed and preoccupied by the fear of my own mortality. I think I mentioned this before. Not fear of death, mind, of mortality. I don't think I'm going to die any time soon, but the prospect that it will happen eventually, not just to me but to everyone, and that tehre is no knowing what if anything comes next, makes me want to scream and weep and throw up and throw things. Of course, I don't. I just sit there being dizzy and angry and fed up at myself, and try to think about something else, or put some fucking rational perspective on the thing, and eventually I succeed and life goes back to normal.
I don't like talking about this. I don't like posting about this. it makes me feel vulnerable, and worse, it makes me feel crazy. Growing up with a clinically paranoid father, being crazy is my biggest fear. Hell, even these existential panic attacks can't rival my fear of senility, insanity, delusion... just, fuck no, okay?
Sometime around midsummer, I think, I started to find coping mechanisms that worked. The attacks got less frequent. Even when they happened, I could ride them out with relative serenity in five minutes or less.
Now they're stepping up again.
In another couple months I will have health insurance. After I get a doctor to figure out if I have depression or ADD or both, conquering these things is priority numero uno. Hell, I'll mention it in that first appointment, because maybe it's connected, even though these are new and my other presumptive neurochemical difficulties date back at least to when i hit puberty.
I'm just impatient. Worst of all, these things both give me an awareness of the limited time I have on this sphere, and simultaneously, they waste my time. I refuse to spend the next sixty years losing, what, call it point six percent of my time to these things? That's five months. I could write a novel in five months. This bastardly little inconvenience is cutting a novel out of my lifetime potential productivity.
I hate it.
I guess, this year, I've had more than my usual share of spiritual doubts and struggles with faith. But it's hard to tell which was cause and which was effect, and I've made it past the worst of those, too, so doubt that these things are only... what, theological aftershocks?
I do not know what is going on inside my head. I do not like it.
I would appreciate commentary. I would not appreciate advice. Please distinguish between the two in your responses.
Thanks for listening.
