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Today is canceled. I never showed up. Oh, I was here, but I was never a functioning human being. My legs hurt so bad I got none of my walks in. I've been awful about self-care. My food intake is almost nothing.
And this is what it looks like when I bottom out emotionally. I'm having a day where nothing is good. Where I'm to blame for everything that is wrong, and I don't deserve anything. A deep pit where I can yell at myself for being so fucking stupid as to ever dream that I'd be anything more than a worker drone. I've failed at so much, so obviously I'm going to fail again and again and again until finally, I give up and just die so I can get out of the way.
I really honestly hate what I've become. This broken wreck of a body that betrays me at every turn. I make jokes about it, write cute little stories to cover up the fact that things are awful and vile. Everywhere I look, everything good about me seems to be done. I was a soldier, a dispatcher, a kick-ass truck driver. Was.
The sad thing is I was actually pretty good at my jobs and loved driving for a living. I loved having the longest and most grueling route. I loved coming to know every state road and secondary highway in the San Joaquin Valley. I loved getting asked to do the impossible and getting it done.
But that was taken away from me by my treacherous body. These days, I doubt I'd be able to climb into the cab without help. Yes, I know that getting older means losing things, but I'm 51 fucking years old! I should have had decades left to have earned a Class A and driven long-haul routes. To face bigger and better impossible jobs.
I swear I try not to live in the past. I'm trying to write something that can get published. I'm pushing myself by volunteering to help out with editing and writing for an issue of The Drink Tank, volunteering for Worldcon Publications, trying to do more for my camp at Burning Man. I've even volunteered for the City of Santa Clara's Civilian Police Academy.
But on days like today, when everything crashes in on me; my physical woes, my depression, just everything, I am back in that damn pit where I really feel I belong for wasting everyone's time.
Want to hear something really pathetic? I've sent out about two dozen short stories to various online magazines. I don't expect to get published. I just expect the rejection email to show up. I like my work, and try to get it formatted the way they like, but the second I hit submit I've already resigned myself to the inevitable.
At this point, I've almost stopped writing fiction altogether because all I can see is how much I suck. Why should I write bad Larry Niven when the real guy is doing such a good job of it already?
I made a joke. That's a good sign.
Anyway, that's where my head has been all day. My legs are raging at a 5 to 6 on the pain scale, it's rainy and dark, and I never showed up for my own damn life. I'm just sitting here in the same clothes I've been wearing for three days because why the fuck would I change when I'm not going anywhere and nobody ever comes to see me? Not like we could entertain anyone here anyway.
I'll probably feel better when Kirsten gets home with giant burritos. A hot shower and a good night's sleep is on the agenda. I've got a D&D game in the morning and we might clean up a little around here. In progress there is hope.
Speaking of progress, Thursday I dropped off the intake packet for a second set of therapists. These folks will be working with me more directly on the depression issues. Hope to hear from them Monday. My writing group swings into action in two weeks, so I need to start writing. Which keeps me focused. I fully expect to be on some sort of mood stabilizing medication in the next few weeks.
Finally, don't worry too hard about what I've written here. It's a bad day, most of them are much better. It's just that years of dealing with my health in my usual stoic way have piled up and I'm dealing with it now. Writing this helped, actually.
And this is what it looks like when I bottom out emotionally. I'm having a day where nothing is good. Where I'm to blame for everything that is wrong, and I don't deserve anything. A deep pit where I can yell at myself for being so fucking stupid as to ever dream that I'd be anything more than a worker drone. I've failed at so much, so obviously I'm going to fail again and again and again until finally, I give up and just die so I can get out of the way.
I really honestly hate what I've become. This broken wreck of a body that betrays me at every turn. I make jokes about it, write cute little stories to cover up the fact that things are awful and vile. Everywhere I look, everything good about me seems to be done. I was a soldier, a dispatcher, a kick-ass truck driver. Was.
The sad thing is I was actually pretty good at my jobs and loved driving for a living. I loved having the longest and most grueling route. I loved coming to know every state road and secondary highway in the San Joaquin Valley. I loved getting asked to do the impossible and getting it done.
But that was taken away from me by my treacherous body. These days, I doubt I'd be able to climb into the cab without help. Yes, I know that getting older means losing things, but I'm 51 fucking years old! I should have had decades left to have earned a Class A and driven long-haul routes. To face bigger and better impossible jobs.
I swear I try not to live in the past. I'm trying to write something that can get published. I'm pushing myself by volunteering to help out with editing and writing for an issue of The Drink Tank, volunteering for Worldcon Publications, trying to do more for my camp at Burning Man. I've even volunteered for the City of Santa Clara's Civilian Police Academy.
But on days like today, when everything crashes in on me; my physical woes, my depression, just everything, I am back in that damn pit where I really feel I belong for wasting everyone's time.
Want to hear something really pathetic? I've sent out about two dozen short stories to various online magazines. I don't expect to get published. I just expect the rejection email to show up. I like my work, and try to get it formatted the way they like, but the second I hit submit I've already resigned myself to the inevitable.
At this point, I've almost stopped writing fiction altogether because all I can see is how much I suck. Why should I write bad Larry Niven when the real guy is doing such a good job of it already?
I made a joke. That's a good sign.
Anyway, that's where my head has been all day. My legs are raging at a 5 to 6 on the pain scale, it's rainy and dark, and I never showed up for my own damn life. I'm just sitting here in the same clothes I've been wearing for three days because why the fuck would I change when I'm not going anywhere and nobody ever comes to see me? Not like we could entertain anyone here anyway.
I'll probably feel better when Kirsten gets home with giant burritos. A hot shower and a good night's sleep is on the agenda. I've got a D&D game in the morning and we might clean up a little around here. In progress there is hope.
Speaking of progress, Thursday I dropped off the intake packet for a second set of therapists. These folks will be working with me more directly on the depression issues. Hope to hear from them Monday. My writing group swings into action in two weeks, so I need to start writing. Which keeps me focused. I fully expect to be on some sort of mood stabilizing medication in the next few weeks.
Finally, don't worry too hard about what I've written here. It's a bad day, most of them are much better. It's just that years of dealing with my health in my usual stoic way have piled up and I'm dealing with it now. Writing this helped, actually.
