Opposite Day

Despite the fact that I'm dealing with a persistent depression, I'm going to be a bit dishonest here and labor for a positive mindset. It's to the point where I'm becoming restless and pissed-off because the physical and mental symptoms are really crippling what I want to be doing.

Today is an average day. Zero forms of water are falling from the neither grey nor blue sky. It's a bit on the cold side, but in the absurd likelihood that someone finds value in asking me if I prefer hot or cold, I go with cold. In truth, mild. Always mild. Hot and cold are both uncomfortable and inconvenient. I like rain but mostly the warm summer variety that feels amazing when I'm sweating during a 7 mile walk. Even that can be a bummer all the time since I don't have waterproof headphones and I'm not willing to risk my hearing or brain function to enjoy my usual walking music.

I'm pretty damn detail-oriented but willfully oblivious if my brain doesn't give it priority. (Oh, fuck transitions...) Even though I'm a social enigma, I'm an insightful observer. Even though I'm the most forgetful and easily confused person I know, I've got a quick problem-solving response and I can spot sarcasm, condescension, patronizing, and overall douchebaggery a mile away. I also intentionally appear oblivious and if you're thick, you think I don't get it, and my dry laugh is a warning that if you persist in being impolite, I'll escalate to being a dry-humored bitch rather quickly. I'm also internal to the point that I'll over focus on my social blunders, sometimes mumbling a conversation in replay while I mentally amend it. I'm not trying to be cute when I say I'm a ninja. I blend until I want to be seen but I'm likely to leave a conversation and join another without warning. You won't miss me when I slip away, but I won't annoy you when I join in. 

I'm talented! (More Tourette's, less transitions!) I speak fluent crochet and I can improvise with a pretty high success rate. When I do use patterns, I rarely follow them exactly. I love drawing characters, but backgrounds... Not so much. I've used some pretty absurd props for models to lean against because I'm lazy about those too sometimes. I love fashion design, but I have absolutely no desire to obsess on my own wardrobe. I'm pajama chic and, seriously, fuck all the haters who make assumptions based on that choice. I purposely wear light and stretchy materials because fibro can make clothing feel like a vice on my skin. Because I understand there are needs in clothing beyond the aesthetic, I also appreciate the many other purposes. Writing was always my guilty pleasure, but I'm still not sure it could be my number one vocation. It's tough for anyone, and more so when you're a woman that doesn't adhere to romance or crime thrillers. I love both of those, but there's also that defiant need to be extra, to write what the stories seem to demand. I'm not a purist writer which makes finding a niche unlikely.

Comics though. I damn bad habits for making that so challenging now. I miss those days where I could draw for 18 hours straight, but these days, even with ergonomics, I have to arm wrestle carpal tunnel and crippling finger cramps. I will have to build stamina to entertain being a full-time comic artist, but damn, I have some good fun ideas that dance with romance in some, dark comedy in others. I salivate thinking of getting a Cintiq Pro 24; I once entertained the Mobile Studio Pro but it's not only much more expensive, it also gets hot with prolonged use and I want something I can pull into my lap, keeping my posture and positioning in a place that won't leave me curled up in agony when I'm done. 

In case I've bored you to tears or lost you altogether, this isn't all about me. I hate to be the stereotypical mourning artist, but what I just did there, sometimes you need to do that. You need to physically type or longhand onto paper what you know about yourself. Be insightful as if you're observing a stranger. You don't have to be overly flattering or resist pointing out practical flaws. What you do need to do is address what is fucking you up, what you're forgetting, all with the mental goal of doing what you'd rather be doing. Admitting my flaws where anyone can read them? Not so fun. However, it's important to note that no matter how weak or vulnerable you think people might perceive you, there's strength in doing what you gotta do to wash your hands of it.

Don't wallow in shit. Don't practice anything half heartedly. I went into this angry and restless and walked away determined to eke out what I'd rather be doing.

Sooooo... What was it I'd rather be doing again?

The Glass Left Behind

I vaguely remember the time I first saw writing referred to as bleeding on paper. I'm fairly sure my swollen bleeding brain was drawn to the possibility of giving the excess blood somewhere to go, even if that's probably not what most people seem to think it means (going by the context around it). When people say it, it always sounds as if they are just using a more violent means of 'going for the gusto'. It sounds like a risk you take when you've already given blood or you're anemic, that you're giving something that may be more than you were initially willing to, perhaps. I do know that the concept didn't make me uncomfortable, but I was certainly on edge. It's not giving my blood that scares me; it's drawing the sharks that want more. Very likely why some writers hoard their precious red gold.

Let's skip context for a second and start by saying that it's very difficult to explain emotional abuse to someone who has no experience with it. Even harder to explain to many people that blood doesn't make you immune and some of the worst offenders can be family (and largely because many societies cannot even perceive of disloyal family or that they could even do anything unforgivable-- this give the offenders a dangerous blind spot to exploit). I've seen some books do it well enough, able to plant sufficient terror and unease into the 'beloved' villain that torments the protagonist. To show what it's like to be the hostage when other people see only the luxury of your life. To have people judge you as ungrateful, jealous, lazy, even childish when you're being overwhelmed by someone who becomes more likable the more they tear you down, like their charisma is fed with your destruction.

To survive, I suppressed a lot of both the strengths and weaknesses of those experiences. I've tapped into the surface of those incidents to write in the past, but it's been a trying week to dig them out in preparation for the third book of my series (yes, UnSung is about 5/6 done, but since each book leads into the next, I have to make the lead-ins more fluid). I'm giving one of the characters more of my blood than I've ever allowed before. There are some differences between her and I, but if we sat down together and talked about family and friends, we'd have a great deal in common. Do I kill her or give her some story of triumph? Part of the reason I'm not making her 'me' like some writers do is that I don't want that to be a certainty, an emotional parallel that determines the story. I don't want to make her a Mary Sue or paint her as some kind of victim. Her importance is still a bit of a mystery to me.

Even though I'm dancing around it, the bleeding in the brain is the central theme. My brain as a youth, and my heart besides, was something I left to open air to absorb everything. I liked running around barefoot too, just to strengthen the idea. I never really saw a need for filtering, in a time before trauma could issue the need for caution. Perhaps why most bravado comes off as the trait of someone who bluffs or hasn't been tested yet and rarely through actual triumph under fire. But, experience; I could pick out what I liked and throw the rest back, right? It would be nice if a contaminated brain could just get tossed out and replaced, but instead, it's more like a wineglass shattering next to it and try as you might, you just can't pick out all the pieces. No matter how whole and neat you thought your mind, the broken things find all the imperfections. You settle it back in place, tilt your head to test it and everything seems like new. You probably pat your back, puff up with pride and start to swagger into the day.

The pain is blinding. Your eye twitches, an impossibly fast shadow just out of focus. Your foot turns and you hold your breath, relieved that you don't wrench your ankle at least. A lingering sense of vertigo remains and you shoot a quick sidelong glance, your ego recovering enough to hope no one saw what looked like forgetting how to walk.

You tilt your head like you did the time before, only this time, it's cautious. Before you can meet the same vigor of your first test, the splitting pain strikes again. Damn. You're out now; you can't just go home, root around for the glass again. So you get through the day, recovering from every stab with a sudden smile, every stumble with a silly dance, every whimper with a tuneless hum.

When you can finally get around to it, it's gone too deep. You can't be sure if it had already been too far even before you felt it or not, but you tell yourself that you should have looked harder, been more careful. You frantically look for it anyway, only now it's not just glass, but the dirt under your fingernails, the errant hairs floating around, the dust, the icky sticky bugs...

It's bad enough when you have only yourself to blame. Sometimes your glass was put in by a surgeon and it will take a surgeon to get it back out. Yet you swear you know yourself better than anyone and don't want just anyone rooting around in there.

People suffer in silence for reasons that outnumber the sands on this earth. The problem with something getting in is that it has little to do with a fault of strength. We get sick when we need to eat but sometimes we miss the signs that the food was prepared wrong. We get sick when the invisible germs travel by air when we take a breath or nibble on a nail that touched the contaminated door handle. Sometimes we'd rather show up to work barely able to stand rather than admit we aren't invulnerable. Some fault is seen in our life choices, how we take care of ourselves and we are never allowed to blame anyone because all fault is supposed to begin and end with us. There's often more to lose than gain and it's easier to pretend things are handled.

Sometimes we are only so sick because we just tell ourselves it's glorious to be broken. No life is without struggle, but perhaps it is only so bad because the generic band-aids that are in fashion are only making it worse.

People might think our smiles and show of strength and optimism are signs that we're onto some secret of happiness that they covet. There's almost a societally acceptable amount of misery that must be worn to be invisible to this scrutiny or at least not attract the psychopaths that can't tell the difference (or don't care even if they can).

As you can see (or have even done before), it's not difficult to find the analogies, the physical reactions and defenses behind the psychology but it's a very different beast to dissect the psychology, form the characters and the subtlety of the situations. Experience is still limiting since, like my abusers, they were very much counting on the trauma to make it difficult or even impossible for me to find aid or peace. Even parts of my childhood have been eaten away. Your brain sometimes takes more than it needs to, just in case.

I want this for my story though. I can't bear the thought of what hell a memoir would open so I don't even entertain it as non-fiction. What this woman goes through, I won't even dare to assign the same offenders by relation to her lest the comparison be damning, but I'll Frankenstein my experience into this theme because if I don't, I'll make it too sterile and safe. If this is what they mean by bleed, it comes mixed with pain and relief but also the apprehension that I'll have to let it go before it festers. Which means if I write it, I'll be itching to publish it just as much.

But hasn't that always been the case?

I've said many times before, but there is no need to assume all writers are only coming from a place of damage and depression and torment. Sure, for many of us, it's a fact of life, but one thing that is certain is that that mindset is useless to me when I work. Yes, useless. This is inherently why I go through a vulnerable planning phase, to take notes and tap into the messy parts then fortify myself to be the observer to work, to dive back in with the experience, the plan and the narration ready to make sense. I did this as a musician and I do it as an artist. How well do you think I can play flute when the music sneaks up on me and makes me sob? How well do you think I can draw when I'm trembling with emotion? Those things are a complete nuisance to the actual process so finding the mastery to interpret them will never work when I'm in the mindset to work and end up blubbering on my keyboard (the silicone cover on my keyboard is for possible coffee spillage, not my tears).

I know that many people are emotional writers. It's not that I'm not at all, but I can't say that I actually keep the resulting mess of that. It's just not where my stories work.

If only to defend my method, I can't tell you how many times people are surprised when they find out authors like JK Rowling and Sherilynn Kenyon started their famous books in the thick of depression. It doesn't really show, does it? They weren't looking to be locked in that stagnation but to turn magic on it. How many comedians turn their pain into laughter? This obsession with the idea that creatives are locked into this tunnel of only focusing on their real problems is just myopic.

In a sense, you could romanticize their shards of glass as prisms of transcendent light. Can't say I haven't tried to look at it that way. However, I think the glass still cuts sometimes. Life is what we do with the pain.

... Scratch all that. I think I've found my newest writing method.

Editing Under the Influence

This probably comes off as a fuck-you-Hemingway or a threat to the virtues of sobriety, but in truth, I'm talking about an uglier influence: negativity. Normally, I'd say that this is is the time I'd rather divert to another task. I've also said that it's good to hate your work sometimes, so that's where I'll poke at this thought.

Some people poke bears. Some people get drunk and sleep with them. I'm looking at you, Hemingway.

It's impossible, for whatever reason, for me to like my work right now. I know it's not a genuine disconnect because these are ideas I was just recently excited about so they don't just magically suck-- all of my open projects at the same time? Something's up that has nothing to do with the quality.

However, these feelings can be paralytic. This is where I read about people going through what I am, always insisting to the blogger-- no, it's worse than everybody else's! I can't physically move, there's a weight on my chest, it's hard to breathe, my heartbeat is sluggish or feels like it's stopped, I'm numb. I used to be one of those insistent assholes so I'm calling your bluff. Despite loving my friends, my social anxiety doesn't just extend to stepping foot outside but to them as well. Despite the heaviness or chronic pain flareups, I can put one foot in front of the other (even if the results are a bit Bambiesque).

I'm pretty sure Hemingway wrestled Bambi too.

In these long slumps, unmedicated and encapsulated eternities, it can all feel pointless and hopeless, but it's not. I'm not irreparable, I'm not worthless, and I have to fight the damn goblins with those platitudes to the point of exhaustion, but guys, they're only as 'real' as we encourage them to be. For many of us, the price of immersion and imagination, the mania of it, just has an undesirable downside. I've even said I would trade the ridiculous highs for a serene middle ground, but that's also not a choice. How dare I simplify a complex problem? Well, would you rather give it validation to continue or kick its ass and belittle it? I'm a nurturer, but when it comes to negativity, I'll be a sadist any day.

Get out your gimp mask, depression; you're MY bitch now.

I know that it's not about choosing your attitude. I'm not belittling it that way. But I am saying you have to stop treating yourself like you're so precious too. What? You hate yourself and all you do? How is that precious? How is contemplating ending it all precious?  Even with your survival instincts going full retard, it's there and it's not valuable like hope. It's dismissive and catastrophic. It's telling you to nurse your pain and wallow in it because it makes you deep and strong. Like a vagina. You're a pussy. No matter how you feel about those words or their connotations, the fact is you're reducing your own potential to heal, becoming one piece of yourself when you're better than that.

Also, don't be a dick! Unfortunately, there are zero pictures of people giving a thumbs-up that don't look like total tools.

It took years to admit that those stupid exercises the therapist had given-- take a walk, don't eat garbage comfort foods, focus on breathing-- all of them were legit parts of ending sabotage loops, treating myself like I matter so I'm not encouraging more self-destruction and health issues to feel sorry for myself with. If you're still thinking about editing in this state, it may actually be valuable, but don't neglect self-care, don't use it as an excuse, don't make big permanent changes, and be okay with reducing your workload even if you are used to being a full time writer. Again, these are the sort of don't's integral towards my experience but do try them anyway. Also, probably don't confuse this with burnout for writing. I don't know if this is what people refer to as burnout because I know it's neither about the writing nor the passion or it wouldn't make sense to pine to write again, but no matter what depression or anxiety latches on to, this specific burnout isn't only solved by being able to work.

(*I'm going to add here that my perception of real burnout tends to be a complete revulsion or disillusionment, a lack of finding any value, not just enjoyment or state of mind. Burnout is something that you see in retrospect-- where you walk away and don't come back after an extended period of time. Perhaps this is why we fear it. The distance had to be established to realize it's not just a regular block.)

Writer's block?

 Facts-- while I haven't been able to pen my creative projects with any success, it does make me turn to blogging for introspection. I have been able to edit in short bursts (I do have more advice on this coming up). I'm hiding it from my friends, even though I probably shouldn't. Everything I do requires exhaustive effort but doing nothing is worse. So how do I function?

Not writer's block.

Well, I started by trying to find the emotional connection with my work, but it's pointless (try anyway). If I insist on loving it, I'll fail and get frustrated and it won't happen. Guess what? Don't need it. Instead, I do some joyless line editing. Look for grammar issues. It's a perfect time to outline because you're better able to be concise, grab important story points rather than thinking everything is important. This is where I do continuity checks, look at vocabulary, decide what points I might want to revisit later, creating turning points or Easter eggs.

And yes, because it's loveless, there is no marathon editing. I'm lucky if I can pump in two hours at a time. However, when I'm in a state where getting up to pee or eat is a huge effort, I'm not going to get militant with any other aspect of my life either. 

I might be talking semantics, but I'm not *really* saying force it. One of the reasons I juggle projects is because I often have to juggle basic needs with great effort. 'Nudge things around' is more like it. Shuffle it around. You're not trying to force it or snap out of it or even beat it out of yourself (no, Krista, no more misleadingly hot pictures of sadism). You want to be as firm as you can muster, which requires caution but diligence nonetheless. I know-- it's not easy. It's the hardest thing you will ever do in that moment. But you matter enough to try.

One thing about my issues is that I avoid medication at all costs. I have addiction in my past (present and future, but I'm not abusing/using now) and the side effects are worse than the problem. So yes, holistic means I have to feel the whole damn thing, not just the tip.

I'm trying to be serious, I promise on my pinky. But just the tip.

Medication numbed it but it also made me numb and apathetic and immobile. If you benefit from medicine, make sure you're keeping that a part of your self-care routine. Be an advocate against being a guinea pig if it's just slowly destroying you. This isn't a one-size-fits-all. It actually took my friends and family to point out I was getting much worse. Please make sure you have a support system that can point out how medication is affecting you because you might be too zombified to see it.

Being open to yourself about what you're feeling and what you need is a big part of learning how to walk yourself through a slump/depression. And I know the lows are terrifying and make you feel fragile and they ARE dangerous. We just don't always know what will trigger us into giving up. Celebrity and success clearly doesn't make you immune. It's okay to ignore social media or refuse to look at reviews or critiques, to avoid bad vibes or the risk. However, I do insist you find a way to exercise, mind your diet and kick away your crutches. Limp around, wobble and fall, but you CAN move. I'm not speaking from a pedestal or a safe place. I'm even more certain that you need tell yourself this at ground zero.

Regardless of whether the setback is mild or severe, you can't really actively get rid of it. There's no magic pill, no revolutionary workout, no epiphany from the work you love. Or at least, don't count on it. Because there COULD be is reason enough to work too!

But if you insist on throwing your money at something, I might have a pill to sell you. #shameless

 While there may be exceptions to what works, don't be afraid to try. Be an idea factory, write short prompts or scenes, blog, throw darts at pictures of people you don't like, stay in pajamas but still wander around the neighborhood. Because lying there, leaking and whimpering, only makes it worse. Don't nurse and encourage that fragility. Make yourself cry or get angry. Keep your lows an active forward-moving slump and maybe your work will benefit too.

There are a lot of factors involved though. The discipline may include long term attention to care, to coming to terms with setbacks, forgiving yourself the trickle of productivity. Just keep in mind that whether you're a long suffering depressive or one of them rare normal Pokemon that just isn't aligning to the task, there are methods to try.

For the last time-- not a Pokémon!

Find your strengths in your weaknesses and you'll get there.

Really, I hope I could make you laugh and cry at the same time. When you're all up in your serious feelings, a sense of humor-- I can't emphasize this enough-- is VERY valuable. I know some people like to watch sad movies, to get some good crying in, but I usually prefer a comedy, the stupider the better,  so I can look absolutely insane with the whole bucket of emotion.

Plus, inappropriate laughter is always the most therapeutic.

So yes-- edit when you're down too. Distancing yourself from things for fear of ruining them with your stupid, worthless, unenthusiastic, uninspired garbage is the exact opposite of what your work needs. If you want to be a dimensional writer, then don't tell yourself you need to be anything. You also don't need more layers to be deep. It's possible to write a phenomenal book when you're in total control; it's possible to write one when you're a hot mess. It's not the amount of strife that makes you deep or interesting, it's how you incorporate yourself into it. I get it; you don't want your sob story leaking into your strong themes. Again, when you can't trust the emotional aspect, you're still ridiculously capable of finding focus through surrendering to apathy. Rather than being critical of content or tone, remember to be a boring grammar nerd or a fact-finding vulture.

You're never completely useless, I promise you. Every aspect of humanity is tailored into a creative pursuit. There will be days when you can go above and beyond, days where you can meet expectation. So expect many many days of slumps too-- just... well...

MAKE THEM YOUR BITCH!

The Climax and Cost of Accomplishments

Once upon a time, I never finished anything I started. It was easily a painful time of my life for more reasons than that, but more so because I was both angry with and willing to concede that I was full of wasted potential while doing jack shit about it. Focus was not something that came easily and new ideas would lure me away from the old. Abandonment was a pattern I couldn't quite escape, even when it was in my hands.

I'm going to ditch the "What Writers Should Blog About" advice and not attempt to make the whole concept a general one we can all get chummy and 'me too' about. I'm going to dance over some of my own history, but I'm going to apply the evidence of changing that attitude.

The first thing I ever completed wasn't high school; it was getting my GED. I did it so I could get into college. However, the arrangement was difficult since I had a lot of things piling up on me--

• I'd quit working as a pizza cook. No financial independence, but I'd started moderating in share hubs and learning how to operate a computer, including hardware installation. I also ate a ridiculous amount of hotdogs. When you're 19 with the metabolism of a hummingbird, that seems like a foolproof diet.
• I hated riding the bus and was even followed off of it a couple times. I can't tell you how many days I pretended I needed to shop at the grocery store at the bus stop, just to make sure I wasn't being followed home.
• My grandmother was lecturing me about money, which is insulting in most cases, but especially so given she was wealthy and I was quite aware of how to pinch a penny. Enabling was frowned upon, unless you were my mother. Someday, I'll memoir all about that double standard, but I'm not bitter enough to care to dwell on that these days.
• I wanted to enjoy being a 'new adult'. I reunited with a friend I fell out with in high school(a sort of soul mate). When the old college try didn't pan out, she actually got me a job at Subway until I worked for Border's and then worked with her again at Target.
• The counselor that signed me up for courses screwed up my major and basically told me I'd have to 'lock in my position' and take classes which wouldn't credit towards my major (and after having my grandma snap at me for finances, I was mortified of bringing that up). Seriously, government needs to crack down on the deceptive practices colleges are allowed to use. Keep in mind, this was University of Cincinnati, a public college, not a private one. And these are supposed to be the 'good guys'. One girl was in limbo for three years waiting for a coveted space to open up in Photography.

A lot of things that just added up to walking away from a shitty liberal-arts-that-should-have-been-fine-arts degree. I did get a single credit in the elective basic drawing class I took, so guess what it takes to get me to the finish line?

*Back then, I didn't realize that my confusion and moods were related to BPD and ASD. lol Back before these were on the radar, my sort were just kind of the clowns, court jesters, off-color, or eccentric sort. It's not really unfiltered or even brutally honest, but social acceptability tends to fall pretty low on the list of why I should probably not share something. Either way, I like the adjectives over the letter crap, but the letters were a good baseline for understanding what dumb shit triggered me. It took a lot of lost jobs and hospital visits before I realized that I have to approach life Mission Impossible style. I kind of have to risk looking dumb to show I know what I'm doing.*

Me, except setting the alarm with my boobs.

Either way, I learned then that 'winning' isn't really a pattern or a streak. That everything that reaches an end is a battle with time, priorities, self-doubt, even isolation. Again, life started piling on against my aspirations. I started college again in my mid twenties, this time online so I could take the pain in the ass of transportation out and just focus on the work. A few months into it, I had a breakdown (again, memoir-- this one had to do with more toxicity and abuse). Just woke up in the middle of the night thinking I was having an heart attack because it felt purely physical. Even though my BP was in stage 2 hypertension, the culprit was a panic attack. On medication, I just got sicker, which led to another ER visit. I admitted to a nurse I was fantasizing about how I wanted to kill myself. Sure, that wasn't exactly new, but it was the first time I ever told an adult as an adult myself.

I don't know; goodbye, cruel world?

What tipped her off is that I was very matter of fact about it. I was numb to everything, just going through the motions. I signed myself in to psych, spent a week looking for where I left myself. Disassociation is a weird bitch. You're sharply aware in a way, but you kind of feel like you're a placeholder for yourself, holding your seat until you get back. I ate well, drank a lot of juice and watched people. Nosy as fuck, I'll admit, but I wanted to know what put us there and since *I* was a placeholder, things like reputation and self-consciousness were out to lunch too. Essentially, I was more like my childhood self, the me before trauma started its uneven layers, surrounded by more child-adults. Were we weak? Broken? Did we get a scarlet letter now? But no, they were mostly just people pushed too hard on one side of life and couldn't avoid a face plant. Most of us were kind of in a state of shock when we first got there, like when blood is gushing out of your nose and your first instinct is to try to put it back in. I wouldn't say the bullshit little groups we had to go to were actually valuable, but I think ultimately, they knew that too. It didn't really matter if we participated. We were herded around so we could relearn the basics of function. Really, they could have talked about how to make grilled cheese with Elmer's glue, but instead they told us how to breathe and scribbled on a whiteboard. I also remembered I was still a college student, but we'll get to that.

My new friends for the week. Some I'll never forget. I like three-story-verbatim guy and his rivalry with the sniveling angry guy who kept asking if he could call home to ask his wife if she let the dog out. They both wore their shorts and socks too high and I'm convinced this is why they were rivals. Three-Story kept going on about baseball (he was a friendly dude, just a broken record on a nostalgic loop) and the other guy was flipping his shit because he couldn't take the repetition. When my dad and brother came to visit, I whispered to my dad 'shhh, watch this' and repeated the next two sentences of the guy's story when he said them. I'll never forget my dad's face because there are few times my quirkiness can genuinely surprise him. I think it was mostly relief that I'd gotten my weird sense of humor back.

What happens after you lose your shit is often this laser focus on the order of things. I started to say this when I brought up the groups, but it's pretty important to how all people 'work'. It's never more true than after a breakdown. In fact, the morbid aftermath isn't just embarrassment or disorientation, but an underlying sense of relief that the simple things are still there after the chaos blew everything else to shit. I was in reboot with a bunch of people reorganizing their life code. When I ate, it wasn't about enjoyment (even though the food was good)-- I took a bite of everything in a clockwise direction one time. Another time, I worked on eating all of something before eating anything else. It wasn't even because of the limited stimulus or boredom or burn-out; it was more akin to reprogramming ourselves with conscious attention to ritual. There was no indoctrination here. We still had to go it alone, but we didn't have to explain it to our audience-- there was a cathartic understanding that we were all on training wheels. For me, every day was on autopilot until I was able to update. It took a lot of fruit juice and some pretty amazing nurses too, but I graduated from placeholder to person again.

When I found part of myself (again: group activity-- what were you most proud of?), I immediately panicked. I had a big project due in a 3D modeling class and if I failed, I'd have to retake it. They let my dad bring my laptop and watched me in an observation room while I scrambled to turn in a passable final project. I got a B.

Appropriate share time! A room modeled from a source picture. I was in my 20th week of school and finishing my model creation class. Side note: the rest of my models from that class are in my FaceBook photos, so add me and check them out!

I wasn't yet hip to the scam that private schools are, but I don't think you could have stopped me from doing it anyway. My credit was already shot to hell and I didn't think school was even possible. So when I got in and got through a mental breakdown but kept my head above water, I think my intent to fight was just stronger than my vulnerabilities at the time. They sprung on me that I needed to pay several thousand to make up for what financial aid didn't cover. When I got into this school, I made it clear that I had no income so I was devastated. I didn't want to give up! It was one of the few things that made me want to stay alive at the time. Instead of dissolving, I started looking at transferring to a more affordable school. I couldn't find another animation program, but I switched to graphic design. It wasn't exactly a downgrade either since the idea of getting better at digital painting was appealing too (and turned out to be what pushed me into learning how to publish my work).

I worked my ass off and nabbed my associate's degree, but financial aid was dancing on some more deceptive crap. In order to get my AS (which I achieved cum laude honors on), they wanted more money I didn't have. I applied for grants and decided to continue for a bachelor's and this covered it (somehow-- I think that legally they're just allowed to lie to some extent to extort you). Financial aid kept shitting on my doorstep throughout. The stress of busting out my best work was hard enough, but add to that the dreaded phone calls every few months that needed me to maneuver through loopholes to plug their loopholes. I had taken on a part time job even though service jobs never worked out well for me. It still wasn't enough when FA decided to bend me over again shy of that second degree. I wrote an essay writing contest and secured a grant that let me walk away with two degrees (and $60K in debt).

Another personal victory was achieved. Petco was the longest job I've ever had, at 20 months. And I didn't get fired for acting out/insubordination. For the first time, I handed in a formal two weeks notice and got to leave with dignity.

After college, I still wasn't 100 percent what I wanted to do. I had a lot of teachers that asked to use my projects in future classes, graduated with honors-- I knew I was damn good at what I do. It felt... Beyond gratifying to be more than just a job monkey for once in my life. A writing teacher told me I'm organic, deep, funny and faithful to my ideas. I'd already begun reviving the longest story I'd written to date-- sixty pages-- after I found it while rummaging for old word docs prior to rewriting a fairy tale for that class. That book became The Truth about Heroes: One of Many. It became seven books by the time my mom died.

I've already talked about the impact of death over the course of writing those books. I was able to bend my mind around finishing the series at nine books. I'm currently working on my 11th book. If you've been reading my blog, you know how much my mom was a part of the process, so I won't go into that again. I grieve best when I don't let it paralyze me, so stopping was never an option.

Huh, what? You mean these books? How ever did they get on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and digital retailers all over the world? Could it be... sheer stubbornness?

There isn't a turning point to nail down here. Over time, I even stopped imagining what things would look like when done because I stopped believing they would be. I don't regret going to school and it wouldn't have mattered if it were Yale or some rusty shack out of Deliverance-- my instructors and my knowledge are irreplaceable. It taught me how to trick myself out of a pattern of walking away. Because I was so fixated on 'the end' being years away, I was amassing a body of work after each class, finished work, and before I could self-sabotage, it was too late. I couldn't pretend I was destined to flounder because I'd found the mental shortcut, a way to finish by always putting the end out of reach.

The downside here is that my victories are something almost transient, more like an orgasm than a trophy or a tiara I can wear everywhere. In a way, I became a sort of Daenerys, Collector of a Million Titles, a character more about adapting and determination than pride. What I did is something I still fail to connect to at times because it's also a mind-altering drug. I'm addicted to seeing big projects through so the victories pass when the next idea twinkles ahead. I finished things, but what else am I capable of? Again, mobility towards my goals was possible because I always keep a big fat carrot on the end of the stick, but it almost means I am TOO far-sighted creatively. For now, it's enough that I am actively working towards goals, but it does need some work.

I'd be lying if I didn't say the obstacles are there. There are a lot of people that assume what I'm capable of as a woman or a white person (we're unfashionable in identity politics and trends these days) or presume to tell me what I could or should write about. There are people who don't realize that my drawing style is intentional and not because I can't keep up with the trends in realism, that I love exploring ways to incorporate realism into my style, but am still a comic book artist and fucking proud of it. And yes, people swear by one discipline in their career but what makes my talent so healthy now is that I know how to feed it.

Drawing, nom, writing, nom nom, comics, nom nom nom. Notice the one cookie dangling juuuuust out of nom.

The cost of accomplishment is exposure, which creatives are wary of in its many forms. People will either swear you can't do better or can't do worse (AKA you suck). You're naked to this, but once I've broken through my prison, my hell, my tormentors, there's this thick extra layer, air tight and a perfect fit, this layer that de-weaponizes words, silences trolls, tunes me into my purpose. I can take in what I need to realize my vision, to share it, but it doesn't really matter how precious people think their tastes are. It doesn't get to decide if we're worthy of seeing it through.

Get around to reading my work sometime, if you haven't already. I'm learning to be a bit less humble about it. It's a very different creature from my blogs-- I have a lot of fun with fantasy that is worth a try. While I have to admit, it's a dream of mine to write for a video game company some day, I'll stress again that I use THIS medium to ITS benefit-- my books are books, not just the basis of a show, movie or game. They'd have to be reworked into those mediums because I optimized them as books, first and foremost. I know my way around a story. And yes, swearing and sex happens in my adult books, but just like their appearance in my blogs, they're not accidentally there. Them being there at all seems to be 'gratuitous' without exception to some people. On the upside, they're... not really that long. Maybe someday I'll do a page/paragraph count just for the hell of it.

There's a market for me. And one of these days, I'll look for it. I keep saying that, but someday I'll mean it more than the other times.

You know... now, when I think of that stupid interview question 'where will I be five years from now', I can feel a secret smile twitch at my cheeks. Just me, you, and my ceiling... chasing dreams.