I’ve worked on a novella this past week. Just a little here and there. I wanted to be done by now but stuff has been going on at work.
Basically, the house is on fire but too many people are only focused on the dirty dishes in the sink. Those dishes are there every year at this time and it’s never been a problem in the past and is a symptom of it being our busiest time of the year.
I can do the dishes, or not make the next meal.
Meanwhile, I’m so frustrated that I’ve broken down into tears about ten times. At work. In front of clients no less.
The frustration turned to anger last night, thank goodness. Why is anger better?
Because when I’m angry I can think. When I’m frustrated everything shuts down and I just bawl my eyes out. I can’t control it in the least which only adds to my frustration.
Also, when frustrated I can’t write. When angry I can. I hit the keys like I have a personal vendetta against them. Stuff gets done when I’m angry.
Like completing a side project. It only had two chapters missing, but it’s been on the backburner since I started working on publishing. Now it’s written and done. I’m proud of me.
Except… When upset I sink into very specific worlds. I don’t know why it amuses me that a sentient, super intelligent race might chase butterflies and talk in broken languages on purpose, but it does.
My week has been watching tv, playing video games, and trying to get something done but I just can’t. I’m so out of focus and by the time I get home I’m so emotionally exhausted that I want to break down into tears again.
My ego is thoroughly deflated. But with the anger comes that strapping on of my backbone and the insistence that I’ll just have to fix this again and save me and my area again.
Except it’s not because the people in my area are actually at fault and I think that’s a part of the problem. They’re good workers and they’re trying but I always have bad news for them.
Maybe you should do your job and not be an asshole.
With frustration also comes the swirled words, the ones that don’t leave me alone until I write them down. This past week has been:
Alternatively, maybe you should fuck off and die.
And it’s developed into this inner dialogue that basically says not to say that again, resulting in alterations to the ending. Taking a flying leap, eat shit and die.
Yes, I’m aware that I have a potty mouth. My parents raised me to be pretty creative with my cursing.
But I also don’t say that out loud. I’m just hoping to stop those words from swirling around inside my head.
Basically, the long and the short of this is that it’s a good thing I finished Contract Claimed three weeks ago or so. Otherwise I would be behind on my goals because despite what we were taught, what was basically beaten into us when we were children, words do hurt and there are consequences to being a bully.
No, these people will never make an appearance in my stories. In six more months they will no longer be a part of my life and they may think that’s a good enough reason to behave like this.
Because I should just shut up about what they’re doing and saying because it won’t matter in six months.
They obviously don’t know me that well.
Oh, it’ll all get done. The dishes will be washed, Christmas dinner served to perfection, but the rest of the house is going to burn and they will not be sitting at the table.
I need to make a plan, and find my heart and soul again. December 1st I start another project and I will not allow them to tear me down and destroy what I love.