Sometimes it just doesn't come out. It's like the tap has run dry, and the river of creativity and ideas has disappeared and all that is left is a canyon of self-loathing and doubt.
A notification popped up, so I clicked on it. "You suck," it said in bold, capital letters. Another one flew in, this time it says, "And everyone knows it."
Why this constant barrage of abuse? Just because I have forgotten how to write? Because I have used up all of my funny? Because this is the end of it all, I had a good run for 11 months, but that is all there is.
It's a week before my period, and The Doom has set down upon me. Some women cry more. Some women bloat and treat themselves to their favourite snacks, or start cathartic fights with their partners. Mine comes in the form of self-doubt. Loathing. Sheer panic and depression. I get anxious. I have trouble writing because everything I write is simply not good enough. I want to drown myself in a bottle of wine and sleep it off, but my day job doesn't allow for it. Not even once a month. Exercise helps sometimes, and it is my fault that I haven't gone this week. Or this month.
Another notification pops up in my head. "No one likes you." Thanks, Me. That helps. I have left my document for this Friday's show untouched on my tablet - I will not be viewing that until the morning when this storm has passed. It's always only about 12 hours, and I'm going on hour 8 and hopefully will sleep off the rest before making any serious life decisions like cutting off all of my hair or buying a new car. Or new pet. Or making another baby (NOT THAT I AM CURRENTLY ATTRACTIVE ENOUGH TO BANG.)
Another notification. "You can't even end this post. It'll sit in drafts for years like your other bombs." SHUT UP, it totally won't. I'll publish it and deeply hate myself for it.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
Friday, December 11, 2015
Don't Kick The Box
I remember it was early in the morning when my sister and I were packed into our mum's new red Chevy, our favourite toys and blankets tucked in around us, our other belongings and clothes packed up and covered in the truck's box along with our labrador, Buddy.
I had the back seat to myself, my legs carefully arranged around my stuff and a small oak box.
Don't kick the box.
Our move was from Saskatchewan to Ontario, a small family of three that was once four. My mother's sister lived in Ontario, my mum was ready to leave our house and start new. My sister and I were less than enthused, but didn't really want to stay in our house anymore anyway. We had said goodbye to our friends and family, sold my dad's vehicles, the house and most things in it. We left our garden, the flower bed with the decorative water pump and burial ground of our beloved budgie and numerous insects that I insisted on burying, Because that's what you do.
Don't kick the box.
I was worried about making new friends. My mum assured me that my long, pretty hair would gain me new friendships. We would be going to the school that she went to as a child, and some of her friends had children our age, so we were excited to meet them. We could have our own rooms and decorate them how we liked. It would be ok.
Don't kick the box.
As the landscape began to change from stark, brown plains to blue lakes and grey rocks and the road had more curves and hills I began to look forward to seeing our family. Halloween was coming and we were bringing with us a giant pumpkin we grew in our garden to carve with our cousins. We were going to stay with our aunt for a little bit, but soon our own place would be ready for us.
And after that, the oak box would have a place ready for it. A service and a tombstone in Ontario, ashes that would be safe and face no risk of being accidentally kicked ever again.
I didn't kick the box.
I had the back seat to myself, my legs carefully arranged around my stuff and a small oak box.
Don't kick the box.
Our move was from Saskatchewan to Ontario, a small family of three that was once four. My mother's sister lived in Ontario, my mum was ready to leave our house and start new. My sister and I were less than enthused, but didn't really want to stay in our house anymore anyway. We had said goodbye to our friends and family, sold my dad's vehicles, the house and most things in it. We left our garden, the flower bed with the decorative water pump and burial ground of our beloved budgie and numerous insects that I insisted on burying, Because that's what you do.
Don't kick the box.
I was worried about making new friends. My mum assured me that my long, pretty hair would gain me new friendships. We would be going to the school that she went to as a child, and some of her friends had children our age, so we were excited to meet them. We could have our own rooms and decorate them how we liked. It would be ok.
Don't kick the box.
As the landscape began to change from stark, brown plains to blue lakes and grey rocks and the road had more curves and hills I began to look forward to seeing our family. Halloween was coming and we were bringing with us a giant pumpkin we grew in our garden to carve with our cousins. We were going to stay with our aunt for a little bit, but soon our own place would be ready for us.
And after that, the oak box would have a place ready for it. A service and a tombstone in Ontario, ashes that would be safe and face no risk of being accidentally kicked ever again.
I didn't kick the box.
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