This is personal.
Some days I need to decompress. Don’t we we all need that sometimes? Let some shit go and get on with things. My middle child made eighteen-years-old this past weekend. We celebrated by going to see The Evil Dead Musical. Just us. Pushing aside life for a glimmer in time and indulging in insanity. Comical insanity. Splattered with fruit punch scented fake blood. It was nice.
But you cannot hold life at bay for too long.
Work has been stressful. I have to work, although my personal obligations and health are not conducive to sustaining a regular gig. But writing hasn’t provided what I need to get by. Though I know I’m not the only one, some days it feels like I’m the only writer that’s this woefully inadequate, this inflated with failure.
I recently won an award at work. The office staff voted me as employee with the biggest heart (yeah, go figure). If they only knew; I’m as bitter as they come. I’m masochistic, but not selfless in my kindness. And most days, mentally unhinged and histrionic. But I guess I’ve been playing my part well.
Anyway, they give me this certificate in a cheap frame and a small plastic heart with Hot Tamale candies inside (don’t get me wrong, I love, love, love cinnamon candy). But the gesture seemed a bit hollow to me. Considering I was offered a promotion, told it was approved more than a month ago, and had it yanked away soon after (put on hold to be precise), with no clear explanation or timeline forthcoming.
I don’t do failure well. Disappointment less.
Let me crawl in my hidden place for a a bit. Linger in the self-pity. Bask in the validation that no matter what I do, nothing works out. Good intentions be damned.
Allow me to sing off key to Tori Amos. Cry to The Police. Long to a Bjork song.