I’ve been remiss on painting and went back to writing for a little while. Well, wait, that’s not exactly true. First I procrastinated completely.
I hate to say when I’m not feeling well because it seems like an excuse and that it’s happening all the time. I mean, it can be and it is, but some days that’s just the way it is. I try to do a little something each day though. I’ve been walking! Not a lot or very far, but I do it every day at 5:00 PM. Each time I’m going it slightly farther.
I’ve also been going to physical therapy twice a week for the last couple of months, which has been helping my pain. It is strengthening my core, making it possible for me to walk at all.
But just now, I erased a whole blog entry I’d recently drafted about how much progress I’d been making in my other therapy (therapy of the psychological persuasion), and I did it because I had a rather big setback last night. I have no idea why, or how, or what the fuck.
It came out of nowhere. I’m sure it came from somewhere, but it’s all unbeknownst to me. It was some kind of dream. A nightmare really. It was crazy.
At something like 2:00 AM, I woke up and found myself throwing a punch into Michael’s backside. I’m pretty sure I hit him in the balls or something. I heard him wince, twice, and I immediately started apologizing. I felt horrible. I didn’t know what I was doing. All I knew was that my emotions began welling up, burst like a geyser, and so I went to the bathroom to have a giant weep-fest. I couldn’t get back to sleep for a while.
Now that it’s morning, I feel pretty depressed and super sickly. I’m not as depressed as I was in the middle of the night, but I really don’t physically feel well. I have a deep cough and it feels like I’ve been swallowing razor blades all night. I have that wooshing/dizzy feeling every time I turn my head (I fucking hate that), my body is run down and sore, and I may have a tiny fever since I’m hot, then cold, then hot again. I’m exhausted too. No, I don’t have the Corona Virus, and sorry to go on like this, but if I can’t complain, who am I?
I didn’t have to erase the entire blog post I drafted. I can leave in the part about what I’ve been doing since you last heard from me. All my brain-cootie therapy homework had me writing a lot. It was all good and I got a lot out of it sans the setback. Then, I also got back on my creative writing stuff.
While sorting out all the short stories, I actually began to fiddle with Queer as Mud again. I’m starting to re-feel positive about it. I sure went through a lot of bullshit with that in November during NaNoWriMo. I’m so glad that is wearing off because I wondered if it was ever going to be anything ever again. I was recently able to get a readable first draft of the first three chapters down. I now care much less about what it “should” be. I also can’t think about what it’s going to be. I can only speculate. I only know it’s auto-bio fiction, and despite the fictional parts, it’s still a very candid and personal account of sexuality and gender. In many ways, it’s much more candid than anything in my memoir. I’m challenging myself to me even more unapologetic about it, and that’s not easy. But eventually, I’ll get there.