Tag: dark moods

The Hated Dreams

I hated the dreams that I had last night. All were about being overlooked, forgotten, or ignored. All featured others being given promotions, honors, and awards.

Little surprise was experienced as I reviewed the dreams. I’m sliding into the dark side of my spectrum. Haven’t visited it for almost sixty days – or, more likely, it was visited and overcome. This week, though, I heard the dark side spitting and hissing at me, felt its snake bite sometimes, etc. Coping with it – fighting is the wrong thing to do (for me – your needs probably vary) (unless you’re me, of course) (and if you ARE me, what the hell are you doing out there?) and its impact, I felt myself losing the battles. Part of that is being forced to socialize more – ’tis the season (ho, ho, fucking ho). Socializing drains me faster than an old car battery with the lights left on (but it’s expected, why don’t you want to see friends and have fun?  Why must you be like this? Oh, sorry, when I made this choice, I didn’t look at the entire menu, or I would have gone with something else. Sure, it’s all that easy, because life is binary, black or white, innit? And it’s all within our control.) (Bah, humbug.) (I should coin that.)

Well, to me (and these dreams), I said, fuck you, too (yeah, original – I should  be a writer). I know what’s going on. Can’t quite shrug it off so much as cope and swore, whine and moan, and remind myself, this shit will also pass.

Coffee, stat.And maybe a scone, too. Comfort foods. It’s that time of life.

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One Million and Two

I have this analytical side that I can’t turn off. I often use it to overthink. You should see me trying to decide what to eat at a restaurant as I measure choice, mood, health, calories, fat in the food and fat in myself, and my weight and physical condition, against the satisfaction and pleasure found in eating while weighing what sort of event it is and how much I should be willing to indulge myself.

My analytical side is coolly, cruelly sharp. It sees and speaks whether I want it to or not. I try to pretend it’s wrong, but it’s generally right. It’s wearying.

Thinking about this today, on this cold fall morning, I think about Occam’s Razor, the sense that, maybe the simplest answer is correct. Maybe I’m a good writer but one that isn’t really good enough to be a professional writer.

I’m lured, though, by authors’ words, quotes like, “A professional is just an amateur who never gave up.” I’m lured by anecdotes where a writer was rejected for five years and then was finally published and scored the success that I seek as a writer, hell, as a person, as validation and reward. I remember how many times Theodor Geisel, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Stephen King were rejected, but that they didn’t give up, because they believed, man.

I know, too, that writers will tell you that they’re rarely satisfied with their own work. We are perverse.

I’m reminded, we’re always trying to be a better writer and story-teller, so who can say what I’ll be like in five years? There’s always improvement to be had, right? Write and read, right?

I write for myself, and I enjoy my own story-telling, but my analyst whispers, “So?”

I write for myself, but I suspect that the writing process, my writing habits and routines, are enablers, and that I’m addicted to that process and to the hope that this will all come to something.

My analyst shrugs. “So? You think this is news? Don’t you think that others go through this? Really?”

I write for myself, but I immerse myself so completely, I focus so intensely, that my life outside of my writing efforts is a shell. By writing efforts, I mean the creative process of conceiving, imagining, writing, polishing, editing and revising. I despise the business end, yet, perversely, without the business end, how much of this would I be putting myself and my family through this?

Yes, that’s how writers often are, I remember reading. Look what Stephen King put himself through.

That doesn’t help.

My analyst smirks.

Thoughts of giving up hit a hard internal wall. “Give up writing and trying? No. Sorry. Won’t happen.”

That reaction makes me wonder if my stubborn determination isn’t a facade for mental illness and emotional issues, perhaps giving me a rational for being aloof and leaving emotions and issues untouched, that I’m hustling myself to give me purpose so that my life might end up having meaning, so that I can eventually shout at others, “See? I was right.”

One of the problems with Occam’s Razor in my mind is that it’s difficult to test and verify that the simplest answer is true. I think, though, wouldn’t it be easiest to take a break, to stop writing for a period, take a time-out to see what develops?

It’s so tempting. I’d probably go through withdrawal. Withdrawal from anything has nasty side-effects. I’d probably be cranky and bitter, and spend some time and energy being bitter and resentful despite all the psychological tricks I’d employ to be happy and balanced.

Eventually, I’d emerge as a slightly different version of myself, model one million and one. Free of entertaining my writing mechanisms and the immersion I end up demanding of myself when I write, I’d probably become friendlier, more relaxed, and sociable. As I need the purpose, structure, and direction that my writing provides me, I’d hunt for a replacement and probably become more engaged in community volunteer activities.

I can spin this into so many different directions at this point. I can take on any of the directions, step away and put on my writer’s cap and my analyst’s cap to encourage me in any direction that I choose. I can find justification in any one of them, along with hope, and reasons for taking and sustaining that direction.

Thoughts of surrendering my writing ambitions terrify me, because I might be wrong, but also because I might be wrong. I think, all that wasted time and energy, but I think, yes, but you wouldn’t have known, if you hadn’t tried.

I think, there’s probably another path, like, okay, treat writing like a nine-to-five Monday-through-Friday existence. Take the weekends off. It’s easy to say, everyone needs time to recharge. And time away might give me fresh perspectives. (And I think, look at you, intellectualizing these processes and putting them into convenient silos.)

That could well be true. In the end, I’m amused to discover, I’m afraid of who I am, who I might be, and who I might not be. Who isn’t, right? I can imagine words that I can read, suggestions given about what to do, encouragement not to give up.

It’s all games. Some embrace those games and work it out better than others. Isn’t that what life, the time between when we’re born into a physical existence and then die and leave that state, what it’s all about, to find which version of the game you’ll play and how fervently, how ardently, you’ll play it?

The analyst’s side whispers to me. “Ah, you’ve fallen into your monthly dark cycle. You know you get like this. Endure, endure. Don’t make any decisions about anything now. Circumstances are accumulating to make this period a heavy one this time.”

Reflecting on all of this, I sip my first taste of the day’s coffee and think, why post this? Why share it with the public? To garner pity? To announce to others, you are not alone? To draw attention to myself?

Posting it — hah, sharing it – feels like a compulsion. I’ve written to understand what I think. That’s completed. Sharing it feels like an act of desperation.

Sharing it also feels like an act of therapy. Sharing it feels like a cry for help.

Sharing it feels like another person trying to understand their life, sort feelings, and work through existence. Perhaps I’m just showing off, telling others, see? See how I can think and write? See how complex I am? My analyst whispers, “Yes, and you’re also exposing your shortcomings, vulnerabilities, and ego.”

It’s all madness, overthinking madness. From it, I emerge again, resolved and unresolved, conflicted but certain and doubtful, Michael, version one million and two.

Meet the new me.

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Dark Water Zombie

First, let me say, this has everything to do with zombies. I wasn’t attacked by any zombie except for the phantom zombies within me. I can pinpoint it to the zombies that drive my desires to capitulate and eat foods I know I shouldn’t. These zombies are also called ‘habits’. They come out when I demonstrate a weak will.

Follow me two steps back.

The dark waters rose in me yesterday, increasing last night. I could feel them rising and battering me like a storm surge, and witnessed the tangible results in making my plans for today, as well as my reactions to my cats and wife. I didn’t want to do anything. Their neediness and complaints (which were actually requests to be petted and visit with me) exasperated, even infuriated, me.

Then, this morning, my toes were cold in bed. I suffered difficulty swallowing. Rising to feed a cat (it was six AM, after all – time to eat!), I could barely piss. The urine was a feeble dribble. Recognizing these symptoms, I cursed myself for yesterday’s diet, because this is what happens when I eat too much — or the wrong wheat, or wheat prepared in a way that disagrees with me.

I suffer from some wheat or gluten reactions. Its impact varies. I ate food I wasn’t familiar with it but I know it’s loaded with wheat. What sort and how it’s prepared seem to matter. These were baked goods. Baked goods afflict me.

It started with the growers’ market. My wife returned from shopping and having coffee with friends. She offered me the rest of her almond croissant. I accepted and ate it, to be polite, and I didn’t want to be wasteful. I blame my mother for that.

Lunch was Trader Joe’s fat free burritos. Love them but also know that their white flour tortillas cause bloating, swelling and inflammation in me. I suffer phlegm and swallowing issues. But I justified it because my computer had been returned. I was busy with it, very hungry, and the burritos were available and easy to nuke.

My wife had made a blackberry cobbler as a treat, and offered me a piece of that. I had two, to be polite. Mom always encouraged me to be polite.

Dinner, a chile relleno pie that featured a magnificent crust (complemented by a glass of pinot noir), was consumed late, after returning from the Nagasaki-Hiroshima Vigil’s closing ceremonies. I had two wedges, to be polite, followed by a another blackberry cobbler square. It was the kind thing to do.

Meanwhile, my mood was curdling like milk left out in the sun. I felt it, too, yet felt helpless in its face. To continue mixing metaphors and analogies, tides of dark water were rushing in and overwhelming me. I was stressed, irritable, short-tempered, and cranky as a sleepy three year old.

But it was only this morning, when pissing and looking back on the previous day’s eating that I saw the connection between my body, my food intake, and the dark mood. Click — hello. I’d always suspected it, but the mood change and association with food had never been so vividly demonstrated before. And — here is the zombie connection — it was mindless eating,  which is pretty much what zombies do, isn’t it?

I addressed these things with morning meditation for 30 minutes, followed by health visualizations.  Meanwhile I wrote about it in my head. That’s always great therapy for me. I debated about sharing it here. I write so much about me, the bloody blog may as well just be called, Me, Me, Me! But I posted it here anyway, just proving my point that this blog is all about me. But hey, look at its unimaginative name. See?

And zombies. This was also about zombies. Because, when I behave mindlessly, I become a zombie, an angry zombie with some pissing, bloating, and swelling problems, who ate some really good food.

 

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