Gray Matters

Something is wrong with my brain.  It’s not firing like it should.  I feel like some of the wiring has gotten all crossed, something’s shorted out, and there’s a dead circuit somewhere. 

I want to blame it on the weather.  We’ve had weeks and weeks of colder than normal, gray days where the cloud cover has been so intense that sunlight seems like a thing of yore. 

It’s affected my ability to write – as in, I ain’t. 

While I managed to finally finish Chapter 15 (of 30) of my second novel (it took me five months), I haven’t the slightest inclination to tackle the next one.  Which is strange.  The first novel?  I wrote a chapter a week, as if each Friday was a deadline and I enjoyed the hell out of it, while the second in the series was churned out in a similar fashion, that is, until Chapter 15. 

But it’s not only the books. 

Now, even writing anything for Wonderland Burlesque has become something of a chore.  I’ve been skating by, leaning heavily on Sean over at TMI Questions for content and doing a series of pop music reviews each month.  It could be the move away from explicit, adult oriented material, but I think the issue may be something bigger picture.  I feel like a wind up toy that's run out of steam.

Something has changed, and I’m not happy about it.

I blame my brain.

Work has ramped up in the last month, which is good, on one hand, but a tad stressful on the other. 

Still, that does not account for the amount of free-floating anxiety I am dealing with.  

It might have to do with the one-eighty turn my life has taken.  Things have finally settled down into a routine and most of the people in my life have resumed their regular personalities, having moved onto acceptance.  Though every once in a while a pinprick of shock arises, even I have relaxed enough to convince myself that my circumstances are now the new norm.

There is comfort to be found in ruts, routine, and predictability.  I think I’m a bit happier when I can operate from a place that feels secure.  And while I know that I’m only fooling myself and that all things are subject to change, the basics of life: where we live, what we do, who we see… those are typically things people can count on. 

Only I can’t.

There isn’t a single person in my life right now where I feel the relationship is ‘stable’, by which I mean, there isn’t anyone I can confide in right now.  Not completely.  I have to constantly censor myself – I can’t talk to this one about that person, and I can’t talk to that person about this thing… etc.

I feel mummified.  And terrified of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person. 

So, in a way, I’ve placed all my thoughts (and feelings) on mute.

Which might explain why writing has become such a chore lately; it’s hard to be creative when you’re operating from a place of insecurity and self-censorship.

It’s affected my sleep. 

This week I started taking something to help me.  I only wake up three or four times a night when I take a pill, as opposed to the dozen or so that’s become typical.  I don’t like taking them, but I’m feeling rather desperate for a reasonable night’s sleep.

The anxiety? 

Could be guilt. 

Six months later, I still feel bad about how hurt everyone has been feeling.  Even my relationship with my number one person, my youngest sister, seems to have changed.  She was recently elected to the city council where she lives, something we normally would have celebrated, but she didn’t even mention it – I had to find out second hand, and that’s simply not how we operate with one another. 

Maybe it will all pass with more time… like the cloud cover and this less than wonderful weather.  Maybe that kind of gray really matters.  A little sun can do a body (and brain) wonders…

Fingers crossed.

Have a great weekend!