Head Like A Hole

I had a headache again this morning. The ones you wake up with are always the worst. You can never make them go away. My back was stiff and I can only hope that I haven’t herniated a disk again. I don’t think I have, you can bounce a quarter off my back muscles and it’s not because I go to the gym. Tension, then. Most likely the cause of the constant headaches. That and the tinnitus.

By the time the kids are in bed I am miserable. My wife sees a grumpy man sitting next to her. One who doesn’t listen to her, doesn’t talk to her, one who looks at her as if he just wants her to shut the hell up. Not the case. At that point in the day, if my brain has to process any more information than it takes to keep my body functioning, my head will explode.

Work has suffered this week in both quality and quantity. Promised projects are not finished – some not even started yet – and I believe my reputation is suffering. Forgotten before I am even remembered.

I am so terribly afraid of the commitment involved with writing a book. Of even writing a short story to send out for publication. Blogging has become a comfortable friend. The brevity and ease of it appeals to my long suppressed laziness. Hannah is screaming for her book, Mr Lux insists that he has a short story to tell, has even found some publishers who might be a good fit, but I cover my ears and go, “Blah, blah, blah!”

I am terrified of failure.

It becomes overwhelming each day and I retreat into a book, or more often a video game. I forget, for a time, the fear, uncertainty, the “What right do I have to even do this?” feeling. By the time I feel better, the kids are home from school and they have become an easy excuse because they are “distracting.”

Music, as they say, calms the savage beast. It used to. Now, it makes the headaches worse – doesn’t matter what I’m listening to. Music was my “cure all.” I would instinctively know what to listen to feel better. Not anymore. That fact most certainly makes this whole situation so much worse.

I feel dead inside.

I think the answer may be as simple as just recharging my batteries.

But I don’t know how.

Disclaimer: This is not a “woe is me” post. This is not a cry for “happy comments.” This is just me, working through some shit, and dumping it on your lap.

You’re welcome.

You Get Me

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “It’s like I’m aware of the frames of my glasses.”

“What?”

“Y’know how most of the time you don’t even know you’re wearing them?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I know they’re there.” She stared at the television even though it wasn’t on.

“Hon, are you okay?” I laid a hand gently on her arm, afraid I might startle her. I had never seen her like this.

Sighing, she slipped her fingers under her glasses, rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know. Something…” She dropped her hands, continued to stare at the television. “Something just feels off somehow.”

“How do you mean? Did you take your meds today?”

“Yeah, but I still had a panic attack.”

“How…?” I looked at her, seeking a sign of the panic. There was none. She was breathing slowly and there weren’t any beads of sweat on her forehead. She saw me looking.

“I said ‘had’ not ‘having.’” Caught, I looked away.

“I feel tired and want to sleep,” she offered, “but at the same time I want to be awake. I don’t know where to be. I don’t know how to be.”

The emphasis concerned me. I said nothing, a silent prompt for more.

She said nothing.

Minutes passed. “I don’t feel human,” she whispered.

“How can you not…?”

“Nothing is right. Everything is off. Slanted somehow.” She looked at me. “Y’know?”

I did know. Very well. “I do.”

She smiled the smallest of smiles, resumed starring at the television. “It’s why I married you,” she told the television. “You get me.”

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Diane gave me this prompt: (S)he had a good point, but (s)he was terrible at making it..

I gave Wendryn this prompt: Write whatever comes to mind from the words: “There is nothing”

I’ve Just Awoken

I’ve Just Awoken

The bicycle is ready
but I can’t ride,
Older now
With pains in my side.

“Daddy, come play
Chutes & Ladders or D&D.”
“Maybe later, I’m working now.
Just leave me be.”

But the words won’t come
My mind is a mess,
Of terrible things
With no egress.

Self-doubt, loathing and fear
Upon the inner ‘scape
I’m crumbling inward
A masochistic self-rape.

“I could stop it
If I try.”
But I know
Those words are a lie.

It can’t be stopped
Help is useless
Medication and therapy
Both are worthless.

Self-destruction
Fighting pain with pain
Punishment unjustified?
“There is no gain.”

It’s a new day
I force thought
Hoping for salvation
From the torment

Words come slowly
A form that’s not me
Medium of the great
Whitman, Thoreau, Longfellow & Keats

Words will save
But it must be this way
Writing at what I’m poorest
Darkness goes away

Something is wrong
Something is broken
But don’t ask me
I’ve just awoken

I’ve been having a rough time lately and the words just haven’t been able to come. I forced this out this morning – fighting through writing poetry tends to temporarily tear down the dark walls in my head. Thanks to Studio30 Plus and Marie Nicole of my cyber house rules for the writing prompt of “Don’t Ask.”

Nobody’s Fault but Mine

I should probably be writing.

Something.

I seem to have lost the drive to do it.

I blame the kids.

They were home last week for Spring Break. We had fun, but I didn’t get any writing done. They are too distracting.

I should probably be writing.

Something.

I seem to have lost the drive to do it.

I blame my blog.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that the number of posts here had breached 90. That’s cool I thought, ten more an I’ll write a special “Look at what I did in 100 posts” post. That’s when my productivity started to slow down. I think I might have psyched myself out from fear of achieving a milestone as superficial as it is.

I should probably be writing.

Something.

I seem to have lost the drive to do it.

I blame my father-in-law.

He was in a car accident about a week and a half ago. He’s fine, just needs time to recover, but he’s still in the hospital. We now have one functioning vehicle and only one driver who anyone trusts. I’ve spent as much time in my car over the past week as I have in bed.

I should probably be writing.

Something.

I seem to have lost the drive to do it.

I blame my father.

Dad approached me a few days ago with another idea for a book. A good one. He always has these amazing ideas. He makes me feel stupid and insignificant. He always has. I don’t think he knows this. After 41 years, he can still do that to me.

I should probably be writing.

Something.

I seem to have lost the drive to do it.

I blame Brandon Sanderson, Samuel R Delany and JRR Tolkien.

These guys. And others like them. They set the bar high. So high that I can’t reach it. I don’t think I ever will.

I should probably be writing.

Something.

I seem to have lost the drive to do it.

I blame myself.

For being chicken shit and letting my fears, depression and anxiety kill my creativity. For letting me believe my bullshit excuses. For getting too wrapped up in my own head.

When it rains…

…everything gets wet.

Wait, that’s not right.

“When it rains, it pours.”

That’s the one.

Taken literally, it might seem like a bad thing. All that wet means you can’t go outside and enjoy the good weather.

But what if you’re suffering a drought? Then all that rain can be a major blessing.

I’ve been in a drought for a long time. I’ve survived through a few mild wet seasons, but it was just getting by. Then I hit my hardest drought ever last December. It was the worst because I had thought things were looking up. Then my anxiety and depression kicked me in the sack. I lost my job. I was 40 years old living with my wife and kids at my in-law’s house.

That, my friends, is a shitty feeling.

I don’t know exactly why, but I decided that it would be a good time to finally try my hand at writing full time.

I developed a plan.

I had a timeline of events in place and after discussing it with my wife, decided that my plan was realistic.

We knew that my success would be a long time coming. We were prepared for it.

I began my work.

Now, three and a half months later, I can see that things are not going according to plan.

I’m about one year AHEAD of the plan.

NO SHIT!

I’m writing a serialized book that I’m publishing the first draft of on I Can’t Brain called The Linden Tree.

I’m working closely with an old friend on a more serious epic fantasy book(s). This friend has been working as a freelance writer for over 15 years and knows his stuff. His input is going to be invaluable. He’s also not afraid to give me a kick in the ass if I start slacking.

I’m Co-Community Leader of Studio 30 Plus, a social site for writers of all types.

And, just today, I received some great news about another business venture. I pretty sure that I can’t talk about it just yet (let’s say I signed a NDA), but it’s going to be tons of fun, frustration and a huge learning experience. I’m actually happy about it!

So yeah, the plan is going strong.

Outside of the plan, things are cool too.

I got a tax return and bought all kinds of fun stuff for the wife and kids (and me!), all after paying the bills. I’ll be participating in a Guild Wars 2 beta event this weekend and The Avengers is coming out in a few weeks.

It’s just been a great time!

December 20, 2011

On December 20, 2011, I received a letter envelope from UPS.  The return address was my place of employment.

I knew what I would find when I opened it and I didn’t want to see confirmation of what I knew to be true.

I opened it anyway.

It was signed by my supervisor’s supervisor and contained the phrase, “…effective 12/19/11 your employment with (name withheld to protect the guilty) will be terminated…”

I was fired.  Confirmed.

Five days before Christmas.

I knew it was coming.  I wasn’t surprised and, in a way, I welcomed it.  However, I’d by lying if I said it didn’t hurt.

Depression can be a controlling bastard and I let mine take control.  Completely.  I just paid one helluva price for it.

Jenny Lawson, “The Bloggess,” once said that “depression is a lying bastard.”  It is.  And I forgot that truth.

Here’s the thing though – this was one major wake up call.  When I opened that letter, my initial reaction was relief.  It took me a while to recognize that, but that’s what it was.  I know now what that job was doing to me and my family.

Two of my three kids are special needs – and, in a way, so is my wife.  She suffers from severe anxiety/depression, fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue.  Day to day life is a challenge and some days I feel very alone in facing those challenges.

I worked second shift.  I left for work right before the boys were home from school and wouldn’t get home until almost one in the morning.  This meant that I wasn’t home when they were and my wife was in charge.  A task she wasn’t up to most days.

On the weekends, the older boys (they are my step-sons, but we never use the label “step.”) were at their grandmother’s one weekend and at their father’s the next.

End result:

I NEVER GOT TO SEE MY CHILDREN.

To them, I became a Ghost Dad – except those really bad nights when things at the house started to get too far out of control and my cell would be ringing constantly – which my supervisor at work didn’t like all that much.

So, that is major stressor #1.

Major stressor #2 is the job itself.

The job I did was very easy for me.  So easy, I’m convinced that a retarded monkey can do it.  Unfortunately, I’ve got a big mouth sometimes and expressed my disappointment with the lack of challenges the job presented.  The company’s anwer:  Give me more to do.

Lots more.

With 4 to 8 hour deadlines.

I became the “Go-to Guy.”  You need something done right now?  Give it to Eric.  Got a question about some obscure protocol?  Go ask Eric.  Need to complain about a co-worker?  Bitch to Eric.  Had a fight with your boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife?  Tell Eric all about it.  Got pictures of your family trip to Disneyland that Eric couldn’t possibly afford and he’s so jealous that he can’t do that for his family?  Show them to Eric.

Yup.  I started to really hate the job and all the people I worked with.

As a result, anxiety and depression started to kick in.  I stopped going.  I stayed home.  I got fired.

No surprises there.

~THIS POST IS GETTING LONG, BUT BEAR WITH ME, PLEASE~

There is a point to this and it’s not to garner sympathy or try to get anyone to join in a pity party.  Just needed to set up the situation.

I said up at the beginning that I welcomed this.  I think you can see why.  I’m also taking this as a sign that 2012 is going to be MY year.  A year of success and fulfillment of a forty year old dream.

After the kids are back in school on January 3rd, I’m going to start hunting for another job.  A daytime job.  No more nights.  I’m taking the time this week to enjoy being with my family.  Santa brought some cool things this year and the boys want to play and have fun – and they want to do it with me.  I won’t say no.

That forty year old dream?  Writing.  I’m going to work it out somehow.  I’m going to publish short stories and novels at some point in the future.  I’m going to finally believe that I’m good enough to do it.

I know that I’m not alone in attempting to restructure and rethink my future.  To do what I love and be successful.  That is a big help.  Others have, or are trying to, make major changes in their lives.  My family supports my decision 100%.  My wife’s reaction was, “It’s about time.”  She’s known all along that writing is what I’m meant to do.

It’s what defines me.

It’s a tough and scary decision to make but I’m determined to roll with it and do what I can to make it work out.

It feels good to do this.

Damn good.

I’m smiling.  I haven’t done that in a very long time.

I Said What I Needed To Say … sort of

Since Thanksgiving, I have let my depression/anxiety disorder get the better of me.  I had six days off from work, and took my youngest with me four hours away to stay with my folks over the holiday.  We had a great time – I drank some very good home and micro brews (thanks, bro!) – and I thought all was well with the world.

Then I came home.

And didn’t go back to work for one day.

Then two days.

Three.

A week.

It’s now mid-December and I still haven’t been back to work.  I called my boss twice during this time and both times left a message.  She’s never at her desk.

I was starting to wonder if I had been fired.

No, I knew I had been.  I knew I couldn’t just show up unannounced and expect everything to be cool.  As each day went by, it became harder to even make a phone call to let work know what was going on.

Last night, my supervisor called me.

I panicked.  My heart was going to burst from my chest, my legs got weak and I almost yacked up dinner.  My wife answered the phone and without saying a word, pushed the phone into my hand.

I had no choice.  I had to face this.

That’s when my brain decided to be an asshole.

Here’s how the conversation went:

Supervisor (S): Hi, Eric?

Brain (B): Don’t say anything.

Me (M): Hello, (name witheld, but it’s the same as my wife’s – which has made certain conversations over the past year a little awkward)

B:  Asshole!  I said to be quiet!

S:  How are you?

B:  Fucking peachy, what do you think?

M:  Not so good.

S:  What’s going on?

M:  Um…

B:  I hate working for you!

M:  Well…

B:  I hate my co-workers!

M:  Er…

B:  A retarded monkey can do my job! I’m sure you can find one.  Leave me alone!

S:  Eric?

M:  I’ve, uh, let my anxiety/depression disorder take over and I’ve, uh, been having a, uh, really tough time.

My wife, who had been listening, smiled and nodded encouragement.

S:  Oh, that’s horrible!  (My boss is a woman with a huge heart for any living thing in distress)

B:  Great!  Now she’s gonna be all gushy and sympathetic.  You know I can’t stand that shit.  Way to go, dumbass.

M:  Yeah, um …

S:  Are you going to come back to work?

B:  NO!  I told you to go find a monkey!  Dammit, I hate repeating myself!


M:  I hope to.

S:  Great!  We’d hate to lose you.

B:  Why?  The chains you bought for my desk too expensive?

From here the conversation is kind of fuzzy.  My supervisor was telling me things to do and what she was going to do for me, but I can’t remember much.  My brain had started singing “Iko, Iko” at the top of his diabolical lungs and was drowning her out.

I think things are ok with work. I’m pretty sure she told me she would call back tonight but I can’t be one hundred percent sure on that.

Maybe she said she had found a retarded monkey.

In which case, I’m screwed.