Fucking Anxiety

A 14-post collection

So I fucked up. Again

I'm busy trying to be rational towards my anxiety, and it's not exactly working. I've made mistakes with my narrative choices before. It should be no big deal.

Except...

Except I've done this twice in the space of one month and I'm normally more careful about this kind of thing and, like the impending speeding ticket in the red tape stage of landing on me, I'm afraid this will somehow wreck my life plans.

Screwing up stories by saying things sideways or omitting a fragment of phraseology is not the end of the world. If I keep telling my anxiety that, maybe it'll sink in. It's not the end of my writing career either. It is a simple and small mistake and, taken at scale1 should not be that big a deal.

Try convincing the side of my brain that hates me. It's not going well.

However, I started the daily Instants as a means of learning how to write good. A means by which to stretch myself, push my own envelope, and maybe fucking learn how to communicate without needless infodumping.

It's still a work in progress. So am I.

The most difficult thing in my life is allowing myself to be a human being and make dumbass mistakes now and again. Even as often as twice in one month. Life doesn't come with a report card and I won't get held down for a B- in communication skills.

I just need to learn where, exactly, to hold my thumb on the verbiage so that the intended message is clear. Sounds easy enough, right?

Sounds easy. I'm still learning these things... and that's okay.

I'm still learning how to be okay with this. A lifetime of gloom-and-doom prophecies from those around me, telling me that one mistake can ruin my life, has not helped with this outlook. Nor has my tendency, once trying, to wind up being very trying.

I'm working on it. I promise.

Let's see how much better I can do today.

  1. 2200+ stories and counting versus two readers with bruised feelings and concerns about my politics. Statistically, I should be fine. Emotionally OTOH...

Getting My Shit Together

I'm headed off up to Tullagawoopwoop to visit my friendo soon. So far, I've gathered most of my clothing into a bag in case I couldn't get the suitcases, and then got the suitcases down -_-

There's a phenominal amount of gecko crap on them and I should brush them off before I get packing, and the list of things I really should buy is starting to grow...

But of course I also have to arrange for Mayhem's book list to

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Fargnax!

I have a lot of stress. Most of it is self-inflicted. And worse, I can't do shit about it.

  • The expert recommended more tests.
  • Mayhem doesn't want to do them.
  • I finally triple-checked Sweet Child of Mine and started posting it on AO3. It is a rough beast of a whump fic. Be warned.
  • I'm still watching Adapting in slush pile limbo. So far, it's in a state of not being looked at.

I should go with the most likely scenario, but.

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I Need a Cure

My anxiety is in rare form this morning. We're seeing an expert about Mayhem's digestive issues, today.

There's a high likelihood that said expert will recommend irreversible invasive surgery and I am prepared to fight like a tiger about this.

And I am terrified - absolutely bone-deep terrified - that I will somehow fail and legal shit will get involved on all of this.

I have to think of this in a Best Case, Worst Case, Most Likely Case scenario.

Best Case:

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::static noise::

Beloved is home and sleeping it off. I wish I could be that lucky or that able to follow suit.

The best option I have is caffeine. Which sort of works okay, I guess. But ceases working long about 5PM. But I should be done with the important stuff by then and honestly - who cares that my sleep cycle is broken and needs new tyres?

Nobody.

Sleep aids have to be herbal, dear readers. My biology is such that if I

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Chedule change, wheeee

Today is a cleaning day. Because something went agley, I have no doubt.

I managed to cook up a very nice soup that got firkin vaccuumed up by the little darlings. And now I must ponder what to do for dinner tonight. That's cheap. And easy.

Because my sleep issues continueth.

I woke up at somewhere near midnight despite having some soothing tea and white noise on. Fitful sleep from there until long about five in the AM.

I am going to

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Small Progress

It's the first of March, and that means that I have seven more days to live through whilst simultaneously fearing acceptance and rejection. Acceptance means I get money, but I also have the possibility of going on book tours and talking at conventions and meeting fans.

And I have social anxiety.

If I am rejected... well, I have to go through all this AGAIN, and with a different Agent-to-be. Or, as I've been starting to shorten it, A2B. Which means another three

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Average, ordinary, everyday... disorder

So here's how things are going for me...

  • Shitty time getting to sleep, because:
  • Anxiety over the book being accepted
  • Anxiety over the animation/animatic I'm planning
  • Anxiety over whether or not the finished thing will get me hated and exiled over the fandom because someone thinks I want to make money about the thing
  • I have a tablet glove on the way and NOT being tracked by the Australian postal system
  • I have a neat fan-comic on the way that has
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I fail at human

My brain, as Thomas Dolby once sang, is like a sieve. I don't intend to forget things? But... it happens.

And when one of those things is as simple as checking my email as part of the process that makes sure my mother is still okay... I really fail at human.

Aliens, come take me away, because I am very obviously not of this world.

I'm at the stage where I have to scribe reminders on the back of my hand or

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Anxiety sucks

I've been having a little executive dysfunction, lately. Dawdling about things because I'm secretly scared of everything that could possibly go wrong. And everything that could impossibly go wrong, too. Because I like scaring myself, apparently.

As I frequently say when I give myself the horrors, my brain hates me.

I still don't know why I'm scared to send in the tax form to Smashwords. It's just one of the many things about me that make no sense whatsoever.

And I'm

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Lo Batt Light

I have just enough energy. Which is a sad place to be, when you think of it.

I have just enough to do everything that needs must be done. But not quite enough to do the things I want to do or the things that are good for me. This is the third day that I've skipped my morning walk because I've lacked the time and the energy combined to do the thing.

Mayhem is still sick. I have just enough energy

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Work, work, work...

I swept four rooms out of twelve. And there is enough debris from that to fill a dumpster. Unsorted, of course. In the midst of that mountain of scrattle, there is laundry, dishwashing, and the occasional useful thing. The rest of it is going out of the house because it was left on the floor. The family obviously doesn't care what happens to it.

My back hurts. Mayhem is sick at home, today. Some lurgi has him fast in its grip. He

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Second cuppa coffee

I’m surprised I made it this long without needing one.

I don’t usually have a second cup. Because chest pains and, in the case of today, nausea.

Plus a side of gut-quibbles.

BUT I gotta do what I can to seem marginally competent at the teacher interviews, this afternoon. IDK why I bother. They sent out the first semester report card ¾ of the way through the year.

Like WTH.

Then they had the nerve to ask me to fill

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Fuuuuuuuu...

My brain wouldn’t let me sleep, last night.

It’s 2:30 AM and I give the fuck up. I got so many irons in the fire today…

Getting my brats lined up and off to school. The instant story. The master file. The continuing work on a 50-page Amazon exclusive. Financial shit from an ongoing rats’ nest of red tape that surrounds trying to pay less money to live…

And a P&T thingy

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