It’s the time of year to do it, but looking back is so, so difficult for me.
I don’t want to reread my blog entries or my e-journal. It hurts me to see how my life has gone. My life is just going away from me…
Along with my e-journaling, I keep a physical day planner. An object in the real world I use to prove to / remind myself that I do things during the course of a day and that I am not just this lump that is taking up space- except I am this lump that is taking up space-
So anyway, I have this day planner i can flip through; if I can endure it:
very early in the year I was already wondering why I bothered keeping an account when every day is so much the same small potatoes as every day
my eyes skitter over the dubious penmanship that improves or degrades depending on how I am doing physically and emotionally
FML repeats on many pages
I recorded numerous nights when I did not sleep well enough to function
I listed the many days when I took antibiotics
I listed when I had bowel movements (IBS makes you more interested in your own actual shit than you normally want to be)
runes are written on some pages
there are blank days when I was away traveling
there are times when I wrote on the wrong page though the date is clearly marked with a large number and in three different languages
I put stickers on some pages- even on the cover- because I do try to have fun and be whimsical
I find pages marked by full-spread scribbles that start to cut through the paper with the intensity of my frustration and rage at my trapped situation, these hopeless states I keep dipping into
And looking through my e-journal entries are just as painfully horrible.
There were so many more effluviant moments than not. The sour stink comes off the screen. I feel re-coated by it, like I will never be rid of it.
Who would want to revisit such things?
If I want to publish anything, I have to review whatever material I have. It can’t be all unworthy. Or is it?
I made it a point to write something everyday, as I have done for several years running now.
The specific goal I set for myself at the beginning of this year was to keep all my daily e-writing in one place. I did not separate my junk writing, records of the days events and poetry. This would force me to look back and really examine the spectrum of things that I’ve passed through during the year in order to glean out any poetic scraps from the seemingly gratuitous self pity and definite rabid overuse of the word ‘fuck,’ refine and compile those scraps, and hopefully emerge with a cohesive chapbook- or heck, even a book!
More often than I would like, the time I need to concentrate on doing this little project has been elusive. I mean, I couldn’t even make time each day to write. And it’s proved too much to try edits / rewrites every three days or so. That pops up on my to-do list and is thrown to the back burner so fast.
A needy cat, house chores, minor catastrophes, depression, pain, anxiety, interest in so many diverse things, other people’s projects… all throw me into this fracture of not knowing how to prioritize me-time; especially when I am the least important person I know. (No one has fully convinced otherwise yet.)
Most of the time I have felt like a hooligan’s playground for bacteria- and yeah, there was that time when I hosted cancer…
When does a playground ever reflect on it’s own state of being turned into a playground? This one is making an effort. I don’t know if it will be meaningful or helpful to anyone else, but I feel the need to- I need something to show for my years of life as a creative person. These lines on my face must have some worth? -these hairs on my chin? (If so called men can boast facial hair as is sign of wisdom then why can’t I?)
I will review my year. I will mourn the hell out of that person brought to the point of vivid suicidal ideation. I will forge poetry out of this hellscape year. I will get that published some how. I will move forward wondering if I will become that end-seeking person again. Or if I can regain some of the sparks that I used to have.
If you don’t hear me talking about a book of some kind, then ask me where I’m at with it.
As much as I have tenacity, small things hold me up and turn me shy. I do sweat the small stuff. Because that is where the devil lives. In the little things. In the details. In bacterial infection.
And check your health history! Your depression might be your inflammation response negatively effecting your brain. This is a thing and no one talks about it.