So yesterday I saw my shrink again. Is that a derogatory term? Who cares-and I went in with much trepidation because I've still been having the violent rage impulses, jitters, and that fucking itch in my brain. Last time she put me on new meds and I think I talked myself into thinking that was that; all better - see ya, doc!

I wish I had a way to monitor my countenance, other than the dreaded mirror, which I never use except to shave every few weeks because I can't stand the sight of myself, because she immediately said, "I can see you're struggling." What the hell was my mask letting through that allowed her to see the truth? Yeah, I broke down and borrowed a few tissues.

My blood pressure is still so high that she's almost certain I'll have a stroke any day, I've gained 16 pounds from eating shit (not actual shit, but prepackaged treats and sweets), and I told her that being "happy" was not even on my radar any more; I just didn't want my brains to feel so scrambled that mass destruction was winning the race. You know things are bad when your psychiatrist puts her head in her hands and asks if you would like to be hospitalized. I told her not today.

So yet another new med that kicked my ass hard and an increase of the others, a suggestion for intense therapy, and a desperate plea to see a PCP to get my blood pressure under control. I know, just another post about how fucked up some poor slob is. But if that's your takeaway from this, I heartily applaud you and sincerely hope you enjoy your superior mental health and exalted sense of self worth. I mean it; congratulations!

For many of us, though, that ship sailed long ago to lands unknown and is not coming back. 

Want me, explode me. Splatter my bones

on museum walls. Worship me - 

lips, rosebuds never blooming; eyes, winter 

sky diamonds. Never know me, but 

speak of me, dream of me, embalm me

like the 'i'  in 'extraordinary' - a syllable you 

swallow to make it work - and call it love. 

"What did you notice about me first?"

"My tits or my ass?"

One of the things I most loved about her was the way she would cut deeply to the root of whatever conversation she entered. She did so with ease, and unapologetically.

"Ummm"

I sheepishly stammered...

"Well, to be honest, neither."

I WAS being truthful.

"It was the way your shoulders hunch forward and in as your body slightly crumples over when you laugh. The way when you laugh, HOW you laugh so completely...like you absolutely have to enjoy every last bit of whatever it is that inspires you to laugh, and how you HAVE to make sure you get every last drop of that joy out. It was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen."

She stopped and stared at me. I couldn't tell if she was going to cry, or if I'd been so moved while reliving that moment, that I had actually spoken another language. She never really addressed it.

Two weeks later, I figured it out.

I should have just said her ass.

I feel like there should be a certain purity to art. You should write because you love it, not because you’re trying to be the next big thing. It shouldn’t be tainted with capitalistic intentions.

I don't know where this belief came from, and I don't think I'm right.

What’s wrong with trying to be the next big thing? What's wrong with using the NY Times Best Seller List as a measure of your success, as your certificate of accomplishment? What’s wrong with wanting to create, but not starve? Why do I always picture a “true” creative being a starving artist?

I’m not trying to be huge. I’ve realized that I don’t write only for myself; I write to get positive feedback from others. My self-esteem is at an all-time low, and I have been working years in a job that rarely praises me.

It makes me cringe to write that. Call the fuckin whaaambulance, “My job doesn’t praise me”. Boo-fuckin-who, you whiny little shit. I have a job and can do grown up things, like keep a roof over my head and buy food without being financially devastated. But it does help my morale if my good work is recognized. I can’t keep denying that positive feedback makes me feel good.

Why does it feel bad to feel good?

We expect to train dogs with positive reinforcement. We want to raise our kids with positive reinforcement. Where did I get the idea that wanting positive reinforcement as an adult makes me weak, needy, and clingy? Who forced this narrative down my throat that we should be happy to work hard, no matter what we get in return for it?

I write because I’ve been assuming that I needed a creative outlet. Is it really the creativity I need, or the positivity that Prose feeds me?

I want to believe I can do what I love and not worry about receiving anything in return. I want to believe in this statement that has leeched itself to my brain: Working hard is always its own reward.

Here is what’s annoying: even if people throw compliments at me, I feel uncomfortable for enjoying it. I feel guilty.

I always feel guilty! Is it residual Catholic guilt? Were my parents too hard on me? Am I holding myself to unrealistic standards? I think the majority of the time I enjoy something, I feel guilty for enjoying it. How fuckin stupid is that?

What makes a writer? I’m so fuckin stuck in my head that it’s been harder than usual to write. I was reading some of my older work and I feel like I’ve lost something. There is something extra that used to sit in my writings that have abandoned me. Or I’ve lost it. Or maybe I was afraid of enjoying it, so I’ve pushed it back into my subconscious.

Just write, I tell myself. Fuck the questions and the guilt, just write.

But when I try to write, I hate what comes out. I hate it.If I don’t have this, what do I have?

This isn’t a fishing lure for compliments or tears. I need to know that other writers agonize over things, overthink things that end up being completely irrelevant. Then, I need to know how you come back out of it to keep kicking ass.