Emotional Turbulence
(I wrote this on the Rising Gorge Blog and decided to post it here where it will probably not be read. While I think it was necessary to write, I don't think it would be interesting to anyone else.)
This day, so far, is a depressingly familiar continuation of yesterday. It's as if I have something irritating and painful lodged in my mind and either I need to pry it out and discard it, or use it as the nidus for some kind of finished product, like a pearl in an oyster.
It's not clear to me what it is. It began yesterday, I think. Before that, I'm sure I was thinking of much more positive things and feeling hopeful and even excited, to be moving on to another undertaking. Then somewhere early yesterday, things took a decidedly southward turn and additional coal was applied by the workers in my engine room. Embellishments in the form of hanging crepe and withered flowers, were added during the night. My dreams, which are only half-remembered now, left the distinct flavor of hopelessness and a defeated ending. I know that the difference between the depressive thoughts and those which carry me along from one happy place to the next is simply the underlying pattern that I choose to believe or maybe the contents of the little cart I push through my mind, picking memories and interpretations to carry along with me. Those things form the basis and the theme for the thoughts which enter the stream of my inner dialogue.
If I pick the wrong thoughts, as I have now, nothing hopeful can be built on top of them. At the worst, I'm left trying not to feel anything, rather than give in and pile more of the same and increasingly more worrisome scenarios and interpretations of my inner world. I'm hoping that by writing and examining this mood I might make it dissolve like light dispels the gloom of night, like the boogey man disappears when challenged.
I know I can do this. It takes so little to capture my imagination and small goals are all I need to make life meaningful. I've been here before and I don't like it. I need to press myself to do something worthwhile, something that excites me about doing more. Right now all I can think of is to write more and faster and make something come of it.
I can do this. I need to set the stage for it. I need to create a setting where anything is possible and the next line might make a difference. Something that will surprise me. Something I shouldn't expect myself capable of.
Maybe this is the time to go back to the re-write of the novel and push harder. If I can lose myself for a little while possibly the version that comes out the other side will have corrected my view of world. If it really is that bad, I don't think I want to know about it. At least right now.
Wow, this is really a depressing piece.
This day, so far, is a depressingly familiar continuation of yesterday. It's as if I have something irritating and painful lodged in my mind and either I need to pry it out and discard it, or use it as the nidus for some kind of finished product, like a pearl in an oyster.
It's not clear to me what it is. It began yesterday, I think. Before that, I'm sure I was thinking of much more positive things and feeling hopeful and even excited, to be moving on to another undertaking. Then somewhere early yesterday, things took a decidedly southward turn and additional coal was applied by the workers in my engine room. Embellishments in the form of hanging crepe and withered flowers, were added during the night. My dreams, which are only half-remembered now, left the distinct flavor of hopelessness and a defeated ending. I know that the difference between the depressive thoughts and those which carry me along from one happy place to the next is simply the underlying pattern that I choose to believe or maybe the contents of the little cart I push through my mind, picking memories and interpretations to carry along with me. Those things form the basis and the theme for the thoughts which enter the stream of my inner dialogue.
If I pick the wrong thoughts, as I have now, nothing hopeful can be built on top of them. At the worst, I'm left trying not to feel anything, rather than give in and pile more of the same and increasingly more worrisome scenarios and interpretations of my inner world. I'm hoping that by writing and examining this mood I might make it dissolve like light dispels the gloom of night, like the boogey man disappears when challenged.
I know I can do this. It takes so little to capture my imagination and small goals are all I need to make life meaningful. I've been here before and I don't like it. I need to press myself to do something worthwhile, something that excites me about doing more. Right now all I can think of is to write more and faster and make something come of it.
I can do this. I need to set the stage for it. I need to create a setting where anything is possible and the next line might make a difference. Something that will surprise me. Something I shouldn't expect myself capable of.
Maybe this is the time to go back to the re-write of the novel and push harder. If I can lose myself for a little while possibly the version that comes out the other side will have corrected my view of world. If it really is that bad, I don't think I want to know about it. At least right now.
Wow, this is really a depressing piece.
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