There are three, at the most, four people in the wide world (virtual and
otherwise) who know what a hot neurotic mess I really am. Writer Gal has
*issues* peeps – some of them have been solved and shelved away neatly, while others rear their ugly heads from time to time.
Today, the issue bits have turned me into a piping hot mess and, I figure,
it’s time to share this aspect of my life with y’all. The ugly, messy, full of
self-doubt, and epic meltdowns part.
The last two months have been crazy hard on me – personally and
professionally. Oh, not because of setbacks but because of the sheer amount of stuff that I needed to handle and take care of, on every single front. All
while battling an insane case of sinusitis which finally only cleared after I religiously did something called a nasal wash (try it, next time your nose is blocked. It is fucking magic!)
I did the final read through of The Worst Daughter Ever on the day of my grandfather’s cremation because deadlines wait for nothing.
Yep, the book where I wrote about a beloved grandparent passing on was actually put to bed on the day my beloved grandparent passed away. The sheer, heart-breaking irony of it was like fate actually laughing at my words.
*Tears were shed, peeps. Tears. Were. Shed.*
I had to see my mom suffer through almost a decade of chronic, nagging pain, plus five years of her losing weight and appetite and finally two months of intense physical therapy to emerge the strong, confident, victorious woman she always has been for me. All while literally keeping our large, grieving family together with nothing more than her steely spine and titanium knee.
I watched my father cry. Really weep copiously and I don’t think I’ll ever
recover from it
In the middle of all the personal upheavals, a super-secret extremely cool
project was started and ended in three days.
My friends and I started an amazing new venture to talk about that most
stigmatic of all topics – romance! And the bonds of community beat all else,
Another cool project was brainstormed on my way back from an epically cool event just last week in the rickshaw ride, start to finish.
Two books were released, one in a beloved series that people wait patiently
for. The second one, the one about the grieving granddaughter, is now
out. And book releases involve a kind of pumped energy I sometimes don’t really have.
Because, and this is the kicker, talking about stuff that matters to me
scares me. Makes me feel ashamed. Makes me feel small. Like I am not worthy of it.
The tasks seem never-ending and always far-fetched and that’s how they are supposed to be if we want to achieve the extraordinary and my mom has always encouraged me to do so but…
There is no earthly explanation for this, except, the more I do when my task
lists are all clear for the day – the less I feel I have done.
The less I actually am.
It’s not about comparisons, because that is a rabbit hole I try and avoid as
much as I can. But…sometimes, not always, not every day, I struggle.
I struggle with balancing responsibilities at home and at work. I struggle
with being enough. With loving myself even when I feel I’m not worthy of it, like today. I struggle with being okay with finishing tasks on my task list and not adding more to it.
I struggle with the most horrible thought a writer, this writer, can ever
have – What if the book I wrote last was the last one I’ll ever write?
I usually vent to my three-four persons who roll their eyes, give me hugs,
pat me on the back and say, woman take the day off. But, today the day seems endless and the struggle is real.
If there is one resolution I’d like to keep from this birthday, it would be to not let the struggle get me down. And to know, with every particle of my being, that I’ll be fighting fit tomorrow. Because, I always am!
Until next time,