Chapter Two: The Postman Always Knocks
“Bloated and brown, the Mississippi River lay out before them like a giant, mud-covered slug too baked by the relentless sun to do much more than twitch in the thick September air.” (page 23)
Good morning, world!
Day Two of Hellesgate’s Long Goodbye arrives bookended with two chapter titles that are admittedly “blah.” I’m disappointed in them, now that I look back at the mundane phrases. Where was my imagination? Where was the zing? The melodrama? The gloating storm of yesterday?
*drums her fingers pensively on her chin*
Sometimes my creative juices are as elusive as toddlers in a heated game of hide and go seek. I corner them between the sofa and the book case only to have them scamper away between my legs… ok, whoever snuck a Freud into my head while I wasn’t looking please remove the doctor immediately.
I might frighten dear Sigmund.
Alright, where were we? Oh yes, the blahs. Every writer gets them. Every certifiable crazy person risks drowning in them. Literally. I’m talking the whole wet and cold world pushing and shoving to rush inside of you, wanting to flood you with its oceans and seas, its swimming pools and bathtubs holding only an inch of water. I’m talking long, dull moments where fighting and gasping for the air you so desperately need and want ironically becomes suicidal…
*stops, takes a deep, deep breath just for assurance, and then smiles cunningly*
Are the writing blahs that bad? Is losing that creative thread really so damning?
Of course not.
A person can drown in depression. A writer will never drown in a blah.
It’s all relative…
Ok, what joker put Einstein in my head?... Fair warning: No way in hell am I doing physics here, Albert. No freaking way.
Until tomorrow, when hopefully all PhD’s will have been thrown out with that inch of bathwater…
Chapter Three: The Seventh Floor
“Matthew groaned and firmly removed the hand from his dick. “We get tagged for public gay sex in Memphis and we’re never going to hear the end of it from Bingham.” (page 50)
It sucks big.
No, I’m not even talking about myself. A friend of mine has been battling it for a while now and it’s finally reached the point that she really needs to talk to her doctor about it. Even lugging me and my baggage around as a friend doesn’t counter the stigma attached to psych drugs.
A person might fully understand, accept and support someone else who has to take these meds, but when it comes to their own lives and the thought of having to pop them themselves, it scares the living daylights out of them.
I understand. They don’t want to be “mellow.” They don’t want to feel drugged up all the time. They don’t want to be reliant on a pill to get them through the day…
It’s a stigma, a vile one that is based on people who are prescribed the wrong kind of medication (or any kind of medication in some cases) for the wrong reasons. My doctor has always told me that all he wants the meds to do is to give me more of an even playing field. That’s all I want for my friend. I just want her to be happy, to not get stuck down in the quick sand of depression where the more you struggle the further down you are dragged.
I tried to explain to her that the meds aren’t meant to keep you from getting down about life or angry. They’re meant to help you not get stuck in those pits. The meds are a ladder, a way back up to a world still filled with shadows but also filled with intermediate sunshine.
I pray that my friend will ask for that ladder.
I pray that I’ve led her to look for that help in the right direction….
On these kind of days, I just pray.
Now, to hopefully brighten your day, here is your daily chapter preview.
Chapter Ten: Heat
“Cane stopped, looked up and stared at his lover. “Did we just turn into a Lifetime Movie?”” (page 116)
Laughter…sometimes it’s a staunch ladder in and of itself.
Excuse me, but has anybody seen the sun? You know, big orange heavenly blob that makes the world a prettier place to be? I was told by numerous sources on the Weather Channel that it was supposed to be here today. In fact, I counted on it being here. Had all my merry little plans made for a bright and shiny Sunday afternoon of football and romance, writing and holiday-making…
I think I’ve been stood up.
Bummer… No, really.
Ready or not here comes a peek into my messed up world. I warned you this might happen and here it is. File all complaints with Mr. Jim Cantore and the fake little sun he plopped over my head last night.
Honestly, I’m on a lot of medication for my panic attacks. I have been for many years. With these meds I’ve been able to weasel out a mostly doable life that has me playing in the sun a lot more than just surviving in the shadows. Yeah, I know, not a pretty picture… but a lot of Picasso’s stuff wasn’t pretty either but they turned out to masterpieces in the end. So, here’s to hoping that there’s a little bit of Picasso buried deep down beneath the screwed up fear.
Anyhow, it’s hard to “play in the sun” when there’s no sun. Not kidding, here. Sometimes the sun and a beautiful blue sky seems to play as important a role in my struggling mental health as the meds. I know a lot of people with depression feel the same way. It’s fine if it’s raining, snowing is glorious, but when the day is just this big heavy brick of gray ugliness my mind just settles back in its perpetual shadows and burrows itself in for the duration.
And see now that I have actually complained to you about it, I feel even worse. What kind of crap is that?
Well, on days like these you all are truly the manifestation of the song, “You are my sunshine.” I’ll more than likely write the day away, running toward the sunshine your happy, satisfied faces bring me when I’m able to deliver a good story to you… Sounds lame, I know. But the truth of my life often is a little crooked and off-putting, so lame just about fits perfectly here.
As I leave you this day with your Chapter Three excerpt, I wish you all sunshine and little Picasso’s in the shady corners of your souls…
Chapter Three: Powdered Sugar Clues
“The amount of skin stretched over the perfectly sculpted six pack and deeply barreled ribs gave Laird such a head rush that he found himself reaching back and grabbing at a wall just in case his knees decided to join his dick on its unplanned trip around the moon.” (page 39)