I Garden So I Don't Choke People

Depression sucks the energy out of me. Makes it hard to move, hard to care, hard to think of anything but the same tired scripts that suck the energy out. 

I learned in 2019 that moving helps. When Miss Kitty was dying, I couldn't eat, but I could move. I kept moving - and accidentally started ketosis and lost 15 pounds before I realized what was happening and forced myself to eat a chocolate chip cookie. That was two months after her burial. 

I knew weekends playing Farmville for 18 hours a day made the depression worse, one of the reasons I quit Farmville. I knew spending any kind of time in The Swamp pulling weeds, watering something, moving a brick or two, helped my mood, which is why I have forced myself to go outside. It is so helpful that on good mental days I lay out my garden pants so I'm ready to change as soon as I come home. Like exercise. Don't think. Just do. 

I didn't do that last week. I over-extended on the weekend, and stayed in Monday and Tuesday instead of going outside. By Wednesday, I was an emotional wreck. 

The anxiety is gone for the moment but the anger and hopeless are building. Mostly anger as society gets dumber by the hour, it seems, but hopelessness is quick to follow when I remember God wants me to love these stupid people and be kind to the morons. How exactly do I do that, Lord, when I just want to bitch-slap all of them? 

Paul Asay runs marathons to avoid the down-sucking of depression, but the trifecta of thick glasses, bad knees and motion sickness rule that option out for me. Plus, I hate running. 

I like outside chores. I've started two hugelkulture beds because they allow me to gather branches, chop wood and dig holes - all things I can do despite Bermuda grass. I'm clearing out the storm drains in the neighborhood for organic material and stealing sticks from neighbors' lawns for the wood. Doing this helps me. I like to think it helps everyone. 

I must keep moving. Lives depend on it. Mine most of all. 

Keep the faith. 

Back To Church

Blogger distracted me with the news my email feature is going away in June. Then Feedburner provided abysmal directions on how to export my email list, a task which will apparently require hours of deciphering "intuative" tech speak instead of giving me a clearly marked button to push. 

I hate young people. 

But on to my chosen topic of why I'm back at church and trying to love people, young and old. 

I was not a pew baby. To the best of my recollection, my family began regularly attending church when I was 10 (?). By 15, we were at church at least five times a week. By 19, I was off to college, my church split, and when I returned home six years later, I had no home church to return to. 

I attended a church with a puppet group for about a decade, until the group disbanded and I realized the leadership didn't actually believe in supernatural events, like the virgin birth or the feeding of the 5000. My next church agreed with my opinion that the Bible is the inerrant word of God, and a being capable of creating everything is certainly capable of creating some bread. I attended faithfully until a depressive episode hit. I went back after a number of years, maybe 8?, and then another depressive episode hit. About the time I thought about going back, covid showed up. 

I resumed in-person attendance this January, and with demonic timing, my most recent trigger appeared. If past is prologue, I should have stopped going out at all and stayed at home nursing my depression like the squalling brat it is. 

This time, however, I will not to be dissuaded. This time, I will do what God tells me to do and not forsake the assembling of ourselves together all the more as I see the day (of destruction) approaching. I now attend one service, one small group and one mid-week prayer group. I have volunteered to bring someone without a ride every other week. I will obey God and Christ's example by mingling with fellow Christ followers. 

Depression separates. From people, from activities, from life. I will not choose to be separate any more. If I want a different result, I have to do different things. This is different, and I will do it. 

Keep the faith. 

Why People Are Important in Depression

People are not my favorite. Ask me. Ask anyone who actually knows me (there aren't many). 

I find people exhausting. Needy. Ridiculous. Often useless. On good days, I can translate this to Mr. Bennett's "Well, well, what is life for, if not to make sport of our neighbors, and provide sport for them in our turn?" On bad days, I have learned to clench my jaw, avoid conversation, and speak in a very, very soft voice when absolutely necessary. 

However, I have learned, and Paul Asay of Beauty in the Browns, concurs, that people are important in treating and avoiding depressive episodes. What people and how many probably vary, but the key is to look outside myself for ways to help other humans. 

Depression is quite selfish. The more I look inward at how awful I am, and life is, and people are, the worse the depression gets. In fact, the better my outward life actually is, the more depressed I tend to become, often because I have no reason to feel depressed, and that is completely depressing. 

Helping another human (and it has to be a human. I have been good to enough animals to know it isn't the same or I would be the happiest camper in the universe) helps me feel better. To be selfless, to be kind, to go out of my way, even for a phone conversation, can give life a scrap of meaning. Piece enough scraps, and you've got a quilt of meaning to pad the day. 

It sounds a bit too easy, doesn't it? It's not a cure-all. I lost my quilt pattern this last time, and I'm having a hard time getting back in the scrap box, but I will keep trying. It's also easy to go too far, extend too much and get buried under exhaustion and stress. I did that once. It was not fun. I'm looking for balance. 

I learned last year that a day where I went out of my way to help another human was a better day than one where I didn't. One personal goal is now to say yes to helping opportunities instead of my knee-jerk no. I don't think I'm trying to earn anything. I think I'm trying to practice not withholding good when it is in my power to do it. But I'm a selfish creature so it is sometimes hard to understand my motives. 

I try not to dwell on them. It depresses me. 

Keep the faith. 

Christians Are Part of the Problem, Too

I don't usually talk about these depressive thoughts. For two reasons. 

I don't want to bad-mouth God publicly. That sounds funny considering what I've already confessed but it's true. I believe in God. I believe the evidence for intelligent design far outweighs the evidence against it. I have studied apologetics for 40 years in one form or another. I am not able to abandon what my reason says is true. I don't want my depressive experiences to become an argument against God. 

I don't want to give bad thoughts to people who've never had them. There are so many things in my head I wish weren't there. I don't want to spread the disease if I can avoid it. No one should have to think these things if they aren't already there. 

However, I am coming to realize that my silence is part of the problem, especially for me as a Christian. In the last 9 years, I've avoided the church because, in general, Christians don't understand what I'm going through. They don't want to be around my grief, my hopelessness and my anger. They don't know what to do with it, how to respond to it, and most importantly, how to not make it worse. As a naturally solitary creature, I don't want to expose myself to further injury by well-intentioned but often condescending comments from the peanut gallery. It is not helpful. 

The depressives out there are hearing me loud and clear. Just like those who've suffered soul-wounding grief, abuse, addiction and any other life issue that doesn't fit neatly into a worship song or have a tidy, miraculous, instant cure. We hurt, and we don't need or want platitudes. We don't need you to fix our problem (although sometimes there are solutions). We aren't looking for advice (although sometimes we are). I can't figure out what's going on, I certainly don't believe you can figure it out (although sometimes an outside perspective is quite helpful). 

What I need from my fellow believers is prayer. They can say whatever they want about me to God. At least I'm being lifted up. I need a kind ear. I need a cup of tea. I need someone to say, "You know, I don't always get God, either." 

We the hurting are just talking about real things that really trouble us. The only thing I want is for God to show up. I don't even need an answer. I just want to see Him, like Job saw him. But I'm not Job. 

Keep the faith. 

When God is Part of the Problem

The hardest thing about my recent bout of depression, the one that I began recovering from 12.16.2019, was how much God was part of the problem. 

I am a Christ-follower. Not a good one, as I've already established - a Pharisaical one. I make up God-rules to follow because I don't want to do some of the things He clearly tells me to do. Obedience to God is worship of God. I'm a terrible worshipper. 

During my depressive states, I talk to God a lot. Hourly. I don't watch TV. I read my Bible and listen to sermon podcasts from David Jeremiah and Paul Sheppard and recently Craig something from Life.Church. I talk to God honestly, like David, who I'm pretty sure was bipolar. I yell a lot, accuse a lot, demand a lot, cry a lot. I am that dripping rain wife Proverbs talks about. Never satisfied, ever-wanting, continuously nagging. Why is this happening? Why can't I overcome this? Why don't you heal me? How can I tell people about your incredible love when you won't show me any? 

As far as I can tell empirically, God ignores me. I don't come to an understanding of the greatness of God, like David seems to. Although, I have no idea how long it took him to write those psalms so maybe his answers came later. I don't glory in the greatness of my creator. 

I don't feel loved. I don't feel heard. I don't feel the peace that passes understanding. I feel ignored. Shunned, even. God has already said everything He has to say and He's done. A new promise, just for me? I have the whole Bible and its promises. Trust those, even if they don't exactly fit my specific circumstances. Besides, I'm not doing what He's already told me to do, so until I cowboy up, He's got nothing to say. 

My source of help will not help. Isn't He supposed to help? Isn't the entire point of the Bible that I can't do this by myself? Sure feels like that's what I'm doing. 

Paul Asay also has trouble experiencing God the way some people do. It's why I listened to him and bought his book, Beauty in the Browns. He has been able to find a way to trust what he knows when the feelings aren't there. C.S. Lewis says the same thing in a quote about trusting what his reason knows when his mood doesn't fit his mind. 

That's all great, except my experiences as I age have become time after time when God let me down. Didn't show up in a visible way. Didn't answer a prayer in a visible way that undeniably points to His hand in the business. Didn't offer comfort in a tangible way. I want to believe He was doing something behind the scenes, and His ways are not my ways, and His timing is not my timing, but is it really so much to ask for one clear sign that He is listening? Gideon got that twice. 

Sure, maybe I'm doing it wrong. It has to be my fault, right? I'm the human. God can't possibly be to blame. I should just trust more, think good thoughts, wait until I die 50 years from now to find out it was all worth it. Those platitudes mean exactly nothing when I'm drowning in sand. 

How is it possible to have a real relationship with an invisible, intangible, unexperience-able being? At some point, a friend shows up and offers a hug, makes some tea, hands over a tissue. If people are the hands and feet of God, and He doesn't do anything Himself, how do I know He's even there? 

I am not driven by feelings, but when all my feelings are hopeless grief, bitter despair, and absolute aloneness, it would be nice if the God I serve would provide a little balance instead of a lot of silence. 

Keep the faith. 

Killing Myself Daily

 I don't remember exactly when I started asking to die, but I'm guessing it was at least 2016. I never expected to live past 30. That I continue to live past 30 is annoying in the extreme. 

These have never been actively suicidal thoughts. In the beginning, they were "I wish I was dead." Ultimately, it became "Anytime, Lord. Kill me anytime. Anywhere. Anyway. I'm ready to go." Then, "Did I seriously survive another day? You're really falling down on the prayer answering thing, God. I can't be clearer." 

I was looking for terminal cancer, embolism, aneurism, stray bus - anything that would take me out without another human having to feel too bad about it. God has stubbornly kept me here despite my nagging. 

After 12.16,2019, my recovery start day, I continued to ask for death daily, often hourly as I tried to give up the horrors my life had become and let God do His thing. I even kept a 3x5 card on my desk that said Cheer up! You could die today! It occurred to me finally that I could kill myself by not giving in to the incredibly selfish, mean, bitter, angry, vicious, snarling beast-thing I had become and instead work to live the life of a Christ-follower presented in the New Testament by Paul, Peter, James, et al. Be kind, humble, patient, gracious to all, generous, not speaking evil, encouraging, doing good, being hospitable. Run from evil, cling to what is good. Focus on pure, noble, good, trustworthy, true things. Of course, this was far harder than being dead, but what is life if not ever-growing hardship? Why do you think I'm so keen to get out? 

Every morning I listened to or read and wrote from the New Testament what a real person should be like. Every day I focused on being that person. It was hard, but what did that matter? It was hard the other way, too, and I was full-up sick of that bitch. This way, Jesus' way, I was tired but I'd tried. And I started to succeed. I started to feel better inside. I started to feel compassion for the people around me, for the people on the phone I had so recently despised. It was better. It was good. 

Then I fell off the wagon. This February-March, I suffered a setback that has apparently reset me back to 12.16.2019. All the old, worldly feelings of anger and contempt are back with a vengeance, and my frustration is greater because I think I should be better than this. I mean, I've practiced for a year, right? I should have this by now. But as any drunk knows, day one starts when you put the most recent drink down and leave it there. 

Ah, well. What is life if not falling down and getting up and falling down and getting up and falling down and getting up all the way to Heaven? 

Which is why I'm still OK with God killing me anytime. But I'm not asking as much. 

Keep the faith. 

Depression with a Side of Anxiety

I'm gonna have to stop writing about depression for a while. It's making me depressed. One thing this journaling has done is clarify why I am now determined to seek help both professional and relational and do things differently. 

In the past 24 years, my depressive episodes have been mostly that - depressive. No energy, no hope, no enjoyment of life. Hang around and slog through and wait for the next wave of sand. That's my lot. 

A couple of years ago, life circumstances came together in such a way to frighten me. Really scare the bejeezus out of me for a short time. I couldn't breathe, couldn't eat, had trouble sleeping, the works. The circumstances shifted, the fear subsided and I went on with my normal depression. It was bad but it was the bad I live with daily. 

A month ago, the terror returned and brought friends. The trigger was pretty small but the reaction was enormous. I've lost 13 pounds in five weeks from not being able to eat. I couldn't catch my breath when sitting or lying down. My heart would increase from 50 to 90 beats a minute for no obvious reason. And I couldn't make it stop. I couldn't do anything to stop it. My depression coping skills were inadequate. God wasn't doing anything. I was trapped between hopelessness and fear that the hopelessness would never stop and it was my fault to boot. 

I am mostly through it for the moment. Circumstances have changed. I am eating and able to breathe normally most of the time. But I cannot - I will not - allow that loss of control to happen again if I can do anything to stop it. I do mean anything. Electro shock is on the table. Drugs are on the table. If I thought there was a chance in Hell alcohol would have helped instead of making it worse, I would be drinking Scotch while I write this. 

It is clear to me I have no coping resources left. I have run myself out of mental health and I will need more than me to regain what I've lost. If I can. Two years after my nervous breakdown, I remember thinking "Oh, this is it. This is as good as I will feel from now on. It's not what I was, but it's better than nothing." Which, of course, is fodder for more depression. 

Anyway, enjoy your Scotch or Scotch-equivalent. I'll try to write some happy things for a while. 

Keep the faith. 

Passion

Self-Loathing Week, Day Five

This should be the last day of this. On the other hand, the weekend is almost here.

My second favorite Buffy episode is "Passion." Angel has lost his soul but not his desire for the slayer, and he spends all 43 minutes with his full attention focused on tormenting her.

Dave Ramsey recommends finding your passion and indulging it for the rest of your life. When you love your work, wealth follows. I've been listening to Dave Ramsey a lot lately. As if you couldn't tell.

I have no passion. Believe me, I've looked.

I care about nothing. Well, that's not true, but I don't care about anything passionately. Except my critters, but I can't make a living out of them.

I'm not passionate about writing. I want to write good stories for God, but I don't believe God "laid these stories on my heart."

Sorry for the quotes there. I'm not scoffing at those who do consider writing their God-given ministry, or who believe God will use their books to reach people. I just don't think my writing books is any more a ministry than anything else I do. I am a Christian who writes. If God wants to bless the readers, more power to Him.

TT: The question of "what is a ministry?" is a big one and has been debated (to death, in my opinion) in other places. I don't care to get into here. I will agree with Ocilla's Mommy that you never know who may be watching, so it is important in all you do to do it for Christ. I would hope all who carry the name "Christian" would strive for that.

What I do notice about other writers is passion. They have it. You have to have it to maintain the level of insanity required to seek publication. Conferences help renew passion. That's why I support them in spirit even if my flesh is weak.

Stupid flesh.

Without passion to motivate me, I'm left with stubbornness. I suppose I could do worse. I'm pretty stubborn. But some days, I wish a had a little passion. Even a smidgen would help.

Hey! Maybe I'm passionate about self-loathing. I've sure enjoyed writing these posts.

And Godspeed to all those submitting to PYP's October Fantasy Month. You have the next 31 days to get your YA book proposals and first 3 chapters emailed. Look up their page on FB for more details.

No Travel

Self-Loathing Week, Day Four

Thank the Lord this week is almost over. It feels like the longest week of my life.

WARNING: this post contains graphic content. Do not read further if you suffer a weak stomach.

As I've been reading all the glowing reports and gushing enthusiasm pouring out of blogs about the recent ACFW conference, I've sought the warm comfort of my bed. Three bloggers wrote about their airplane companions, layover time and ticket-booking.

I don't travel.

I suffer from debilitating motion sickness. Family legend has it I threw up breast milk at 3 months on a trip to Kansas City (1 hour from my house). I suspect this was the Turtle Christmas gathering, although I've never asked. But the timing would be right.

I grew up in the glorious 70's, the golden age of the Chevy Station Wagon. You remember them. Mustard yellow with faux wood paneling? Pile 14 kids in the very back to breathe exhaust fumes on their way to the pizza parlor?

I begged my friends' parents to let me ride in front, but no one listened to 8 year-olds in those days. Too bad. It meant they got to clean up the mess that inevitably occurred, and my parents got to come pick me up before the pizza arrived. I have never left a station wagon with my stomach contents intact.

When I was 12, my family traveled a bit. I have puked on every plane from Kansas to Hawaii to Guam to Micronesia and back over the course of a year. Oh wait. There was one plane I didn't throw up on. I made it to the gangway before I blew chunks.

As I've aged, I've gotten worse. I've gotten sick while I'm driving. That's no good.

It's not just the throwing up. The last bout I suffered had me in bed for 48 hours afterwards. A specialist once told me motion sickness is a form of migraine. I thought that meant I would develop migraines. Not so. I just get all the symptoms. Vomiting, dizziness, light intolerance, physical weakness. Even if I go somewhere, I'm not assured I'll be in any shape to do anything when I get there.

Let me tell you, you wouldn't put up with it, either, if you could avoid it. And I can. By not traveling.

Oh, people have recommended all kinds of things. Bracelets. Patches for behind my ear. Pills. Even immersion therapy where they subject me to continual motion until I finally get used to it.

Yeah, that sounds great. Let's do that.

I don't fly. I don't even like to drive, but at least in a car when the moment comes, you can pull over. Unless you're my father driving Hwy 7 in Missouri, and you're mad, and you just want to get off. Then you drive faster. That's a post I will never write.

To misquote Joshua from War Games, the only real cure is not to move.

Writers' conferences don't come to Topeka, KS. They go to Colorado, Florida, Indiana, apparently, but not Kansas. Which is too bad. Kansas is a pretty State, if folks would try driving it during the day when they can see it. What's a turtle to do?

Well, this turtle is inclined to sulk and throw pity parties. Which is silly, considering I'm not even a member of ACFW yet. However, seems CathiLyn Dyck of Scita Scienta heard a rumor the next conference may be in St. Louis. I could drive to St. Louis.

The real question is will I continue to wallow in the muck of self-loathing, or will I make plans now and stock up on airsickness bags?

I suppose the answer depends on whether you ask me during the week or on a weekend.

Insanity Defined

Self-Loathing Week, Day Three

(I'm starting to enjoy these. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I don't think of myself as a masochist...)

Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

I've been insane once. I had a nervous breakdown thanks to a six month stint as a foster care caseworker. Seems I'm not designed to practice insanity as defined by Albert Einstein and the State of Kansas. Had I come from a different family, I could have been institutionalized and medicated for a bit.

Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

Being a trained therapist, after experiencing my first three-hour crying jag, I pulled out my copy of the DSMIII-R (that's the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, Third Edition, Revised for those not therapeutically trained. It's a huge book and useful only for insurance billing purposes. Go figure) and diagnosed myself. This was many years ago, but it was something like "Acute Depressive Disorder with Depressed and Irritable Mood."

Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

Turns out extreme stress can cause nervous breakdowns. Who knew? Since all the stress emanated from my job, my next choice was blissfully simple. The upside was I quit my job, found a new one and after two and a half years of self-treating with over-the-counter St. John's Wort restored some semblance of sanity to my life. The downside is it broke me in places I suspect will never heal.

Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

You've no doubt heard what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Load of organic compost, that is. Sometimes what doesn't kill you weakens you forever. Remember Frodo after his stabbing on Weathertop? The wound that never healed? He carried it with him onto the Gray Ship decades later.

Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

According to Native American tradition, I am of the Frog Clan. Frog lends me strengths and weaknesses. I considered making the frog my brand, but I don't actually like frogs (I knew one. Turns out, they aren't nice). Anyway, I admire a frog's lack of memory. Frogs don't have the ability to learn. They are insane, according to Einstein, but it doesn't bother them at all. Now me, once I've been burned even a little, I go out of my way to avoid whatever caused that pain.

Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

A writer is insane. Not only for writing in the first place, but for submitting. Consider. Write a book. Research a publisher. Write a proposal. Submit. Wait 6-8 weeks. Get rejected. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

Case management taught me insanity is not my normal condition. To seek publication is insane. Therefore, every time I try it, I reopen that wound and experience again all the joys of Acute Depressive Disorder with Depressed and Irritable Mood.

Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

You might wonder why I would admit such a thing on a public blog future potential editors might read. I could argue any editor willing to work with me after reading this will earn my undying loyalty (should he want it). I could argue I suspect other writers somewhere feel this way, too, and I want to know I'm not alone. Sometimes taking the risk is the only way to get the reward. Hmm. Didn't I just write about that?

Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

The truth is it's part of my self-destructive nature, silly reader. My attempts to sabotage my own success. See, I will never be published because I fear it. I fear the change more than I want the change. Until I deal with that fear, I will never get anywhere.

TT: I have considered just writing books and letting one of the nieces publish them after my death. That might work.

And that's why I loathe myself on weekends when I read about other writers striving for publication with gazelle-intensity and seemingly without fear. I wish I could be one of them. On weekends, I doubt I ever will.

You see, I am not insane. And a writer must be.

Fortunately, the other five days of the week, I'm fairly optimistic. It's generally when I'm awake in the dark holding a sick cat fear shows up and smothers me. God seems very far away at those times, even though He isn't. I suspect He's holding me as close as I hold her.

The Curse of Natural Ability

Self-Loathing Week, Day Two

Some people are born with "natural ability," often called "talent." A talent for singing. A talent for drawing. A talent for piano. A talent for puppeteering. A talent for writing.

Yes, I have talent in all those things. Switch to distancing third-person.

Talent can be a crutch. It allows someone to do a hard thing slightly better than someone else without effort. When compared with the average Joe, talent makes a person stand out.

This is dangerous. It means with almost no effort, someone can be praised for doing what comes naturally. Unless that person has a teacher or parent who recognizes what she could do and accepts no less, she could get away with doing very little and achieving above average results. Almost my entire school experience proves this.

An example: I was forced to enter a state essay contest in seventh grade. I got second place. I was furious. I didn't want to write the paper, I put in as little effort as I could, and I got second place. How unfair is that? Somewhere in the world is a former child who gave his all and lost. To me. Just because I had a talent for writing. If ever you read this, unknown competitor, I am sorry. Adults made me do it.

Where was I? Oh, yes, talent among the average.

But, put that same talented person in a group of other similarly talented people, and she fades into the background. She becomes one among many. This can be quite an emotional blow to one accustomed to being the big turtle in a small swamp.

If someone is competitive by nature, this leveling of players will drive her to hone her talent, to become a better turtle. Practice is the difference between the talented amateur and the skilled professional.

If she is not competitive by nature, or is prone to fits of self-pity and day-long naps, she does not hone her skills. She goes somewhere else, where the swamp is not so full of other turtles and she is once again unique. In short, she becomes a shrew and a slug, not a turtle.

If she is very unlucky and gets caught on a bad day, she envies other turtles who are competitive, who have put in the work, and whose passion has driven them to succeed.

I discovered such a one just last night. Someone with whom I was in ignorant competition earlier this year. I want very much to hate her in a general sort of way, even if doing so is silly. Why should I hate someone just because she knows what she wants out of life and pursues it? That makes no sense. It's also highly unflattering and damaging to me. I have enough of that in my life.

Now, some people are very talented. They stand out even among their peers, but such folks are rare. They are not me, no matter what Mom thinks. And even those people need to practice.

Were I in a better mood, I would no doubt end with a glowing resolution to become a better person by reading a book a week, connecting with one new writer every month for the rest of my life and churning out a book a year. But the chemical depressant wash has fully coated my brain, and I can only promise to wake up long enough to go to work.

I will say sometime last week before the Self-Loathing started, it did occur to me I might benefit by reviewing my old grammar handbook on a more regular basis. It's not glowing, but it's a kind of resolution.

We'll call it a start on the road to recovery.

A Weekend of Self-Loathing (or Why I Will Never Be Published)

Forgive the self-indulgent nature of today's post. I'm lacking sleep, and hope, and any kind of moderating influence on my mood. I have a cat I think is dying, and that tends to skew my perception, no matter how often it happens.

I intended not to post because of my mood. But, I've set myself to chronicle my journey toward publication, and this is part of that journey. Stop reading now if you also are prone to melancholy. Or irritation with negative thinking. I have nothing positive to write this morning.

I tried to find this quote online, but it has multiple permutations. I doubt I would recognize who said it even if I stumbled on the answer by accident.

"You can tell how great a person is by what it takes to discourage him."

Well, by that measure, I'm about as small a person as you can find. This may come as a shock considering some of the things I've posted here, but I hate myself for being so easily discouraged. I suffer from what behaviorists call "learned helplessness."

I am not a fighter. If a door closes, I don't look for a window. I sit down. I figure God knows me. If He really wants me to go a certain way, He knows I need a wide open door with flashing neon arrow lights and, just to be certain, a tour guide assuring me, "yes, you're really supposed to be here."

Perhaps it is my Scorpio nature of "deep water" that makes me so willing to stop at the first obstacle. Many of my friends are Cancers -moving water- and they never seem to get discouraged. If a door closes, they find a way around it. Or over it. Or under it. They keep pushing until the door breaks and never a care for whether they should.

TT: Some of my readers will recoil at the use of Greek Zodiac mythology in defining myself. Please do. I never encourage anyone to get involved with such things. I do not read horoscopes, and I do not consult mediums. I researched the personality traits in my younger years, and as is so often the case with me, once learned, always applied. My apologies.

So much of publication is overcoming obstacles: our own insecurities, multiple rejections, mastering the business side, which is generally contrary to the right-brained nature of fiction writing.

TT: It occurs to me writers who write "for a living" may use their left brain to do so. I've never considered that. I suppose there's a post in there somewhere.

I do not naturally overcome obstacles. Therefore, I will not achieve publication.

If my current mood continues, this will be a week of self-loathing posts, and tomorrow's will focus on "The Curse of Natural Ability." 

I suppose I should try to end with something positive. How about God loves me, whether I'm published or not?

And this mood will pass. It always does. I just wish it wasn't visiting quite so often lately.

Winter Blahs

This is the winter of my discontent.

I don't know where that line is from, but I'm sure I've heard it somewhere.

The last three months have been cold, wet, snow-covered, muddy, dark and miserable. We've had about 10 days of fog - yes, fog - since January. Some mornings I expected Christopher Lee to meet me on my doorstep and suck my blood before I could drive to work. Some days I wished he would. Even work has been dark and miserable thanks to the recession. I don't care what our magazine says, flowers are a luxury item. That's why I never buy them. That, and the six cats.

Warning: all lilies are deadly poisonous to cats. Don't bring them into your home.

The lack of sunlight is showing on us native Kansans. Our winters are generally cold winds and clear skies. A friend of mine commented that this winter was like being back in her native Michigan.
Makes me think I wouldn't like Michigan winters. Deprive me of sun, and I'd rather spend my life in bed under the covers. Add in the hamster wheel that has become my life - the continual sense of running in place without accomplishing anything - and I'm pretty sure this could qualify as purgatory. If I believed in purgatory, that is.

I promised myself two winters ago I would stop complaining about the weather. I was tired of hearing myself do it; I can't imagine how tired everyone else was of hearing me. Since then, I try very hard to keep my depressed thoughts to myself and share only the happy ones.

Friday, we had a beautiful snowfall. It was about two inches of fluffy, wet whiteness. It didn't gunk up the roads, it made the landscape photo-worthy, and it was gone by Saturday. Perfectly behaved snow, we all agreed.

I'll do my best to hold on and comment only on the good stuff. I've gotten new, higher-watt, daylight bulbs and set aside money for the electric bill, but I don't know that it's helping much. I have over 15 days of vacation to use before September.

Maybe I'll take them all now and sleep through February.

Except, in Kansas, March is the month to watch out for. It's always a lion.