Me, I'm Not
On editing my novel, my current mental health situation, and how my battle with social media is going.
I have been ever so slowly plugging away at third draft edits of Mommy Complex. It’s been agonizing. The last cold the kids brought home from school gave me such bad head congestion that it’s only now starting to drain out of my skull. Every morning, I cough phlegm into the sink actually and it feels like I’m gradually making me way out of a padded room.
I was feeling pretty crazy for a bit there. This third draft had me adding more elements out of real life in a manner that was making it difficult to write. I was starting to notice myself mildly disassociating from reality more frequently than usual. Editing some of the passages where my protagonist disassociates was getting really weird. I really wasn’t okay about it. I started doubting that I was even going to finish it.
Anyway, I booked an appointment with a therapist. It’s been a while. I’m still finding footing after my husband and I dealt with some marriage issues last year. I dip into depression from time to time but usually force the smile back onto my face and pretend like I’m totally functional and not dealing with anything oh no, like it’s bad but it’s not that bad I am totally fine don’t worry about me, I’m struggling a little but I’m fine.
Much of this mentality has bled my protagonist, Jennifer. And hey, I’m happy that most of my chemical flaws end on a page instead of sending me depression spiral, but then I gave Jennifer a pandemic backstory wherein she started seeing a therapist, but she only went twice (like I did) because she figured she was fine (like I did), and instead of booking a new appointment with her therapist (like I tried to, only for me to discover that they were having a mental crisis of their own), Jennifer keeps on pretending she’s fine and ends up tangled inside the plot of my book wherein she subconsciously seduces the man invading her home into making life “more worth living”.
Oftentimes I start thinking about how much of life is really worth living when it kind of feels like we’re on the edge of the downward spiral. Is it worth taking a vacation this summer when there might be forest fires? Is it worth even saving money for my kids to go to school when life will probably be an absolutely unaffordable hellhole by the time they’re college-aged? We’ll probably all just be cogs in some kind of content-farming feudalist hellscape in like 5 years, right? The publishing industry’s already partly gone to shit. What’s the point in finishing a novel? In getting an agent? In signing a book deal? Even after all of that, things are still up in the air. My book might not be the refreshing take that I think it is. It might not sell, and all my books will end up in the Rexall bargain bin, and then I’ll still have to write an even shittier second book in some kind of two-book deal bullshit.
We’ll probably all just be cogs in some kind of content-farming feudalist hellscape in like 5 years, right?
The apathy starts hitting hard at times. the other week, all my writer friends were sharing that Atlantic post about the Meta stealing their books to train their dumb AI. I looked up my name and found one of my books among the stolen work. Part of me was almost happy to feel included. I guess the other part was kinda mad, but it’s like, what can I do? I’m just some dumb housewife still struggling to write a real book.
I can already hear people being like, “OH NO REBECCA YOU HAVE TO THINK POSITIVE. YOU HAVE TO MANIFEST GOOD THINGS.”
Fuck that, man. I’m about maintaining a state of reality here. There’s no sense in letting dreams get ahead of reality. That shit legitimately makes you crazy. You either end up crazy or you end up being like Fred Durst, a guy who I kind of respect for grinding so hard that he got exactly what he wanted, but also a guy who my husband says “started the nu-metal limbo contest".
The appointment with my new therapist went well. I enjoyed it and came out with insight. The main thing I came out with is that I never value myself and actually take the time to feel my own fucking feelings because I’m too busy pushing them down to deal with managing my family’s feelings. So when I start disassociating I’m supposed to tell my family what I need from them, which is typically a body compressing hug, and then to leave me the hell alone for a bit so I can go cry it out.
My therapist told me at one point that I was pretty smart and asked if I wanted to do schooling for something. Like what? I dunno. Writing, probably. But I also don’t want to relocate anywhere. As much as I like to think of myself as a “writer first”, I did choose to have a family in a mid-sized city with not much going on culturally. My kids are dependant on me, but who knows what’s going to happen. I do my best to think positively. There is culture brewing in Kamloops, and if I chose to make roots here, I just have to do my best to make them, especially as the internet becomes a more alienating place for everyone.
It’s the only place for me to take a class of any sort, though. An upcoming six-month intensive conveniently enough popped into my inbox today, run by an author that I like. Not sure how much it’ll cost but it’s one of those “selected based on a writing sample” things, which immediately triggered an urgency in me.
Not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.