I tried to write my octopuses today.  It's messy.  It's incomprehensible - even to me who just needs to unravel the imagery of my thoughts into words on a page.  I wrote 4 pages of - i wrote four pages of words.  Just words.  They are not even strung together with any semblance of grammar.  
   If another came to me with similar frustration, I would spew words of comfort and suggest not to force the story.  I have started two other projects and if there is a need to write, clearly I could work on one of those projects that are more structured - more calm  - more receptive to development.  But yesterday i was poked with a notion.  And this notion screamed into my brain that I must include it within the octopuses.  It's relevant!  It's key!  I need to handle this story point gently but with intelligence.  THIS is going to be the thing that softens the intention of the octopuses.  THIS IS THE THING! 
   But I'm stuck.  I haven't the skill to communicate these flashes of brilliance.  So my mind wanders to so many other things.  My body is immobile, and I sit with the laptop on my knees, working on analytics for the nine to five paying my bills while i am watching videos to expand my knowledge of retention ponds and gypsum stacks and mining processes.  I'm making notes and typing words into the octopus files.  I'm tangling, not unraveling.  And I'm questioning if this is the process by which I produce clarity in my words? 
   What seems a lifetime or two ago, i was asked how I knew something of which i wrote.  What seemed to me a tiny little bit of knowledge that I held in the back of my brain, had a reader so inquisitive they did some research and found I had not fabricated science in my work of fiction, but wrote some real-deal interesting stuff about how the brain worked.  My response at the time, (vocally), "I don't know how i knew that." (silently) 'Doesn't everyone know about the pineal gland and glial cells?'  And this exchange replays in my memories every now and then.  In my literary journeys I have been puzzled by a word here or there and looked stuff up to fully understand a passage.  I've always been insecure of my own intelligence, knowledge, wit....  all of the things that make one look upon another with the thought that they are 'smart.'  And by no means do I pretend to be any more 'smart' than i am.  Truly I'm just a nerd who regurgitates that which I find interesting.  After all, worse than being unintelligent is being uninteresting.  
   So a heavy sigh escapes my lips as the mindfulness of intention with the octopuses presents itself once again in my forethoughts.  They've been swimming in my head for years now and i can blame time and effort for the incomplete story.  But then this inspiration comes.  And I can't figure out how to lay out the words just yet, but it's there.  And I'm trying to honor the process and I'm trying to give myself time to actually understand logistically how this works into the story.  And I'm trying not to force myself to write, but just stay in this 'research' phase. 
   But there's that poke and prod to get some words in order.  Get some story development going in tandem with the research.  Another heavy sigh.  Followed by a look into the sunlight peeking through the seam of curtains on the windows.  Realization that four pages of notes IS writing.  I am working.  I am moving - maybe not moving forward - but I need to give myself credit for moving in a direction of completion.  For crying out loud, the ending hasn't even presented itself yet!  
   So, I'm walking away.  I'm taking my notebook for some more notes as I walk through the next hour or two away from the computers.  But I'm walking away.  And I'm not going to beat myself up for abandoning this or other projects while my brain is not in the place to work effectively on words.  
   

Yesterday I had quite an adventure and am uncertain if it was a setback or a push forward.  I drove an hour and a half to ask for the transcripts from the witch trial on which i write.  The story is almost finished and I really just wanted my peepers on the pages.  I wanted to see what actually happened as opposed to the fantasy that has piqued my curiosity for years now. 

Reality versus fantasy seems to be a theme of my life recently and I need to get a handle on the importance of both of these things.  In the past, I used to brush away any discord on the matter with the words, "three sides:  mine, their's and the truth."  But, is there something more? 

So, my book is told from a neighbor's perspective.  I want to get the details around the story just right, to give validity to the events I have determined happened, not to tell the actual tale, but to prick thought into motion warranting discussion.  And i'm going to say the word - important.  Important discussion.  

I have chosen support as my word for this year.  I want to support my writing.  And i want my writing to support me.  I have vowed to participate in a book sale and have thought about some ancillary materials to have available at my table.  I decided pins/buttons, partly because i like them and partly because it's easy.   And then I found an article about lovers in the something-before-now-century would make jewelry with images of their eyes.  I like the idea of an eye pin.  I like an idea of something emphasizing importance of perception.  I like the idea of remembering that everyone has their own eyes and sees things in their own way.   I'm making eye pins.  

So, yesterday I drove out to get my eyes on the words that were laid out before William Penn  over three hundred years ago.  I wanted to know the truth.  I spoke with three people in the museum and library and discovered the transcripts were not in the building.  They are in the University of Virginia.  Ugh.. or Yay! I haven't concluded if it's a step forward or behind. 

But I did have a wonderful discussion that furthered my thoughts on perception.  It was heavy on perception and this person with whom i spoke said  I need to know the reality, if I chose -  but more importantly it is the perception that should be owned.  And that's been my stance in the past few months.  If someone perceived it is truth, then it happened. 

There is a curiosity why one remembers in one way, and another remembers in another.  There is curiosity where reason comes into play.  If i can reason what another remembers or saw, then could I perhaps change my perception?  Of course I can.  

So, why is there so much of a disconnect between what actually happened and what one thinks happened?  

I don't have the answers to these questions.  

I keep saying I want to write something important.  I want to write something of importance.  I think it's important that those perceived to be abnormal are only viewed that way because there is a lack of truth presented to those being judged.  Maybe it's not for me to write about something important, but to write something that provokes an importance?  
 

​​I am writing today. And before I write what I want to, I think I should share what I need to.  

I pulled up the editor on these blog pages, and found a comment I had not seen before.  In reality, I found a couple.  I’m so lazy with looking to the response of my words.  Some may feel it’s with pretense I say, I write to get it out, not to have it read.  But, honestly, I cannot have the responsibility nor consequence of my words.  I don’t want to know anything more than the noise is no longer shuffling around in my brain.  

I had just finished reading a book I picked up in a library at least five years ago.  It chronicles a writer struggling with getting out of his ‘block’.  His friends Clyde and Fox force him into living in non-fiction, when he feels guilt about neglecting the fiction he has committed his life to.  

I was once told that I live in fiction.  I was once told that the fiction in my head filters my reality resulting in this hyperbolic, hypersensitive, state of chaos, from which I thrive.  And being as it is that we are what we eat…. 

So, of course the names Fox and Clyde are in my brain.  And in reality, I sat in my car this morning, waiting to unlock my door so that I could see a fist fight to my right amongst school kids.  With an alarming but monotonous beep, a dump truck backed into the street, with the blacktop granules he would soon use to fill the street. A parking authority officer fought the validity of a ticket with a driver who missed the cut-off to vacate the school zone.  Chaos.  It’s the same same chaos I had just finished reading to a degree.  And then again, in the same thought, I realize, it may be nothing at all like it.  The chaos in which these characters participated was premeditated.  It was fictitious.  Unless the writer wrote reality?  (Because sometimes we do that)  So, I sat wondering if, like the book, the noise was caused with intent, or a byproduct of living.  With a smirk, I call my days, ‘adventures with esther,’ because I can’t admit to the chaos and noise, both inside and out; and I certainly can’t admit that I have any control over it. 

Today I logged in to update my blog pages.  I need to write something about suicide and the question posed in my brain is a pretty hard one to unravel.  I’m going to get to that because I have a need for that.  And in recent weeks, I’ve explored need versus want.  Despite my historical opinion, it really has become apparent that want is greater than need.  In that vein, along with the trepidation I have of writing something I’m not certain I am ready to reveal, I poked around previous words and found a comment.  I found a comment, coincidentally labeled with the name of Clyde.  Clyde said my words inspire nausea.  And I’m sitting here with a lump in my throat and a knot in my belly feeling sick over it myself.  Again, I think I needed to see this effect of my words on another (or affect as it is).  Perhaps the important part of the fight in my periphery and the alarm to fix something torn apart and the discussion of right and wrong - perhaps the important part is the words.  I have a need to heave the noise from my head.  But I have an overwhelming want to get something important written.  I feel like I just spew words and fear they will be gibberish that no one will understand, but still feel the need to get them out so there is room in my head for the breath to keep the mechanics of my body moving.  

This person who presumably has no idea of my motivation said I evoke such emotion that they want to throw up.  Without confidence of the importance, I’m pondering if the moment my coffee cup is empty and my laptop is open should be pushed into the want or need column.  After all, he did say he wanted to throw up after reading me. 

AND THEN I FOUND THIS - 

I found, in my files labeled offline blog posts, I found the following:

Resilience

Resilience is the ability to recover from difficulty.  
One of my doctors mentioned the word to me today.  He said I need to be mindful of my resiliency.  After expressing confusion with a furrow of my brow, he specified what he meant.
“You know a thing has a flexibility and will bend,” he said moving the arm of his glasses to show me. “But if there is a rigidity, this will break.” 
Of course.  It’s simple and clear.  Have I said this?  Have I thought this?  I don’t know.  But a light bulb did shine this morning for me.  
We were discussing coming to more visits.  More analysis.  I’m probably going to accommodate his request, as it behooves me to take his advice en route to healing.  But today, I expressed hesitation and put off for one more week to the commitment of further morning meetings. 
But if I was in a movie, there would have been a freeze-frame.  He would have remained on his chair staring at me with the glasses he just used as a visual aide between his thumb and forefinger.  I completely went through an inner monologue comprehending my reception of the words he laid before me.
“I want to discuss your resiliency,” he said.
My resiliency? Do I have that? Negative. I have a brittleness that will break if one stretches me too much. 
A smile curled around my lips and I rolled my eyes.  He was talking about my avoidance of situations.  My inability to return after that avoidance.  Referring only to my health, he leaned closer and said, “Everybody hears these things that are too heavy and overwhelming to handle.  They take a breath and maybe step away for a moment before moving forward.  You cannot run away and not come back.  You cannot live with this sense of abandonment and disengaging with relationships.”  


It is, without a doubt, an unfinished thought.  Although, I could have very well posted this in a moment of who the fuck cares, nobody reads this anyway.  And if I did, I can’t remember; but, it’s timely for me this morning, so it will be here again. 

I have these people in my life who may not understand their importance.  

I say, with every experience comes pleasure or knowledge.  It is the rare instance that I am given both at the same time, so I savor those moments.  It occurs to me this week, that I take pleasure in knowledge and grow intellectually with pleasures.  It also occurred this week that I lost hope of experiencing this ever again.  I reflect on those who I push away and who have pushed me away.  We all have our reasons.  And if I’m pushed away, I’m not going to hold onto guilt for pushing someone else.  (if this is my story, then that is their’s…)  But then this resiliency popped up.  And I stirred vomit in the belly of a reader.  So struggling with a scene in which I have forgotten all the things that I think I need to remember to get an effect I want - well, I’m hopeful about the progression.  And I’m hopeful that this introspection on desire and my new perspective on the importance of wanting something so much more than needing something will manifest itself in the right kind of noise I can sort through for meaning.  And I’m hopeful that all the anonymous characters for whom I’m in the periphery, can sort through my chaos to find the importance to move them forward. 

     A few weeks ago, I met someone who said he was swooning over my words.  Swooning!  I got tingly in my middle and thought perhaps the words I string together are not gibberish.  Maybe somewhere in the morass of my thoughts is something important.  Something meaningful that just needs to be sorted through.
     Today, I received an email with a request to join my email notifications and updates.  I used to do these emails from mail chimp.  The templates were groovy and I could string even more words together to send out to the handful of people I decided wanted my messages as well as the few strangers who sent me their addresses through this site.  I haven't done the emails in years. 
     The fact is, it's a big deal to get the thoughts I have in my head to come through my fingers recently.  I blame whatever i can - my job, my meds, my home.  The common factor there is MY.  I am the only one responsible for keeping my words in my head instead of letting them flow from my fingers.  
     I'm participating in Nanowrimo this month.  But, the fact is, I've only signed up and announced my November novel.  I wrote day one and two.  I did not even reach the word count goal for day one.  I wrote on an old project, blaming it for not caring for my Nano.  I started four blog entries that were little more than three words each and then poured a cup of coffee waiting for the WiFi signal to fail me. 
     I need to write.  I need to honor the people who actually read my words.  But, I feel small now.  I feel the impact of what i have to say is either little in the way of importance or nothing at all. 
     I have been reading a book about a novelist who feels guilt about not writing his fiction because the non-fiction of his life has gotten in the way.  I do not have that.  I am a lump on my sofa.  Maybe I am a lump of the sofa.  Maybe i am an ugly growth on this, once lovely and comfortable, piece of furniture.
     I'm going to write today.  I am going to get some words from thoughts strung together so someone other than I may read them.  I am not going to compose a welcome email to the new name that found it's way through the world wide web.  I am not going to distract from the word count.  (I never stress over word count and I usually don't outline, but i have a total outline and just need to pull it together for the numbers.)
     I think that's all, i'm just going to write.  And maybe later today, I will update the fiction page here so it makes more sense, and add the play I've wanted to add for a while.  -- when i need a distraction again.

     i got fired yesterday.  today i am free.  it feels pretty odd to be at peace with what could be interpreted as being labeled unwanted, dispensable, irrelevant.  
     i was mad - crazy and infuriated - when the *insert yosemite sam-esque expletive here* said the words, '-so we have to terminate you.'  and i exhaled, already having expressed that he was lying, then said, "have a good day," and walked out.  Now, i had this brilliant idea to throw a dildo/vibrator on the termination table to exclaim, 'go fuck yourself!'; but alas, i was unprepared.  Am i disappointed?  Not really.  As he took a breath to say other words, i walked out of his office, gathered my plants and left the building.  That was enough a display of strength without the vulgar insult.
     Today i am free.  I woke without pain in my belly and head.  (Literal pain.)  I'm concerned that my medical needs will not be met, but i am certain i will work that out in the coming days.  Today though, i am not in pain.  I'm not walking around wondering why i cannot get the job of a monkey done, forgetting that i didn't have experience throwing shit on others. 
     Today i am free.  I'm breathing and exploring what could be next.  I have resumes out already, because i don't think i know how not to work.  I applied for unemployment compensation, which was a whole thing - so i'm proud i got through it.  But i feel like i can write again.  In less than 24 hours, my brain is back and i feel as though words are coming out from hiding. 
     Is it lucrative?  ha!  Will my bills get paid?  I always figure a way. 
     I feel like i just recovered from rock bottom and can finally rebuild my life through words.  I cried in the past three years because i had no time to put thoughts swirling in my head onto paper.  I cried because i was being intellectually abused by my workplace, that honestly, i was so excited to go to three years ago.  Reason had no place in the office.  And now...   
     So, why am i sharing this?  Well, i'm going to take a couple days and clean up this site that has been neglected too long.  And then, i promise i'm going to write.  I'm going to write every day!  I had been given the tremendous experience of living what i don't want to be for years.  And now, there is nothing left but for me to release the person i think is hiding in my brain.

I like calling my mental illness Madness.  ​

Madness (as defined by Merriam Webster:

the state of being mentally ill, especially severely.
synonyms:insanity, mental illness, dementia, derangement; More
extremely foolish behavior.
plural noun: madnesses
synonyms:  folly, foolishness, idiocy, stupidity, insanity, lunacy, silliness; 
informal craziness

a state of frenzied or chaotic activity.

synonyms:  bedlam, mayhem, chaos, pandemonium, craziness, uproar, turmoil, disorder, all hell broken loose, (three-ring) circus

My April writing project this year is entitled Faith in Madness.  I feel like the only thing that has been constant in my life, long-term as well as short, has been the chaotic spinning in my brain.  I'm currently in treatment, and truth be told, I am terrified of getting well.  I am frightened of being boring, both inside and out.  The medication i am on does not let me skip doses.  I am without a doubt, in need of the chemical change that occurs in my brain and body when i take my meds.  So it was my intention to journal daily about the trek through my moods and my mood disorder.  I, of course, have a disappointing word count and many blank days between the productive ones. 

Physical illness has me changing my diet and I've joined a gym to combat a few physical changes that have happened with age and the meds.  I even found a group situation with which i feel comfortable discussing my madness openly, although i have only been to the meeting once. (I will be back though.) 

In registering for Camp Nanowrimo (the month of writing), I see plainly some of the projects I abandoned.  I blame.  I blame the lack of writing on exhaustion, or life, or time, or the dogs, or my ex, or my job, or whatever else I have in front of me on any given day.  

My doctor asked, "Why now?"  Why is it that I seek mental health treatment now?  I have no one else to blame.  "Why now?"  Why have I beat myself up for not writing enough?"  I have no one else to blame.  I'm fixing my broken house.  "Why now?  I have no one else to blame.  I am fixing my body.  "Why now?"  I have no one else to blame.  And yes, if you're reading this on the Writing in a Row House page, thinking it should be over on the Heating a Home on a Hot Plate, you'd be absolutely correct.  

I have a ton of guilt for not being my best in my past, but it was the best i could do in my circumstance.  I have to become comfortable with that acceptance of what's done is done, even though i feel like a tremendous failure as a mother, partner, sibling, friend, employee, co-worker, writer, home-owner, bike-rider, and anything else i have put my hands upon in my life.  The word sorry falls from my mouth so often, I've become an apologist, truly seeking exculpation, with every expression. 

I made this website to keep me on track with my writing.  I want to move from working for someone else full-time, and myself part-time, to working for myself full-time, and someone else part-time.  I've neglected this site.  And maybe part of the reason, is that I have this fear of failure, or even worse, success.  I am afraid if there are people who like my work, i will change.  I have been writing.  Still in a chaotic fashion - not keeping to one project for completion, but at least ten manuscripts.   I finished a play in a weekend and edited it over the course of a few weeks to sit on it.  I found a play-writing contest to which i submitted the piece and i'm waiting to hear from the organization that put out the call.  I don't know if i want acceptance or rejection. 

Every day, i think about the words that will come from my fingers and when i have the time, I sit and turn on someone else's story (TV, Movie, Book...) instead of writing my own. 

So why today?  Why today did i open this neglected website and put this declaration that i'm going to do better today?  I feel empty.  I finally feel like i'm just sleep-walking through my days.  I've become boring in my brain.  I don't want to be boring in my steps.  So before that boring becomes a veil around my need for exploration of my world and my thoughts, i want to revisit the creativity i know remains. 

I saw a lovely dead bird yesterday.  It was a reminder of finishing something.  Sevy's Cosmica Sidera mentioned Dead Bird Season and i needed a reminder of that.  In the moment i photographed this hollow passerine, i wanted to revisit the ending of Sevy,.  I wanted to edit it for the eighth time, instead of working to finish Defame Thy Neighbor, about which I'm really excited.  There is no reason i am not finished the writing on that story.  I've even commissioned a cover artist and I could not be happier with the progression of the artwork.  I want to push myself to finish the compilation of words before they become as boring as I. 

I need to set aside time in every day to write.  I need to get back on track with journaling on this website.  I need to get back on track with making notes everywhere and then making sense of them later.  I don't want to blame my madness, but explain that the delay has been the attempt to ease some of the internal chaos so i can function in the outside world.     

​Today I had brunch with my first grade teacher.  She’s an absolute rock-star!  The woman who organized it was in her first grade class in 1957, before she was a missus and before she was a doctor.  I was there 20 years later just after she earned her doctorate.
 
I was honored to say my name and have her remember me before she turned to someone at the table  share about the two weeks of indoor recess while I recovered from my tonsillectomy.   I was even more amazed when I extended a hug and a message from another classmate and without skipping a note, Dr. Nolan shared with me more stories of Grace and her sister.  Dr. Nolan remains sharp as a tack and I’m just stunned.
 
Dr. Nolan was truly the first person in my life who I felt believed in me.  Distinctly I recall a meeting between my mother and her – I sat at a little table we would use for SSR and listened intently while I pretended to be occupied in the book I thumbed through.  “She’s really quite special,” Dr. Nolan said.  My mother pursed her lips and nodded.  “Her stories are wonderful.  Have you considered …”  Dr. Nolan already wanted me to be the best I could be.  My mom declined even entertaining the idea of me doing any more than was required.  At home, the comics I made were crumpled papers and the stories I told were frequently regarded as nonsense. 
 
I thought I was walking around for years holding on to this affinity for someone in my memory with importance, while in her thoughts, I was just another student.  And for crying out loud, I was six years old!  Did I have a personality then?  How could I be memorable?
 
I sat in a room today with others who had stories of Dr. Nolan.  Dr. Nolan was important to each of them for their own reasons.  It was lovely.  I spoke with ladies who were in her class 20 years before I was there and 10 years after me.  Filled with emotion, I cried twice when I spoke with her.  I gushed with gratitude for being a part of the afternoon. 
 
I was in the fortunate position of telling someone how important they were to making me the woman I am.  

​I also sat next to a woman who -  one of my surrogate big sisters.  I adore the person she is.  I sat next to a woman who is strong and smart and I would say brilliant, although she kept saying gifted.  She is brilliant -  Smart and a shining light.  Another teacher.  Another of my teachers although I never sat in her class. 
 
I am lucky to have these figures in my memory and in my life.  The importance is in me because of them.  I wish I could gather all the important ones together and just say thank you to every one of them.
 
So, I’m an accountant.  And I answer the question, ‘how does an accountant decide to write creatively?’  Well, I’ve always written.  But it was never good enough.  I realized that the only person my dad spoke of with an inkling of respect was his accountant.  I work with numbers.  It is not who I am but it is my skill.  Is this because from the start, I worked with numbers for that acceptance?   Is It because there is no question if my number work is good?  It’s not a subjective art.  If the bottom line makes sense, I did a good job.  My writing doesn’t always make sense.  And it’s not as easy to take criticism in my writing because there is not a definitive way of fixing mistakes.
 
I started writing seriously again about 10 years ago.  I’ve gotten credit for my writing in the past five years.  I’ve even made some money from it.  Dr. Nolan is a reason I write.  Ms. Beverly Carmene, my chemistry teacher from high school is yet another reason.  I didn’t think I would have the opportunity to thank them in person for being so important.  Sadly, Ms. Carmene passed away before I was writing again and it may have been the news of her death that triggered a surge in my story.   Today I was able to personally give thanks to Dr. Nolan.   
 
I’ve become more comfortable telling people I write.  I used to be the accountant who writes.  Now I am the writer who works as an accountant still.
 
Why am I writing today?  I walked through the morning with an intention to announce how important it is to tell those who are just how.  But there’s something else at play in my thoughts.  I’m thinking about my cub scouts.  I’m thinking about my kids and their friends and everyone with whom I connect.  I’m thinking about the friends we played with in the schoolyard and which ones remember me and which ones don’t. 
 
This winter past, I met up with some kids with whom I went to elementary school.  The first girl I smoked with.  My first drinking buddy missed the night.  The boy for whom we met didn’t remember me.  It was – alarming.  It could have been embarrassing or humiliating if I was a different person.  But honestly it amused me that he did not remember me.  I considered then his importance in my memories.  The importance of how he made me who I am now.  I considered then, as I’m thinking now, who remembers me that escapes my mind?  For whom was I important?
 
For whom AM I important?  Not that compassion and care we have to check on our fellow human beings – but who has contributed to the attributes I have and who has discouraged poor behaviors of mine?  Who left a piece of them with me that I can’t ever return?  For whom am I that type of important? 
 
I’m a different person than I was at six years old, of course.  (Mostly I suppose.  Maybe there is some six year old me left inside?)  I’m in a different place in my life for sure than I was then.  (I’m in a different place in my life than five years ago, for crying out loud!)  But in seeing Dr. Nolan today and talking to many people who also were influenced by this amazing woman, it occurs to me that every moment of importance makes me who I am.
 
Thank you to all of you!  Everyone in my past and present and those of you I haven’t met yet.  You make me me.  And that’s a pretty great thing to be a part of.