DATE

May 11, 2005

It’s May again and historically, this has been a difficult month for me. This year is no different. I’d take full responsibility, but every May I am at the mercy of someone else’s freak out and only get to react to events and not put them in motion (except obliquely).

I feel less lost than during other Mays but maybe that’s just a function of the calluses I’ve developed over the years.

It’s all variations on a theme, though. There are never any surprises in that sense – but the fact that the same issues keep arising leads one to irresistibly conclude that the problems are deep and haven’t been dealt with. I’ve admittedly had my head in the sand on this one -- this is one of the sins I deplore most in myself. I haven’t really been paying attention. Or, more accurately, I’ve been afraid to look.

And I’ve been stuck in a guilt loop, which always makes me want to scream.

It’s hard to let go of something when your connection is this deep and non-negotiable. It’s hard to know what to do with the feelings – with the guilt and the sense of failure, the knowledge that I have acted shabbily and have hurt people deeply by it. I feel an overwhelming need to suffer for that. It won’t accomplish anything, but the Catholic still cringing inside me seems to require it. At the risk of exciting either the Freudians or the flagellants, I see some excoriating self-examination in my future.

Why do I always get stuck in the same fucking place? I don’t like it here but it has the benefit of being familiar. How can I choose to simply pass for human instead of taking a chance and seeing what I am able to achieve? It’s not for lack of wanting to – but I feel this failing vividly and wonder what quality I lack that made it possible in the first place.

The Beloved is quickly losing patience. He is so frustrated with me – nearly as frustrated as I am with myself. He’s always had such faith in my talent, has always had the attitude of “Christ, when are you going to get off your ass and publish?” He never doubted that I would be able to do an extraordinary job of it. He is convinced it is all a matter of action on my part. Even though this transition has been so very hard on him.

I am going to be moving to London in the summer. I will have to find work and a place to live, and S.O. is helping me out with that and the move. Despite the anxiety this has engendered, I think that it will turn out to be a good thing. It’s not going to be easy, but it could be transformational.

I think I have to accomplish something. I wish I knew what in God’s name that something was.

So what now?

I’ve hesitated and procrastinated, been lazy and cavalier with my writing and I’ve allowed a multitude of opportunities to slip through my fingers. It's time to stop whining and take a chance with it.

Especially as it is the only sword in my belt.

I’m scared to death of putting it out there. Don’t get me wrong – it would be lovely to be solvent – I do believe that I could make my living and then some by writing but something about succeeding scares the hell out of me. I guess because it means change and I’m terrible at change. It doesn't say much about my courage but I've never pretended to be brave.

The Beloved is right: I have to be giving myself entirely different messages from this point on. I know I can do this. I know it could be a great success. I know this could be awesome.

I know this.

But somewhere deep inside me is a little voice that wonders if I'm good enough, if I deserve it. For some reason, that really matters to me.

Part of it, undoubtedly, arises from my pathological need for praise but some of it is anchored in deep self-doubt.

I don’t know where I go from here, but for the first time in my life, I am making plans. Whether I have the guts to carry them out remains to be seen, of course, but I am sick at failing at everything. I know what that feels like. I would like discover what it feels like to succeed. Or is that merely an attempt to justify my selfishness?

I must say, it would be a lot easier to simply devote myself to being an asshole if I weren’t troubled by this pesky conscience. And of course, the Catholicism ensures that my experience with guilt is unusually robust.

Ah well.

Here goes nothing.

Till next time,

Morrigan