I decided that I need to relax. I feel like my creative juices have been activated but in an almost scary way. My brain is processing things a little too fast. My viola teacher said I’m moving faster than students usually do but, I think it’s because my brain has been tripped by being able to do something creative and now it’s in high gear. Keep in mind that I’ve only had like 2 lessons lol! She would do something from the book and then throw me in and I’d repeat it, my fingers moving almost without thought sometimes. Weird.
And then there’s the writing. I’ve been publishing a chapter a day of the fan fiction I’m writing. The reviews have blown my mind because I can’t believe that people actually like it. I’m reading all of these things about my character development, narrative abilities blah, blah, blah and I’m like “Huh?”
But it’s not the compliments that make me happy. It’s making someone happy. It’s when I get messages from readers saying that they got an alert that another chapter of my story was up and it made their day. One reader said that they were so wrapped up reading the story that they were going to be late for work this morning. That means a lot. I can’t ask for more than that. Some gibberish I wrote down made people happy enough that they took the time to write me. How weird is that? BUT my brain has locked on to that happiness and now it’s churning out ideas all day. I’ve noticed that as I write, the story almost writes itself, not that I’m not fully aware of it, because I’m totally present, but it’s like my brain just knows where to take it and I don’t really have to think about it. But, that’s scary.
The problem is that, this is all a little… much, which brings me back to needing to relax. I’ve gotten pressure in the past to just sit down and write my books already. I’ve decided to screw that and here’s what I mean. If I try to sit down and write my book with the purpose in mind of getting it published, I will start to sabotage myself with overwhelming thoughts of why I can’t do it. I will freak myself out. I know me. I’m glad that catherine, who reads this blog, suggested a book for me to read about overcoming this because I’m going to look into it. But my point is that, what seems to be working for me now, is writing for pleasure, so that’s what I’m going to do with my book. I’m going to sit down and just write it for me. Just me. That’s enough for now. I’m not going to start making plans because that will just wig me out.
I have to get a grip and remember that this could be, and actually it’s likely, that this is my bipolar brain going “Yippe! We’re on creative crack! Woohoo!” That has happened many times before.
I don’t really care how anyone else’s bipolar disorder works, and this is not about making excuses. Actually it’s the opposite. It’s me saying that I know myself, but maybe instead of riding this wave and then crashing, I can channel it so I can get the most from it.
So, instead of looking at all of the maybe’s and possibilities, and plans, I’m just going to play my viola and I’m just going to write. I’m going to play for myself and I’m going to write for myself. I’m going to be happy if I end up making other people happy and I’m going to accept the compliments for once in my life. I know people who would scoff at me and say I have no ambition. Actually, I don’t have any ambition as far pursuing being famous or rich or whatever. I think that’s ok. It doesn’t mean that I’m lazy. I don’t feel a drive to get out there and conquer the world. I feel like what I’m working on, where therapy has taken me, is being ok with looking into what makes me happy. Getting to a place where I’m ok with putting myself out there a little. Taking back some of the things that I lost. It doesn’t matter whether I’m successful at it or not. I’m allowing myself to be open to concept of trying and of doing things just for the heck of it, because I want to.
When I was little, the only person who believed in me was my grandmother. When I was a kid, my mother wouldn’t accept the invitation for me to go to a gifted and talented school. Am I saying that I was gifted and talented? Nope. But she was a bitch so, there you go. She put me in a different school every year so I never got to settle into anything. My whole life was nothing but screams, hitting, name-calling, abuse, and a lack of stability. I had a whole life of things being taken away before I could really grasp them. Before I was even old enough to realize that I was losing something. What’s my point? My point is that, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m allowed to play music, even if I suck, and I’m allowed to write, even if no one reads it. I can do it because I want to. And contrary to what I was raised to believe, the world will not end if I get to do something I want!
So, I am formally sticking out my tongue at all of the dumb asses in the world who try to take pieces of happiness from others because they’re so self-centered, unhappy, or just plain evil that they get their kicks from stamping out other people’s spirits. I will have this formal tougue-sticking-outness notarized.