Interruptible time

I feel anxious and unmotivated, much the same way I did before I had a good full time job. So it’s plain that money, while really helping my anxiety, does not cure it.

I am creative, and even now as I type this, I feel that I protest too much and that I’m secretly a pretender, because I have to say it. But I have to say it because I have to remind myself.

I write. I paint. I build. I weave. I spin. I do things that not too many know about because I don’t know how to talk about things. I write poems, I think about literature, I think about art, I try to figure out how to teach people things they need to know. I do a lot.

I tried to monetize these things, written above. Selling crafts wasn’t too bad, but the secondary costs (time, transit, marketing, etc) outweighed the actual production. I found myself unable to find enough time to actually make stuff to sell.

I am afraid to talk to people I don’t already know unless I have some concrete reason to do so. I’m afraid to talk to others about what I do. I support their creativity, but I am terrified of others, even if they are somewhat familiar to me. I have nothing to offer. I feel I don’t belong anywhere. And they will find me out.

I can fake the opposite really well, I’m a great actress, but there are so few places and situations in which I feel that I really, well and truly, belong there. Someone’s always going to find me out. This actually makes me very good at coordination, event planning, anything that involves schemes, schedules, and contingencies. My whole internal monologue is a labyrinth of contingencies. Central mission: escape detection.

I never really get uninterrupted time to concentrate on something creative. I often have to stop as soon as I get concentrating because something has to be done. And even if nothing needs to be done, I have an internal egg timer. I have to change about every 30 minutes. I have to get up and briefly switch activities, thoughts, ideas the way I have to get up and calm my thrashing legs at night sometimes.

My lovers don’t want me – I am convinced. Part of me will forever interpret silence as rejection. This is not to say I’m clingy – I’m just reading every embrace as a kissoff. No one ever is really that excited to see me. My charm isn’t really, and my body is just not that enticing.

I was really hoping this shit would calm down once I got within spitting distance of 40, but I should go off, I guess.

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