Last night, I got myself a pizza (did you know Mystic Pizza makes frozen pies? I didn't either--but they're very good) and a chocolate torte (made in France, oooh la la) and threw myself a pity party. I should do it much more often.
I've been staying away from home at my sister's house, watching her cats as she gambles away some vacation time in Vegas. I'm also taking care of one of her neighbor's cat as well--cute little blighter. Bites, though. As I'm away from home this weekend, and I had a time trying to figure out how to file for my weekly unemployment (which I did for the first time this week) and getting it wrong, which is criminal on the part of my state government, making the form so damn confusing, and everything just came crashing down and I had a nice, soppy breakdown in my car. My eyes are still a little swollen and I'll need to pull out a new pair of contacts (question: why do my contacts get all fuzzy after I've been crying? You'd think they'd be manufactured to stand up to a few tears, since all they are is saline), but I do feel better. I knew I'd been feeling a bit...numb for the past two months, and I was way overdue for the cry. Oh, not because I miss that job, no, getting pink slipped was the best way out of the gig for me, but because I miss having a job. Having somewhere to be, even if they resented me for being there. Feeling like a productive member of society, if only in a way I resent.
Now, to clarify, it's possible to be a productive member of society and work for yourself/at home/part time/for your family. I'm talking, I never do anything anymore. For the past two months I've been sitting like a lump in my chair, knitting on things I never finish and reading books. Probably a healing process, but not what I'd call 'contributing to society', except as it kept me off the streets and out of trouble.
If possible, I'm getting tired of being a slacker. Holy Jesus, I need medication; I'm bored of doing nothing! How is this possible? I guess I just needed the time to rest up and recover from the psychic damage done by my entire work history, time to get my head around the thought of "work keeps you from feeling at loose ends, allows you to feel a part of something, connected to the world at large" as opposed to "work is something you do because you have to, even though you hate it". Not that I'm going to go all Ghandi or anything, but there's much to be said about working as a means to connect with humanity, even if you're a hermit and all you do is pray, you're praying for others and/or the world, which is connecting with humanity. Sorta.
So last night, after my Pity Party, during the lame ghost hunter show that comes on before Most Haunted on Travel Channel, I curled up on my sister's couch and read the first three letters from Rainer Maria Rilke aloud to myself. And I realized that, even though I suck at it, even though I'll probably never share it with anyone, I have to take up my writing again. I have to man up and be my authentic self (if only with myself), and tell stories again. And I have to take it seriously, if I'm to take myself seriously. The fact that I so disrespect my writing practice is a reflection of how little I really respect myself, which is sad.
So on Tuesday, I start my new schedule. I'll have to set my alarm, get up a bit earlier than I have been, eat, get my morning walk, then sit to the computer. Even if I can't come up with something on my pre-started stories, I'll force myself to brainstorm, write ahead of myself, word doodle, whatever, just to get into the habit again. I'm shooting for four hours a day, but that is just the ideal. I know things will get in the way (for instance, I have two vets' appointments this week, one for the cat, one for Dog), but I must be more...respectful of my needs. I need to tell stories, I need to express my creativity, and by not taking time for it, I'm openly stating to the world that my needs are not important.
And that's just wrong. In all ways, just plain wrong.