In the GH section Waking Up, I looked into my fascination with horror, and why I spent so many years reading and watching it. After I wrote that section, I resolved to expand my cultural horizons, and at the very least, cut way back on my horrific intake. To that end, I’ve succeeded, and I don’t watch or read nearly as much as before. However, I’m still drawn to the awful in my writing and other creative outlets, such as the story I’m presently working on.
Luci is not a nice person. The more I work with her, the more this becomes apparent. She’s not a Complete Monster, but she’s not exactly the Girl Next Door, either. She has a rotten temper, is duplicitous, and is also prone to fits of violent rage, which she’s finally allowed to indulge. In other words, she’d fit right into many of the novels and movies I’ve enjoyed — as the villain. But in my story, she’s the protagonist. She’s just an ordinary woman struggling to deal with her problems.
She’s a lot like me. But because Luci inhabits a fictional world, rather than the real world, she’s able to deal with her problems using her fists, whereas I can’t, even though our problems are very similar: Neither of us have a career; we’re both struggling financially; neither of us feel like we know what we’re doing in life. We both suffer from depression, and we both have trouble with depression seeming to rule our lives.
Didn’t move to Salina this summer. Why? Depression (and finances). Didn’t make it through the semester at JCCC. Why? Depression. Keep fighting with Chris. Why? Depression. Don’t feel as though I am in the slightest bit of control in my life, whereas my sister apparently took some sort of “How To Run Your Damn Life Properly” class when I wasn’t looking. Why? Depression.
[I realize I’m perhaps oversimplifying, but like any politician, I’m not about to let that get in the way of my point.]
I keep wanting to make changes, and I keep making progress towards them, and then I inexplicably turn and sprint the other way, ending up where I was before, only tired and even more frustrated about my situation than before. I’m not happy with where and what I am, but I’m too afraid of real, concrete change (apparently) to fix anything. I don’t want very much! I’d like to be out of debt, and to feel as though I’m running under my own power, rather than drifting around the same tiny harbor all the time, bumping into boats ready to sail to various places and paths — boats I’m too afraid to board, because I don’t know what’s on the other end of the journey, or if I’ll like it, or be any better on the other side.
I feel like I’m wasting my life.
Lasairian, my shoulder angel, the little voice in my head that says “God provides; you can do it,” the personification of my aspirations for a better life, currently lies dead in a cell at the bottom of my mind. I sometimes talk with him, but our last two meetings didn’t go well for him. He wound up succumbing to his injuries, injuries I inflicted on him in a fit of imagined rage — as he is a figment of my imagination, he’s a part of me, and I just couldn’t accept positive words at that time. Not from myself, not words I’ve told myself countless times before in attempts to cheer myself up. They just don’t help.
Frankly, I don’t know what I want anymore. I’m not where I thought I would be when I was a kid, and now I don’t know where to go, or what to do. I keep circling back to the same place, like a moth to a flame — a bright, shiny, distracting thing.