Sunday, February 19, 2012


The truth is this is not working out for me. There is something wrong. I have had so many downloads of my work, I am shocked. Many were free promos, but, still, I have made more money off this in such a short time than I ever expected. It is a complete surprise to me. I get feedback from foreign countries.I have people search me and comment on the most esoteric parts of my life. Well, I shouldn't even mention that because my blog archive is a total mess of Too Much Information, but something is not right. I think people are maybe not saying the things I want to hear. But I have had a variety to choose from and couldn't say which I prefer. And I shouldn't have to HEAR anything. The numbers should be reassurance enough. There are a few blog threads where I participate on a pretty regular basis, and some of the people talk (is it talk?) to me, and others--well, I can tell I am considered an interloper. It actually makes me want to stop participating in something I enjoy and generally appreciate. I have gotten personal feedback from one blog owner and I know I am welcome there, but I also know what they are talking about when they refer to the red-headed step-child. I am 'endured' by some. And there are people that praise my work and I try to be truthful and tell them it is just what it is. It is, literally, stuff that flies off the top of my head, and I don't want anyone to take it for an attempt to make it be something it isn't. I take muy antidepressants, and yet, I feel on the verge of weeping over this. I know I should talk to someone about it, but I am so convinced that no one gets it, I feel like I don't want to bother. I have talked to so many counselors and therapists and doctors over this. I feel I have to work it out by myself. And my words don't seem to be doing that for me. They seem to be opening up doors to thoughts that have always been there but that I didn't/don't want to acknowledge. I honestly feel better commenting on the eye liner wearing, flower bearing native Afghanis. Why am I more comfortable with that? What does that have to do with me?

Maybe it is the season, or the clonopin, or the extra baby-sitting, or the cold that just hangs on and on. I was reading one of my grandsons Wimpy Kid books, and I thought it was so funny and cute. And the baby's smile brings me such joy. But I feel exhausted. In the truest sense.

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