If 2017 was the year that opened my eyes, 2018 is the year shit gets done.
2017 was the year I found my writing voice again, or, maybe, found it in general. I’ve never had a voice. My voice has been has been hiding under a mask. People tell the mask how great it is and all I can think is, “If you think this is good, just wait. This is nothing.”
From Dec. 19, 2017, 3:43 PM
I told him I need to let go. It seems like he understands. He says he wants to be here for me. I hope that’s true. I think my full-on crazy will scare him away. Hell, it might scare me away.
But I need this.
I need to try.
I must stop wearing masks. I’ve worn a mask my whole life.
No one has ever wanted to stick around with my crazy. It’s nice that he wants to work through this with me, but he needs to understand that I might need to go through some of it alone. He can’t always come with me.
I have to go into the pit alone and fight my way back.
Later this day …
A year ago, I was planning for my suicide.
But not really.
Over the years I’ve fantasized about offing myself: Putting my head in the oven like Sylvia Plath or using a shotgun like Hemingway or Hunter S. Thompson, the latter being much too messy for my taste.
Jesus, my three favorite writers died by their own hands. No wonder I’m so fucked. But maybe that’s the key.
The crazy makes us great.
Maybe I’m getting ahead of it. Maybe I’ve figure it out. It won’t get me the way it got them.
I’ve sat back, observing, my entire life. I know the moves the crazy makes, felt its rage. My crazy doesn’t scare me anymore. Is that the key? Have I discovered a way to thwart it?
Could I become friends with it?
We could work hand-in-hand like PI’s: Sonja and The Crazy. That would be one helluva dark comedy.
Keep your enemies closer.
Maybe the crazy isn’t the enemy.
Maybe I am.