Hey, Miss J!

… I wish I could say it was a silly story… or just a made-up scenario. Unfortunately, I felt as if I was looking back at myself in time. I suppose the me that has already unpacked so much – with confidence – on my blog still has much to deal with.

Things I thought I had overcome…

… Sometimes I’m distressed over my own weaknesses. Even though I say that I forgive others when they hurt me… I try to, I really do… echoes of pain remain.

So many faces… so many people. So much time has passed – yet I seem to remember them all.

Each and every person who has harmed me in some way… I can forget none.  

Especially the supposed ‘police’ officer that tried to cut me off in a car decorated in Dallas Cowboy paraphernalia, flashed a likely fake badge, and cornered me when I was stuck at a light, telling me that I should be grateful that he wasn’t in the mood to arrest me.

It didn’t matter to him.

Not that he put other people at risk with his stunt.

He didn’t notice that I had to swerve not to mash him into the street because he actually jumped out of his car and tried to run in front of mine.

Had I been anyone else… or not had the strict upbringing I did… I just might have.

I think about it a lot – that person I am inside. The one who doesn’t mind hurting others. The one who keeps tempting me on a regular basis to do the wrong things…

While I’m glad about the woman I have become, I still have a worry in the back of my head. That beast is still there.

I’m sick… While I seem normal outwardly, most have no clue what a horrible person I am inside… And I work so hard not to give into it. Sometimes, I ache because it physically hurts to hold myself back.

My unbridled anger…

The fury…

My rage.

My impulsive madness. My want to just shut everyone and everything up so I’m just left in peace…

I always feel so bitter when people hurt me. When people betray me.

When they turn their back on me…

I’m so angry that I want to break things. I want to scream.

I want to do anything to stop how much misery I feel.

At least at the time.

I think the lamotrigine has placed a heavy restraint on me. Heavier than my upbringing.

… Back when I couldn’t even leave my home… No. Not without permission.

Like a horse’s bridle has been attached to me. Along with ropes on my arms and legs.  

I want to say that maturity is helping me to so easily push aside… when I feel myself boiling over.  

I’ve been furious to the point of a literal meltdown.

For a long time, hatred was also a very common companion. I was indoctrinated in that starting in my early 20s.

Now though… I am far past my early 20s. Some days, it feels further away than the stars are to the earth.

I know logically… that I am not an old woman. Not by any means. One of my friends jokes that I’m still sipping Similac.

Mentally though?

I feel like I’ve come to a point when I’m just done. I don’t want do keep it up anymore.

I can’t.

I can’t keep fighting and allowing myself to get so upset.

My beautiful muzzle…

My beautiful, stupendous, and fabulous titanium chain.

I do not feel… Not like that. Not anymore.

I suppose I should thank my psychiatrist. While her treatments have not ‘cured’ me, they have allowed me to feel some semblance of normalcy.

My blog is not a substitute for a therapist. However, unlike the ones I have had through my provider, it’s more reliable.

Which I guess means that my own hands are more of a benefit to me than other people’s mouths.

As a writer though… I begin to wonder.

Is me not feeling so depressed or angry an indicator – that I can’t write anymore?

After all, I don’t feel myself just bubbling over with ideas anymore. Not like I used to.

I’ve sat here staring at my notes for my writing. I’ve reviewed that prewritten, 28-page (Yes!) long snippet. Twice in fact. Or thrice in the last two days.

I really like the relationship I’ve penned between Peter Parker and Jennifer Walters. Part of my revisions involve me writing 14-20 pages of ‘replacement’ material.

To be honest too… I hate writing Mary Jane. I really do. I don’t like the idea at all of having her featured more in my story… but to keep the readers happy…

I got too excited writing my original characters, I suppose. I worked very hard on them.

And while sitting here dancing in my chair to “Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?” I just got a new idea…

For potentially a new short.

And I cannot find my notebook.

Ugghhh!!

…And nine minutes of frantic search later, I finally found it. So, I’ve written down my idea… along with another one based on a completely different universe.

I don’t know why none of this occurred to me before… I also have been searching online for fanfic again. And found some stuff written by teenagers. It takes me way way back. I realized it was someone young by how it was written. Then, I stumbled onto Wattpad.

Wattpad of all place… and I found a fantastic story with Seven of Nine and Chakotay. While trying to figure out who the author was, I scrolled up and actually squealed. That particular writer is my absolute favorite for writing that couple! She does such a fantastic job writing them. I was so excited that I started talking out loud about it – as if I was addressing someone.

Then I asked myself WHY I am talking to myself.

Out loud of course… and with plenty of indignation in my voice.

Ahem…

But yeah…

A new idea… Maybe I’m still there. I do have my manuscript packed up carefully. When I’ll edit and reupload my novel though to Kindle? I’ve no idea. I have the original there, but the novel itself needs such heavy revisions, that it might as well be a brand new submission.

And now, I have reading, assignments and clothes to fold.

~J. Lyst

Ugh… if I did not mind stinking, I would not do laundry. But then, I would not want to be anywhere near myself. And it’s pretty hard for me to escape me for some odd reason.

It’s almost as if I’m trapped in my own body. Imagine that…

Humm.… now that’s an idea…

Add-On: I have stuff in the morning, so I’ll do my night reading, put fresh sheets down and just go to sleep. I can do this assignment in the morning before my appointment.