Ok.
No. It isn't 'ok'. I say "ok" alot. And it couldn't be further from the truth.
I am not OK.
Something, nay, many things are really wrong with me.
And instead of wanting to get better, I would honestly rather throw in the towel.
Survival instinct is supposed to be innate. intrinsic. inherent.
I have a fundamental defect.
And every time I try to point this out to myself I get even more disgusted and spiral even further into self-loathing.
And I don't want to be, nor can I really afford to be on pills for this for the rest of my natural life.
So.
What to do?
Aaron thinks he might study to be a paleontologist.
I spent part of this evening looking at writing degrees accross the country. It was exciting, thinking about changing my life.
And then I remembered that I've had my go. I've paid and am struggling to make payments on those years, those semesters, those course loads of self indulgence. I don't get to go to fucking WRITING school! Am I insane?!?! Yes. I believe we've established that soemthing is seriously mal-formed in here.
It is his turn. and good heavens above, the man has earned it. I don't give a fuck if he wants to go back to school for african drumming. What he wants he will get. And I will work myself into the ground-god willing- to give it to him.
I do not get to go back to school to pursue yet another ridiculous, self-indulgent, self-aggrandizing, self-delusional pipe-dream.
My sentence for those wasted years is doing what I'm doing. Struggling to make my square peg fit into the round hole. Black hole. sink hole.
For as long as he needs.
I just worry that I won't be able to hold up my end of the bargain.
That I'll surrender to the darker things before I get the chance to fulfill my sacred obligation. I owe him everything.
I wish it hadn't happened like this.
I really wish it had all been different.
Sometimes I wish we'd never met.
That's how much I love him.
Can oyu imagine me submitting my writing for admittance into a PHD program in creative writing?
The thought is enough to douse even the most persistent little flame of hope.
I suppose I could do what I did to pass my creative writing course in college... submit Aaron's work instead of my own and have adulation poured upon me...
He really is ridiculously talented.
If it weren't for me, for my debt, for my anchoring him here, he could go anywhere, be anything, and be a world-changer.
I know he sees it differently.
He says my vision is warped because of this peculiar sickness of mine.
I say his vision is clouded by some shadow of a girl he fell in love with years ago.
She doesn't exist now.
She hasn't for some time.
He's fighting for her, but she's nothing more than memory.
The woman in her place is a pale comparison. A sham. A fraud.
And I feel so guilty that everyone keeps looking for that girl.
Anyway. A PhD in creative writing? What a ridiculous thing to have a doctoral program for.
No. It isn't 'ok'. I say "ok" alot. And it couldn't be further from the truth.
I am not OK.
Something, nay, many things are really wrong with me.
And instead of wanting to get better, I would honestly rather throw in the towel.
Survival instinct is supposed to be innate. intrinsic. inherent.
I have a fundamental defect.
And every time I try to point this out to myself I get even more disgusted and spiral even further into self-loathing.
And I don't want to be, nor can I really afford to be on pills for this for the rest of my natural life.
So.
What to do?
Aaron thinks he might study to be a paleontologist.
I spent part of this evening looking at writing degrees accross the country. It was exciting, thinking about changing my life.
And then I remembered that I've had my go. I've paid and am struggling to make payments on those years, those semesters, those course loads of self indulgence. I don't get to go to fucking WRITING school! Am I insane?!?! Yes. I believe we've established that soemthing is seriously mal-formed in here.
It is his turn. and good heavens above, the man has earned it. I don't give a fuck if he wants to go back to school for african drumming. What he wants he will get. And I will work myself into the ground-god willing- to give it to him.
I do not get to go back to school to pursue yet another ridiculous, self-indulgent, self-aggrandizing, self-delusional pipe-dream.
My sentence for those wasted years is doing what I'm doing. Struggling to make my square peg fit into the round hole. Black hole. sink hole.
For as long as he needs.
I just worry that I won't be able to hold up my end of the bargain.
That I'll surrender to the darker things before I get the chance to fulfill my sacred obligation. I owe him everything.
I wish it hadn't happened like this.
I really wish it had all been different.
Sometimes I wish we'd never met.
That's how much I love him.
Can oyu imagine me submitting my writing for admittance into a PHD program in creative writing?
The thought is enough to douse even the most persistent little flame of hope.
I suppose I could do what I did to pass my creative writing course in college... submit Aaron's work instead of my own and have adulation poured upon me...
He really is ridiculously talented.
If it weren't for me, for my debt, for my anchoring him here, he could go anywhere, be anything, and be a world-changer.
I know he sees it differently.
He says my vision is warped because of this peculiar sickness of mine.
I say his vision is clouded by some shadow of a girl he fell in love with years ago.
She doesn't exist now.
She hasn't for some time.
He's fighting for her, but she's nothing more than memory.
The woman in her place is a pale comparison. A sham. A fraud.
And I feel so guilty that everyone keeps looking for that girl.
Anyway. A PhD in creative writing? What a ridiculous thing to have a doctoral program for.
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