The Spectator

I am really three people all in one. First one is the neurotic super anxious and prone to excessive panic that she is the most useless being in the universe, and then does nothing more than scream inside me for days on end. Sometimes out of frustration, sometimes in terror, then oddly even out of boredom. The second is a egotistical fat head that thinks she’s gods gift to the world and that she is only one divine prophecy or dramatic hair flip away from saving the world from themselves. With no more effort than standing tall and letting her awesomeness infect the universe.

Naturally over the years these two opposing forces stuck in one tiny growing brain were not very effective in producing a viable adult. And when pressed at a certain age to make these two get along enough to at least pretend to be a grown up, things got very sticky. Ego got stuck on hating the world and wanting to destroy it because it wouldn’t acknowledge her innate awesomeness, and neurotic was cycling between suicidal and comatose trying her best to no longer exist. Which left me an angry, aggressive, lethargically depressed mess barely contained in a sack of skin.

And so a third head voice was born out of a basic need for mental survival. The spectator. When you look into my eyes now, the spectator is more likely to be the one you meet. She’s the silent observant (Silovant) that slowly started to separate herself from the fray and came to nudge my shoulder to let me know how ridiculous the other two were being. And that small act started me down the path to healing my brain which led to me becoming what I might optimistically classify as a mostly competent young(ish) adult. Because she showed me that I could make decisions without them, and act how I wanted to act and not how they made me feel I should act.

The key to all my success so far, and any success I may have in the future has been because of this one extra voice in my head that is separate from my more animalistic emotions. She reminds me that time is nothing more than an illusion, and that every decision is worth taking the time to sort out and act on rather than instantly reacting and hoping for the best. I’m not very good at it yet, sometimes I just run off on myself totally batshit until the spectator catches me after a while and shames me with the wide path of destruction I’ve left in my wake. Which I make a point of telling her that it is much less devastation than it used to be even just a few years ago.

Of course the shaming works still though and I spend weeks wincing whenever those certain cringy events replay in my head. But even that I have learned to carry with some manner of grace. Letting it go to the past because I can’t do anything to make it better today. All I can do is chew my gum and keep moving forward. At least after a fashion. Like majorly embarrassing myself at work worse than I have since I was the medicated embodiment of teenage angst and then wasting a perfectly good writing weekend in recovery of said event.

Per the list, I am right on track with one really good first day and not another word written since. And all the excuses of it’s just not the right story for me now, or I’m just too fried, or even that it’s too much while trying to adjust to a completely new job and lifestyle. All of which are patent bullshit of course, and I will force myself to catch up this week with 2,000 word nights and 3,000 words for each day of my three day weekend. If I don’t at least pass 30,000 words total before December 1st then there will be serious internal mental punishments until next April rolls around.

I can do this, I just need to want it bad enough. And it would help if the assholes out there would stop posting their 10,000 word days all over the place to aid my feelings of inadequacy.


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