I was talking with a someone yesterday about my upcoming book and what a process it’s been.
And by process I mean more the cleaning up and becoming human again, versus the actual writing.
How now I don’t sleep much, I’m having feelings, (in which I said it like it was a disease), and that I was slowly crawling out from behind some of my walls.
I wasn’t rushing to be a fucking martyr or anything, just not a lifeless vampire.
I’m sure to always be pale like one and keep the same hours, but just expand on the giving a shit aspect.
The person laughed at me in regards to my new found path.
“So you’re opening yourself up to hurt. You’re ready for it.”
They were smiling and bright eyed.
Doing so obviously turned one into a raging lunatic.
The few run-ins I’d had in the last few months with feelings were odd and in a separate category from pleasant.
I started to get nervous. Like I was getting ready to head into war. Where the fuck was my heavy armor? This leather shit wasn’t going to cut it. I needed steel. I wasn’t ending up like this person sitting across from me…
But it wasn’t there. And just like cocaine, I cut out my feeling denying behaviors and am making the attempt to let them happen and prepare for the hurt.
I guess I never really understood what the songs sung were really about that I listened to or the movies I watched.
I have an obsession with the state of melancholia. Always residing close to it’s borders. Never deep sadness, (except for many years ago), and never ecstatic. Heartache is foreign due to my level of previous protection.
So I waved goodbye to melancholia. Her half bored face and runny eyes; and crawled out of her circle.
And my god. Why the fuck anyone wants to feel any of the shit that comes with coming out of one’s shell is beyond me.
I explained these “feelings” and “insecurities” to a friend of mine and she reassured me with a solid, “It’s good, Monahan. It means you’re not a fucking robot.”
At the time I would have begged to differ. But oddly, these fucking things, good or bad make me feel more alive.
Melancholia seems but a distant memory and not that pleasant or exciting of one. Almost rather depressing.
Now I’m not venturing into Pollyanna Land full of sunshine and roses; I’m just not hiding in the rabbit hole anymore, covered in sheet metal and armed to the teeth with various deadly weapons.
This should be fun. God help me.
Buy Hi, Have You Met Me? on Amazon today! http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00B009W1M
Check out the blog on it's home site @
www.hihaveyoumetme.com for previous writings and more.
Don’t forget to stalk me further at https://twitter.com/#!/hihaveyoumetme orhttp://www.facebook.com/authorkatemonahan
And by process I mean more the cleaning up and becoming human again, versus the actual writing.
How now I don’t sleep much, I’m having feelings, (in which I said it like it was a disease), and that I was slowly crawling out from behind some of my walls.
I wasn’t rushing to be a fucking martyr or anything, just not a lifeless vampire.
I’m sure to always be pale like one and keep the same hours, but just expand on the giving a shit aspect.
The person laughed at me in regards to my new found path.
“So you’re opening yourself up to hurt. You’re ready for it.”
They were smiling and bright eyed.
Doing so obviously turned one into a raging lunatic.
The few run-ins I’d had in the last few months with feelings were odd and in a separate category from pleasant.
I started to get nervous. Like I was getting ready to head into war. Where the fuck was my heavy armor? This leather shit wasn’t going to cut it. I needed steel. I wasn’t ending up like this person sitting across from me…
But it wasn’t there. And just like cocaine, I cut out my feeling denying behaviors and am making the attempt to let them happen and prepare for the hurt.
I guess I never really understood what the songs sung were really about that I listened to or the movies I watched.
I have an obsession with the state of melancholia. Always residing close to it’s borders. Never deep sadness, (except for many years ago), and never ecstatic. Heartache is foreign due to my level of previous protection.
So I waved goodbye to melancholia. Her half bored face and runny eyes; and crawled out of her circle.
And my god. Why the fuck anyone wants to feel any of the shit that comes with coming out of one’s shell is beyond me.
I explained these “feelings” and “insecurities” to a friend of mine and she reassured me with a solid, “It’s good, Monahan. It means you’re not a fucking robot.”
At the time I would have begged to differ. But oddly, these fucking things, good or bad make me feel more alive.
Melancholia seems but a distant memory and not that pleasant or exciting of one. Almost rather depressing.
Now I’m not venturing into Pollyanna Land full of sunshine and roses; I’m just not hiding in the rabbit hole anymore, covered in sheet metal and armed to the teeth with various deadly weapons.
This should be fun. God help me.
Buy Hi, Have You Met Me? on Amazon today! http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00B009W1M
Check out the blog on it's home site @
www.hihaveyoumetme.com for previous writings and more.
Don’t forget to stalk me further at https://twitter.com/#!/hihaveyoumetme orhttp://www.facebook.com/authorkatemonahan