Muted

Lately, any thoughts of past lives have been a bit muted.

It’s still there as background noise, but right now I’m focused on healing what I can from my present life and trying to sort out how much if my pain is from 1984 onward.

I have a feeling that I still have some healing to do related to past lives, but that it can (and should) wait.

Back To The Bay

I’m going back to the Bay Area to help a new roommate move up here to Portland.

I’m flying into SJC on May 10 and we’ll be driving his van back.  He’s leaving from the Santa Cruz area but I’m hoping to make stops at the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park and at Point Reyes Station.

It’ll be nice to see Point Reyes Station again.  I think I’ll go there every chance I get now that I’ve rekindled my love for the place.  Glad I’ve got two strong legs for walking the beaches and a young stomach for all that lovely bleu cheese!

Night Terrors

A while ago, in fact a day before finishing my screenplay, I ran out of weed and decided not to use any more until I’ve taken an honest attempt at fixing my myriad emotional problems.

I grant you, the weed didn’t make things worse; in fact it caused an uptick in creativity, raised my GPA slightly, and generally provided a band-aid for me while I made do with the situation I was in.  But my situation changed after graduation, and I’ve decided to deal with the problems I couldn’t deal with at the PSU clinic (for a number of reasons) head-on before lighting up again.

Unfortunately, this means re-awakening the monsters that the weed subdued.  Fear, rage, negativity, violent thoughts, and perhaps worst of all the night terrors.

I don’t know when they started.  I know that the weed didn’t cause them though.  They became an issue when I moved in with my fiance and stopped sleeping alone, about 20 months before my first experience with cannabis, though I suspect that I’ve had them longer.

It always takes the form of someone watching me while I try to sleep or relax, and me acting out the reaction.  Sometimes it’s just talking, sometimes I wake up screaming, and sometimes I end up kicking and punching.  The last one is the worst, since I usually feel terrible because I end up hitting my fiance in my sleep and I can’t help it.

I don’t know what caused them exactly.  It could be any number of things in my present life or, worse, it could be past-life related.  I have an awful feeling that what I’m re-living is something that happened in 1915 that I only half remember.

I’m in therapy now, and I’m scheduled for a sleep study finally after years of waiting, but I have had so little success with these problems in the past.  I just want to have a real life.  I’m so sick of being crippled by problems that no one can see.  They’ve been with me most of my life, perhaps even multiple lives.

Will I ever be free?

Screenplay Submitted

I waited a day to submit my screenplay, which was good.  It needed just a little bit more last-minute work.

Final run-through with some much-needed final polish?  Check.

Registration with WGAw?  Check.

Submission to Academy Nicholl Fellowship competition? Check.

Now I have to wait until August to find out if my $80 was well-spent or a shot in the dark that went nowhere.  If the money comes up I may submit my work to other competitions as well.

Going to spend the next week or so decompressing from this project.  In only 7 1/2 weeks, I took a blank page and turned it into a finished screenplay that I felt confident enough to submit to competitions.  If I can repeat this, I’m bound to hit gold soon.

But I’m tired for now.  I need a lull between projects or I’ll burn out.  I’m not going to write myself to death.  Not this lifetime…

Ways Forward

One of the professors who supported my bid for grad school says it’s actially a good sign that they specified language credits in my rejection letter rather than a standard copy/paste format. He will absolutely write me another letter if need be.

To that end, I have 3 options on the language:
1. Ask around in the Catholic community for anyone willing to teach a down and out historian enough Latin to test out of that. It would actually be rather fitting and experiential if you know your history.

2. Brush up my Spanish big time and hope I can test out of that. I learned very advanced Spanish in high school but I seldom use more than first-year stuff without the conversation going Spanglish since most of our neighbors speak at least some English.

3. Refresh my first-year French online and scrape together enough to get my second-year French done at PCC, as my undergrad student aid is maxed out.

Also, things are moving forward, albeit at a glacial pace, with my surgery and with a much-needed sleep study to determine if I have a sleep disorder contributing to my mood disorders. I’ve suspected one for years.

My first screenplay is in its final stage of revisions barring a last minute proofread. Picking nits this time, hoping to make it amazing.

Still Here

I’ve been at something of a loss for what to post here. I’ve made a few political/conspiratorial rants that I never posted because I knew I was just filling a void with empty words.

Losing out on grad school, with no clear path forward yet, stings on a level I have a hard time articulating.  The day I got the letter I cried the way a little child cries after losing a favorite pet, wailing and flailing.  I was moments from hanging myself when my fiance got home that afternoon.  I don’t remember ever being this hurt before.

I’m alternating now between numbness and intense sorrow.  The urge to go back to drinking is strong; in fact it’s an act of immense will not to buy a bottle of Rex Goliath to cry into.  I’m dissociating/ derealizing on a regular basis, something I haven’t done since before my transition.

I have little energy.  I’m trying to keep some semblance of a normal life but my reserves of energy aren’t there and I find I have to sleep more.  My ankles and wrists are swelling, and I’m often short of breath with very little exertion.  My heart is skipping beats more often too.  This is the most intensely physical grief I have ever felt.

I do believe if my cat -who is 18 and slowing down significantly- were to die on me now, I’d quite literally die of a broken heart.  And in truth, I can’t say I’m all that bothered by the idea of exiting this life by natural causes.

I can at least promise I won’t try suicide.  I can’t promise to put up much struggle if death comes calling, though.