This month I am committed to finishing the second draft of my first novel as well as completing a workshop for a show I have been writing since last summer.
Grey skies, perpetual snow and the sensation that I am doing everything wrong have put pressure on my output and subsequently my head.
After three weeks of headaches and dizziness, I finally realized that I could be performing self-massages. Since next month I will be starting a 20-month program at massage school, I figure I might as well prove my passion through the pragmatic practice of self-soothing.
The internet guides me through a massage series.
Begin at the base of the skull.
Intense pain as I put pressure along my hair line.
Move to the temples.
The pain increases as I move towards my forehead. I massage outward towards my eyes until they are watering and I am in fact crying. Only pain will fix the pain but I am not sure I am strong enough to endure rubbing myself to tears for much longer than two minutes.
I give up on my own massage.
I am giving up on everything lately.
I no do
March is a worrying month.
Am I changing quickly enough? Am I flourishing? Will I be better?
Last month as I was working my way through a course at my school as well as composing an essay for the CBC non-fiction prize, it occurred to me that I always give up. It occurred to me that I never strive to be the best. Potential feels mythical. It feels far away. Every time I try my best I get headaches. There has to be a way around the sabotage.
I sit and write with foggy vision, a clouded head. I am fuelled by readership. I find hope in an audience.
I write as a reciprocal action, hopeful to give back the connection I receive.
Thank you for reading.