Life, Signs, Reasons, Snow & Fresh Starts

 I somehow didn't post for an entire year. It was probably for a million reasons. I had big plans, but most of them fell through. I didn't have anything to talk about, or so much I wanted to talk about I got anxious and psyched myself out of it. I had a billion dumb thoughts that I posted to Instagram stories instead of blogging about. People and animals died. Life lost its meaning for a while, and I lost the threads.

Lately I've been reminiscing about how much I used to blog. I really loved it. It didn't matter how many or how few people read it; a blog post could get two views and I was still getting joy out of it. I still love reading old blog posts from years ago.

I am writing. In little bursts here and there. And I did publish a novella a while back, called Digital Demon. Which you can read on Wattpad, right here!

The basic premise is that a demon comes out of a guy's computer and tries to eat him.

It took me two years to get around to editing that story; I wrote it in November or December 2020. I cannot believe it took me so long to stop procrastinating and obsessing over it and just force myself to edit it. But editing it took it from like 6k to around 12k words or higher. I don't remember the final wordcount, but it went from short story to novella and got a couple new scenes that got me really excited about the story again. In the end it only took a few days to edit it, I just wish it hadn't taken two years to get around to those two days, but such is clinical depression and lots of grief from lots of death.

Basically I have a lot going on right now writing-wise and I don't want to talk about any of it in great detail and jinx myself. But what I can talk about is that I'm downloading Final Fantasy 7 Remake to replay it, but it's making my internet slow as hell.

And I can tell you that I'm watching Troy: Fall of A City. It's been pretty corny so far but the main actor playing Paris/Alexander is hot, so I'll keep watching. The sets are nice too. The costumes feel weird, like they should have had some of the actors/characters switch wardrobes honestly. And I don't know if the actress playing Helen of Troy is serving what she needs to, she seems kind of alien. Either way I'm gonna continue with it.

But first I'm gonna grab some snacks and figure out what project I want to work on next. I'm gonna watch some Community and do some sketching while I do that, though.

I Want Whiskey When I'm Sick

(Title from the song Thin Line by Honey Honey)

I'm pretty sure in my last blog post I said I'd post the next day, and now it's three days later, but that's fine because I was busy working. Plus I don't think many people read this blog anymore. I used to get 30 or so views per post, average, and now I get like 4 or 5 per post. I haven't published anything new in forever and I don't advertise this blog as much as I used to, so it's fair. I'm sure traffic will pick up as I get back into publishing and start blogging more.

Today I finished another short story and polished up the first chapter of this novella 'Glimpse' which I normally don't do, but it needed a few paragraphs added to really set up the story efficiently. It felt wrong to leave it any longer. Tonight I'm going to write at least three more chapters. I'm hoping I can finish it but I don't want to bite off more then I can chew and intimidate myself.

To be honest I've been very exhausted and on-edge the last few days. I'm a generally stressful and paranoid person and I have no real emotional support network because I find it hard to open up to people or trust them, so I tend to just bottle things up until I inevitably have huge emotional and mental breakdowns. It's probably due to my highly chaotic and abusive early life, but in the past few years I've lost several family members, five pets, witnessed other family members devolve into intense drug addictions that caused huge fights and rifts in the family, lost friendships, had several breakdowns, and relapsed several times with self-harming. For a long time I beat myself up for all my bad choices and failures, but recently as I start to come out of it, get back to myself, and engage in slightly healthier behaviours, I've come to realize three vital things:

1. I've suffered a lot more than I allowed myself to acknowledge and it really took a huge toll on me that I was in straight up denial about. Things hit you one after the other and you put blinders on to deal with them, existing on auto-pilot for months at a time, so you can only see it all as a whole months or years out from the fact. In retrospect everything happened so fast it's insane. 2016-2018 have been the single most traumatizing years of my life so far.

2. I can never be the person I was before all this happened. I've spent a long time trying to be the person I was at eleven, or fourteen, or sixteen, and I have to accept those versions of me are gone and I've gone through permanently life-altering and personality-altering trauma. I have to forge a new identity even if the loss of my old self makes me sad.

3. It's not enough to acknowledge what you've been through. You have to forgive yourself and hold yourself accountable at the same time. The only thing I can control is me, right now. I can't take back my past actions or habits, I can't go back and relive my life or get any do-overs. I have to be better in the present and do things differently, having learned from my mistakes.

So that's where I'm at now. I'm slowly getting back on track with writing and publishing. I'm trying to go outside more even if it's just to walk the dogs for five minutes. I'm cutting sugar out of my coffee nine times out of ten. And I'm being more forgiving of myself and getting better at telling the evil, snide voice in my head to shut up.

I should probably be in intense therapy and on medication, but both of those things cost money, even here in Canada, and I can't afford them right now. Even if I could, I'm not sure I'm ready for therapy and may never be, but I'm making healthier choices and trying to be more mindful, and most of the time I'm able to get through the day by focusing on little things. Writing a certain number of words. Rewatching BoJack Horseman. Doing small chores around the house and escaping into video games. Basically trying to do things that make me feel present in the moment while also distracting me from the things I constantly stress about.

Here's a brief list:

• life and death
• the human soul
• relatives I've lost
• friends I no longer speak to
• things I said but wish I could take back
• things I didn't say but wish I did
• relatives I wish I had a better relationship with
• how much I generally hate myself
• how I'll spend my entire life either manic or depressive
• my talent or lack of it
• what if I end up homeless?
• what if the world ends?
• how will I stop from killing myself?
• why don't I talk to X anymore?
• my lack of a high school diploma
• how certain relationships will always be strained because of past abuse
• how I'll never let anyone in again because of said past abuse
• whether or not I'm redeemable
• whether or not any of us are redeemable
• is there an afterlife?
• did my now dead pets know I loved them?
• could I have saved certain people if I knew what I know now?

And the list goes on and on. I imagine scenarios that won't happen and get crazy over them. And even if they do happen in some approximation, worrying about them now only means I have to worry and be stressed twice. So I'm shutting down worries and anxiety and tying to worry about situations as they come. Going with the flow, I guess they say.

The truth is I think I reached such a high amount of anxiety, the part of my brain that handles stress and anxiety just broke or something, and now it barely registers. I overloaded the machine, lol.

Or maybe I'm used to living with such high amounts of stress it's just my new normal.

I wish they would recast me sometimes, like when Marnie from Halloweentown turned into Sarah Paxton/Aquamarine, and Reggie from Riverdale turned into an actor with a less punchable face. If I got to just go away, and someone else had to step into the role of Kai for a day. That would be nice.

Actually, on the subject of Reggie from Riverdale, the actor who played him in season one--who is also in 13 Reasons Why, where I like him better--is caught up in a murder investigation with Kurt Cobain's daughter, over a guitar her ex-husband took in their divorce. It's kind of crazy they do keep asking for the guitar back, though. Her ex sounds like a dick, but if she gave it to him, she gave it to him, and she can't really act like she gets it back now just because she regrets it. Maybe don't give away the last object you have of your dead father's to a man, no matter how much you like him?

Maybe that's just me; I have no problem giving stuff away, including expensive stuff, but I won't if it has sentimental value. I have certain blankets, old stuffed animals, and little ornaments and random statuettes from my dead grandma that I know I'll never give away. It's just too important.

I wish I started keeping a diary when I was younger, but I didn't think my memories would be so precious years down the road.

Anyway, enough of the heavy. I had to get that all off my chest. But tonight is really a good night; I did some good work and now I'm going to make a few little pizzas and do research on Ancient Rome for a fantasy short I might write. I'm excited about the work I have coming up. I stepped on a staple today and squirted blood everywhere and now my foot hurts, so that's not fun, but my dad pulled it out and it's not bloody anymore. Writing will distract me from the pain, I'm hoping.

I've always been very clumsy, especially as a kid, but now it's pretty bad again. If I worked out more my core balance would probably be better, but as it is I run into shit and stumble over nothing and impale myself on splinters. Yikes.

If I hear a weird noise I go explore it, too, so I bet I'd die in a horror movie. The new season of American Horror Story looks like it will be a slasher set in the eighties. The next season the witches come back, apparently, again. So then the show might end. Which is sad. But even if they renew it I think Ryan Murphy is too busy for it, he has a lot on the go, along with his new Netflix deal, so I think he could pass the torch to someone new. I think if he leaves, Sarah Paulson, Kathy Bates, and Even Peters might leave, but I hope fans would stay loyal while the show reinvents itself into something new.

I guess I'll leave you with my current ranking of AHS Seasons from best to worst:

1. Cult
2. Roanoke
3. Coven
4. Hotel
5. Murder House
6. Apocalypse
7. Asylum
8. Freak Show

And if you've never seen the show, but don't like anthologies and want a normal chronological show to watch, go in this order:

1. Murder House
2. Coven
3. Hotel
4. Roanoke
5. Cult
6. Apocalypse

Some people might debate me on this, but here's my reasoning: Murder House is the first season and a good introduction to show as a whole, it introduces The Harmons and murder house, which are important figures, and prepares you for the craziness of the show, and the mythology of ghosts. Coven is next in the timeline, chronologically, and it expands on the mythology of ghosts to introduce witches, zombies, immortals, and also some minor deities and the existence of hell, which is important to the overall story. Hotel then explores ghosts in more depth, introduces the Cortez, and of course features a returning Coven character in an important plot point for the show overall.

Roanoke and Cult may be controversial here for their placement potentially, since they break up the ghosts/coven ARC, but I think they're important asides to explore the 'human nature in times of chaos' and 'the danger of political turmoil' themes that are present in Apocalypse. You could easily watch them in the same order before Murder House, though. Finally Apocalypse reunites characters from Coven and Murder House, and wraps up many of the fan favourite character's storylines in a better way than Coven did. It's interesting to see the casts of two seasons collide, especially when the fate of the world is at hand.

AHS is insanely good but I don't think it's a hugely accessible show for a lot of audiences, so if you haven't seen it, I hope you watch it. I never finished Asylum or Freak Show because I didn't care for them, but I'll watch them all the way through one day, when I get them all on DVD.

I covet AHS, True Blood, The Vampire Diaries, American Dad and Family Guy on DVD. Once I have every season of those shows in my collection, everything will be complete. At this point in my life I thought I would have enough money to buy some DVDs, but you win some, you lose some. I do have season one of True Blood, but some of those episodes skip in places, so.

Anyway, that's enough ranting about depression and TV shows today. I'm going to go cook pizza and figure out what to do with my life.

The Struggle Is Real

Marketing is torture. Seriously. It's the worst part of being self-published.

My books won't sell if I don't push them on people, but my anxiety refuses to let me. It also makes writing painful sometimes. Like tonight. Which is why I'm writing this blog post instead to rant about it.

Sometimes when I'm writing it feels like I'm flying, and I hammer out like seven thousand words in a sitting and walk away glowing, feeling like a boss. And then sometimes, like tonight, literally nothing sounds more painful than writing.

I'm struggling to put down a single chapter, let alone more than a thousand or two words. It's uncomfortable and it has me on edge.

Normally when it isn't flowing, I just do something else. Tonight I'm forcing myself to keep going, because I'm determined to put out two novellas next month, but I have to be honest, every word feels painful. Even this blog post is giving me difficulty.

Sometimes I can sit down and write about whatever is in my head--I talk about stupid tv shows I like or what I'm listening to. And sometimes that's fun. Most of the time it is. Then there are nights like this, where it feels pointless, like I'm just adding to the noise and I have nothing important or useful or meaningful to say.

The truth is, some of the joy goes out of writing once you start having to constantly stress over the financial aspects of it. I'm worried about how good my writing is or what vibes I should go for with a project, and then it's compounded with whether or not it will even sell, or how I'll get reviews for it when I can't even email a book blogger without having a mild identity crisis.

I know I'm not the only one who goes through it, either, but this can be a really lonely profession. We all feel that. I get it.

Still, it sucks.

For tonight, I'm just going to remind myself I've done this before and I can do it again, too. I've written 50,000 words in five days. I've written 75,000 words in fourteen days. I can do this. I've finished seven books, what's one more, in the grand scheme of things?

I'm going to take a deep breath. Keep writing. And hope for the best.

I Don't Know Anymore

I don't know anything anymore, so I'm going to stop trying to figure things out and just float. I'm a mentally ill basket case so overthinking things is kind of my one and only skill, but I'll just have to work around that.

Y'all probably have no idea what I'm taking about, which is cool, because neither do I half the time. But lately I've been really stressed out. I've relapsed with self-harm, I've been basically having an emotional breakdown a day. I don't think I'm alone in that regard because everybody has been stressing the fuck out for...a long time, honestly.

Still, I'm at a point in my life where I never thought I'd be. I don't really recognize myself, know who I am or who I want to be, or where I'm going.

So, I guess...I'm in my early twenties?

I don't know. I didn't anticipate being this person. I can't say I hate myself, I understand certain reasons why I am the way I am, why it's so hard for me to connect with people or let anybody in, why I'm such an easier target for addiction and destructive behaviors, but understanding doesn't necessarily absolve me or make me feel any better, you know?

At the end of the day, all of the questions we ask ourselves - Am I a good person? Do I have a soul? Is there a God? Am I wasting my life? - are all in our heads, and they'll stay that way, like they always have, until we die. So it doesn't really matter.

But then again, knowing it doesn't matter also doesn't make me feel better. Or make me any less guilty for existing.

I read in this Grimes interview recently where she said something like, she's sorry she can't do anything more useful to society than sing or produce, and I can relate to that. I've never really felt useful/necessary. I never didn't feel useful or necessary growing up, but I hadn't fallen into a void of depression, apathy, and emotional trauma at that point, either, so I don't know.

This post isn't meant to sound as angsty and whiny as it does, but I find it really fucking crazy that there are people who wake up and go through their day and don't have to contend with the constant urge to end their own lives and/or do fucked up shit, that people get through a day without having an intrusive thought or purposely chasing down their own darkest memories even though they know it isn't a good idea.

I don't know what it is to not be in the middle of a crisis, because everything is a crisis for me. The fact that I exist, in this universe, in a physical human form, is a crisis. I am not equipped to deal with this shit.

I'm also not equipped to kill myself.

I mean, yeah, I want to on a daily basis (awkward lmao) but I'm not about to rush out and do it. I don't know what stops me, if it's just fear of physical pain or a natural survival drive, but something does. I'm not going to act like I don't self-harm, because I feel like hiding it does more harm than good and, honestly, I'd rather be open about the fact that if you want to even try and recover, you're going to fucking relapse a few times. I relapse. At least I'm trying to do better for myself. Which is all any of us are in a position to do, honestly.

All I'm saying is that a lot of people tell me I seem like I have things figured out, from an outside perspective. But I don't.

I'm stoned every day, I have literally one friend, who I rarely see, and 99% of my time is spent in one room, in the dark, writing or beating myself up for not writing.

I'm 21, I still live at home, I'm borderline and ocd as fuck, I'm not happy with my career, and I have zero close personal relationships.

But I'm still here. I'm counting that as a win even though I don't particularly like myself or my life, because I'm alive and I'm fighting and I'm pretty sure I'm going to look my demons in the eye and kick their asses, any day now.

I don't believe in happily ever after. I don't believe I'm going to wake up one day a month or a year or five years from now and magically be happy. But I do know that if I do wake up a year or five years from now, it's going to be the same way I do now - fighting. I know that I've been through some of my darkest moments and woken up the next morning even though ever fiber of my being was screaming that I wouldn't, or that I couldn't.

I want to be a better person, I'm fighting to be a better person, and I'm serving paranormal romance escapism realness along the way. That's all I know how to do, so I'll make it work.

The truth is I'm not writing this post for anybody else. I'm writing it for myself, to let myself know it's okay to keep moving.

Letting Things Take Time

I know that things take time. Especially manuscripts.

I know that I should let things take time and run their natural course, but it's hard. It's hard not stressing out over my not finishing a book in months when I'm also freaking out about everything else. My human existence. Whether or not I or anyone else is a good person, or at all redeemable. If God exists. If ghosts exist. What the hell I'm going to do for a living. How I'm going to survive and make end's meet if I can't even get out of bed or dress myself most days.

To be clear, I'm not making myself out to be some great victim. I'm not like, quivering and rolling around on the floor in a state of constant crisis. I might be close, but I'm not there yet.

I just stress myself out.

The thing is this entire struggle will probably remain forever a figment of my own emotions and imagination and paranoia, stuck inside my head, and I should ignore the fear and live my life to the fullest I can enjoy it.

But, you know, that's not how this whole existential dread thing works. I can't shut it off. And I need to chill.

So I'm dubbing this month the month of short stories and relaxation. Next month I'll worry about getting more serious and setting deadlines and really tackling whatever it is I'm feeling. But for now, I'm going to let myself wing these strings of random short stories and ignore the market and trends and what sells and what I want my author image to be and who I want to be as a human and if I can even become a halfway normal, functioning, worthwhile person, and just fucking write.

The truth is even though it all feels suffocating, most of what I'm feeling is not new. Other people have felt it and are feeling it every day. So I should breathe and not convince myself that my problematic symptoms make me evil, because I know who I am, or I should, and I'm trying to get back in touch with that person.

Maybe this month I'll somehow achieve that by writing a bit. Just for me, not anybody else.

My wip has fancy gowns and mansions and it's giving me Pretty Little Liars vibes, big time. Except it also has magic. Lots of it. And my worldbuilding is basically 'anything can happen' so I can write whatever the fuck I want. I probably won't write in this world again, which is also really freeing because I don't have to think ahead to what I want to do in future installments while writing the current story and building my world.

This is what I've been doing for the last five hours.

I'm going to get back to it and hope it makes me want to jump off a high surface a little less, and maybe produces something publishable.

(A totally unrelated aside; anyone else screaming with joy at the prospect of the new Shatter Me books?)

Down In Atlantis

If I haven't been blogging as much as I want to lately, it's only because I'm trying to break out of my weird writer's block. I have plenty of projects to work on, but I'm not sure if I'm in the right place, so I have to force myself to sit down and hammer out words every day, and most days I'm only hitting 500 or so before I call it quits. For comparison, I usually hit 4k a day at least while I'm in the middle of a project.

But that's not what's really depressing me. The fact that nothing ever changes has been what's depressing me. The fact that I live in the middle of nowhere with little human contact is what's been depressing me.

At least now it's summer. I deactivated my Facebook the other night, and I think I'm going to spend a lot of the next two months taking daily walks down to the river or other nice little areas around my house.

Back in summer 2015 me and Kuma were out running the roads a lot, and it felt like where I was supposed to be and everything was okay and the future looked good, so I'm trying to get back to that, because lately most days when I picture my future there's nothing but suicide or a big black blur. We walked to a nearby lake one day back then, and it took three hours but it was so worth it.

And now I can't believe it's been two whole years, that it's 2017, and I'm in the same place. We were planning so many big things back then that never happened, and I'm worried to let myself start living or planning things again when I know that those hopes might just crumble too.

I'm trying to keep my head down and work my way through whatever this funk is, and at least come out on the other side of it with a heightened wordcount. But it's been hard.

Which is why this blog has been drying up.

That, and I spend most of my days inside, sitting at the same spot, and don't have much to talk about. Like I said, though - winter is gone, and with the nice weather here maybe I won't be such a hermit.

Another big problem that keeps me from, you know, being me, is that every day I convince myself I'm dying of a terrible disease. I wake up like, "Oh my god, I think I have bone cancer!" And everybody else is like, "Kai, shut the fuck up."

And they are probably right.

But logic does not apply to the mass of writhing black gunk, toxins, and mental illness that is my brain. Meaning I spend my day imagining symptoms and worrying for nothing.

Or maybe I'm right, and one day soon I'll keel over of some undiagnosed monster tumor or something and you'll all be like, "We should have listened!" Either way, we're all cool. I am at peace with the void. Or if not peace, then like, a level of familiarity where the void and I could go shopping together without a third friend to be the buffer and it wouldn't be awkward, you know?

#TightWithTheVoid

Outside of all the gross personal stuff, I've been drinking as much coffee as I was before I said I wanted to try quitting caffeine. I'm still sleeping weird hours. I'm still outlining more projects than I can possibly write.

My brother really wants me to go see his new house, to the extent that he's holding my birthday gift hostage there, but I honestly never get a chance to go. I probably won't go until he gets a dog, and then I'll never go back again because I'm not welcome, because I tried to steal his dog, even though I have three of my own.

Although we may have to put our dog, Kota, down--she's really old, and her back legs are going and have been getting worse and worse for months.

Honestly, once I move out on my own I don't think I'll own pets. If I do, it will be like, a goldfish or two. That's it. Animals get too close to you and then they die. And they shed all over your house and keep you sneezing daily.

I'd love a little puggle, but I don't think I'd be a good pet owner on my own. Especially in the city...I wouldn't want to walk a dog at like 3 in the morning in the winter months. Plus I have strings of days where I don't shower, or brush my teeth, and I can't get out of bed, and I walk around in three-day-old pajamas with tangled hair and hiss at anybody who tries to talk to me. I don't know if the responsibility would be great for me, and I'm not one of those people who thinks the mere presence of a furry body is going to magically induce a cure for my mental illness or personal problems.

I think most animals are a lot of work, and I'm still trying to work out how to exist as a human, let alone a responsible adult. So. No pets. If I can show the self-restraint not to impulse buy a rabbit or some shit...

Aside from the threat of me someday coming home with a tortoise or a hamster I don't know how to properly care for, the most pressing issue for me has been my lack of finished work. We're just under halfway through the year and I still haven't finished a single book. I've barely done any work on the new edition of Iceblood, I just realized that Deadheart is going to be a four book saga instead of a duology (if I want to do the story justice, at least) and I'm feeling overwhelmed.

I also haven't been reading much at all, because nothing can catch my attention. Last night I finally gave up and started rereading Switched by Amanda Hocking, which is an old comfort read. (I think I've read the Trylle Trilogy six times since the first time I finished them in eighth grade, honestly.)

There really is never enough time. Especially not when I spend it blogging instead of peeing, making more coffee, or writing a chapter, all of which I have to do right now. So that's that.

Later :)

Your Existential Dread Is Showing

I feel like I spend too much time poking at my own wounds, making them worse, instead of doing things I know I need to in order to improve. I waste hours, days, months, beating myself up for shit as opposed to actually working to do better. I don't really have a point with this, I'm not going anywhere special with it, it's just that it's hard to work as a writer when you aren't earning much income at all and people aren't really finding or reading your work and you're drowning in an ocean of mental illness.

I'm sure I'm not the only one out there with problems, so I hate complaining and I usually just bottle all my shit up until it overflows and ruins my life, usually in the form of doing something really self-destructive or starting a fight with someone I care about.

Actually, a lot of my personal relationships and friendships have deteriorated over the past two years. That's probably my fault for continuously isolating myself and distancing myself from people. The thing is, it feels like I should constantly be working, so there isn't time for a social life, and at the same time I feel convinced these people are better off not knowing me so I withhold my presence and emotional involvement with them and end up burning bridges. It's probably definitely not healthy, but it is what it is.

Basically what it means is that I have very few friends left and I'm unhealthily obsessed with my work, namely the fact that I can't stop not doing it and procrastinating or going on like twenty hour work sessions where I lose track of time and nearly kill myself.

Earlier this year I got into a car crash, and the day after I was attacked by a dog. My anxiety has been getting worse and worse, and it only increased when I started to fear physical danger and have intrusive thoughts more and more often after these experiences. I stopped leaving the house much, or at all, going for weeks and weeks at a time without going farther than my own back yard. I've spent days on end in bed, staring at a wall or drifting in and out of sleep. I'm basically a depressed collection of aches and pains, depressive tendencies, and pop culture trivia, blaming myself for every problem in the world while tweeting obsessively about American Horror Story. And I beat myself up for that too.

It's crazy to me, because so many people in this community are open to talking about their mental illness and how it affects their work, and I really only talk about mine when I'm mocking myself and turning the situation into a joke.

If I do let out a cry for help or let on how bad things are, I either delete it hours later or it just goes ignored, and instead of trying to fix the issues I stew in them, alone. I feel like it's not healthy that I haven't acknowledged how much I'm struggling, but the fact is there's a lot of pressure on me from every person and direction in my life, and I've already let so many people down that the thought of disappointing them even more by focusing on how much I'm struggling instead of trying to advance my career actually makes me wanna bury my head in the sand. Yeah.

A large part of it is that I have no routine and no healthy habits. I exist primarily on a diet of frozen foods, pot, and black coffee (fairly sure I have stomach ulcers or something but am I cutting down on coffee? Nahhhhh) and I have a totally irregular sleep cycle. It's normal for me to spend five hours online, pass out and sleep for like twelve hours, then wake up and spend the entire day on the internet again.

To put things in perspective, I've got six series on the go right now as well as countless standalone titles and things I haven't announced yet, I'm dealing with anxiety, depression, paranoia and self-destructive tendencies largely alone with no support system, I'm poor as hell and my career isn't where I feel it should be, and I compensate for the insane amount of responsibility I'm carrying on my shoulders...how? By bottling up all my emotions, blocking people out, and refusing to deal with anything or acknowledge the hand I've been dealt in life. Of course.

Has anyone found out why this generation is so unhealthy yet? I'd really like to know what's in the water that we're all anxious depressive fuckheads like this, but as of yet I have like zero solid leads. Is it internet porn? Copious drug use? Doomsday fears? Radioactive tap water? Cell signals rotting our brains?

I. Don't. Know.

What I do know is that I need to work on blaming myself less. There's this line from episode 3 or 4 of the Shannara Chronicles that I've been thinking about for days now, where someone tells one of the main characters something alone the lines of, "All of this isn't happening because of you. It's happening to you. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be."

So every day I've been trying to remind myself that all of this-all the pain and trauma and bullshit-is happening to me, and it isn't my fault.

I didn't ask to be born. I don't know why I was or why any of us are here. I don't know what comes when we die or if there even is anything after we die. And that's not a personal failing. It's an abjectly horrifying fact that we all, in some way, have to deal with. And I have not been dealing. I've been sweeping my problems under the rug and hoping they go away. It isn't working.

I don't know how many times I can do the same thing and expect different results. So this is me doing something entirely new and actually talking about the fact that I've got problems and issues and that most days I end up crying before six in the evening, and hoping that looking my demons in their glowing red and yellow eyes makes it a little easier to carry them on my shoulders all day.

I'm gonna drink some water and try to do physical activities and interact with other human beings for once. I'm gonna not keep convincing myself that I'm literally the devil and some unseen force who governs all our fates is condemning my soul or whatever, like some cosmic elf on the shelf shaking its head and smacking its gum at me from beyond the veil. I'm going to stop purposely looking for marks against myself to write on my karmic scoreboard and just let myself float.

At the end of the day we're all sad, confused, bitter little children running around on this rock crying out for whoever left us here. I'd like to think that I'm hardly responsible or even capable of being responsible for every bad thing that happens in the world, so I better start acting like it.

Thinking Your Way Back

Earlier I was reading old posts from January, which is only two months ago but feels eons ago. It was eons ago, because time is relative and time doesn't exist, but I'm not here to blow your mind or lose my thought process talking about weird time jumps. There are shitty B movies that can do that for you better than I ever could.

I'm here to talk about thinking my way back to when I felt, for a while, like things were really looking up. I wasn't in the greatest place, but the world still felt brimming with possibility.

And with my birthday coming up, I've been freaking out - you know, that old paralyzing anxiety about aging and death, right? And I had a bit of a breakdown for a month or so, there. I'm back now.

I'm not going to lie and say I'm fine when just the other night I was talking about mental illness and suicidal thoughts, but I feel like I worked some stuff out of my system and I'm in a slightly better place after a day of reflection and calmness.

I'm still stressed about nineteen million things, but I can't change any of it, I know I can't, so I have to stop blaming myself for things I have no power over and just take it as it comes, because that, how I react to it, is something I have power over. I'm gonna use that power.

So that's how I'm feeling today. I'm dealing with school stuff (stressful) because after easter I have to go and get my diploma. I was originally going to go for an adult diploma but I think I'm going for my GED or equivalency now, because I know if I go back to that school not only will I not learn anything I need to, but I'll also A) have a relapse with my mental illness and B) get into a fistfight with one of the various racist, sexist, and homophobic students there. I'm not even joking - I have an inability not to start a fight if I see a wrongdoing. But basically I just need to not go back into the Canadian public school system, ever.

I started outlining a new project the other night and I have a cover for it, it's gonna come out a few weeks before Shadows of Ourselves, I think. It's longer than a novella but probably not a novel. I think it should be around 35 thousand words, but I'd like to stretch it to 40k or so if I can. I know there's enough story there, but I refuse to add words unless they're needed for the story to function, so we'll see.

It has the best cover of any of my books, ever, in my opinion. Better than the cover for a (possible) sequel to Shadows of Ourselves, which nobody has seen yet. Better than the cover of Maelstrom, which no one has seen yet. I just love it. Not sharing yet, but I love it.

But the book has a Pinterest board, and you can find that here for some glimpses about it. You should also check out the boards for my other books, and I dunno, maybe follow me? For reasons. For science.

And, for fun, some facts about the book:

• It's inspired by magical girl animes.
• And some mythology I love but feel is underused.
• It's paranormal, and the main romance is a lesbian one.
• It's standalone for now but there's room to tell other stories in the world that would also stand on their own.
• MONSTERS.
• A private academy.
• Long lost family members.
• Biracial main character! (Kat is white and Japanese.)
• FANCY BALL GOWNS GALORE.
• Did I mention the monsters?
• Romance!
• Slightly odd romance - or just more realistic? I'm going for a kind of Rainbow Rowell angle on the romance, so while there's a bit of romance genre cheese, for the most part the romance develops in kind of lowkey, average, everyday ways.
• Dragonflies.
• Magic weapons.

So yeah. I'm excited. I'm taking a break from SOO editing to draft this over the next four days, then I edit Shadows in around a week or two, edit this, do my copy edits on Shadows, and then put them both out around the same time. Maybe a week apart?

I have no clue, nothing's official right now, but I'm excited.

What Am I Doing?

What am I doing? It's four am and I've suddenly become interested in True Blood again (I rewatched the first two seasons and saw the third for the first time this summer) and now I'm finally sitting down to devour the fourth season BECAUSE IT'S A PROBLEM OKAY? I honestly couldn't stop now if I wanted to. And boy, do I want to - because this show is keeping me away from my damn homework.

I have six assignments to do today, so once my parents leave for work I'm going to be spending hours sitting here finishing those up and then be able to hand them in tomorrow. I have to go back to school this week, and I don't know which one I'll even be going to or what I'm gonna be taking, so naturally it's fucking me up and I'm trying not to think about it.

Which hasn't been working out well for me so far, clearly. I need to finish them, but I keep procrastinating because, you know, that's who I am.

I also want to get in a workout today, which is going to be fucking painful, I already know. I did a nice one the other day, but now I'm sore all over. Fun, right? I know people say it's good to exercise, but I kind of feel like I died a bit.

What I need is to be able to focus on writing and publishing and building a career for myself, but I also desperately need this diploma, and to be healthy, and to, you know, face life. Which has been hard, since I'm also trying to balance the whole mental illness thing, and I'm not taking medication anymore because of the side effects. The upside is that I'm not going to randomly have a stroke or develop type two diabetes - the downside is, hey, I have to deal with all of this shit on my own now!

I don't like to talk too much about my mental illness, because I feel like sometimes in the past I've overshared and it hasn't been productive or healthy for me, but the basics of it is I have anxiety and depression, and minor paranoia.

I'm managing it, to be clear, but it's hard. And sometimes I do fail. And I know that that will happen; illness isn't easy, and sometimes it wins. But I like to win. And I do not like to feel helpless, which is how I do.

Right now I'm taking it day by day, focusing on self-improvement and trying to be kind to myself, and to be fair I think it's gotten a lot easier as I grow stronger and learn to take care of myself, but there are still days when I can't fight off invasive thoughts or work my way around it, and I go into a depressive episode or a state of mania and things get bad.

The reason I'm even bringing it up now is because I haven't really blogged since the beginning of the month, which makes me feel bad, because I like to keep this page updated and I honestly love blogging. But I went into a depressive episode that lasted a few days, and at the end of it I just knew I had to make some serious life changes and extract myself from certain situations that weren't healthy for me at this point.

So I did that, and it's been getting better, and things are getting back on track. I'm letting myself unwind with True Blood right now, but later today things pick up again.

The best thing I can do is pick myself up and do my best. So. Homework. Exercise. Healthy eating habits. Those are things I'm going to embrace today. And be productive.

School is going to be hectic, but Souls of Salt and Seawater will be out by the end of February or the beginning of March. I turn twenty on March twenty-second, so I want to be well-into edits on Shadows by the that time.

You've Got a Fire Inside But Your Heart's So Cold

Title from 'Haunting' by Halsey~

I feel like I should be happier than I am. I feel like I should probably be better at shoving out these empty spaces that keep trying to fill me up. And it's like I win, you know? I win the battle, and it convinces me I've won the war, so I stop being afraid to smile. And then as soon as things are good again, it all floods back in.

I don't really know where the person I actually am ends and the person my depression turned me into begins. In a lot of ways I think they're the same person. But I also think I had the capacity, once, to be happy, and naive, and innocent. I can remember being that way. I can not remember exactly when the chemicals in my brain starting turning against me and eating away at that person, but they did, they have, and they've been doing it for so long it's become my new normal.

And I worry, too - I worry that someday I won't beat it. Someday I won't be strong enough to swim against the black tide, but I will be strong enough to pick up a bottle of pills, or take that last step off a very high ledge. I wonder and I worry.

It feels like sometimes instead of being defined by what I actually am, I'm defined by what I'm not: like all these null and void spaces inside me I haven't filled up yet are spilling over, pooling on top of everything else like oozing blood until all I am is a long list of anti-accomplishments. Like I'm nothing.

It's funny how I win, too. Because sometimes it's as simple as drinking three cups of coffee and blasting some Katy Perry, circa 2011. And other times it's an entire November spent staring at the same blank ceiling and feeling nothing. Feeling like everything has spilled out a hole in the bottom of me and I'll never experience another emotion again. and when I do, it's fear.

But even when it's like that I always end up floating ashore one day or another.

I still worry though. It doesn't matter how many times you've been tossed overboard, how many times you've been unable to tell up from down or see sunlight through the surface - when the black tide swallows you up you panaic, even if these are the waters you were baptised in.

And the other ones? The anxiety? The paranoia? Those are a bit more problematic...

Depression is hot right now. It's sexy. It's hipster teens in black Adidos jackets, clutching cigarettes and torn sheets of loose leaf and turning blazed eyes into the cameras because they're gonna love this on Tumblr, it's gonna get five-thousand notes and every indie and pale blog in a hundred miles will have your face plastered on it! But it's the ugly mental illness indie blogs have never tried to make popular.

Because when I'm in the corner of my room at 3:43 in the morning with my shaking hands clutching a baseball bat to my chest like the last life raft in a stormy sea, that's not hot. Because there's not really someone trying to break into the house from outside, but hey, there could be. I don't fucking know: I'm crazy, in case you didn't get the memo.

When I run home from the bus stop so I'm panting and dry-heaving by the time I get to my lawn all because I think they're watching me from inside the trees, that's not hot. It's not hipster.

I can't help but think that if the lines I was broken along were smoother, more pleasing to the eye, that maybe I could cut myself some fucking slack.

But when it's 1am and I'm still shaking from that embarrassing thing I said today - why the fuck did I say that? - and cowering in the dark because my mind is convincing me that someone is after me, waiting in the woods and watching for the chance to catch me, it's harder to think kind things about myself.

But I still beat it, you know? I push away the pretty pills that pound my heart into oblivion because I want to be strong enough to swim on my own, without their help, without them keeping me up. But I remember how easy it was when I had them floating under my back, and sometimes I wonder...

I think there's a lot I could say about the ways people are broken in more malicious ways than I am, about the way they fall in love with their fault lines and try to paint them as pictures of love instead of working for recover. There's a lot I could say about how hard I am on myself.

But I still have it pretty good, and I feel like I should be happier than I am. So for now I'll just make some coffee and dig up some old pop music, and maybe I'll win another battle in this endless war with myself.