The call is coming from inside the house

When I'm in the writing flow, I can easily pop out between 4000-6000 words a day. It feels seamless. The words are coming to me effortlessly, and I am in authorly ecstasy. But when my world is not going well, everything is affected. Simba's passing was a heart punch I'm still dealing with daily. My body is flaring like it thinks it's the best thing to do. And my brain? That heifer feels like she's split into a million little pieces right now.

Focus? Biggest joke ever.

Usually, at this point, I would start the self-defeating talk. Asking myself why in the holy hell I can't just pick myself up by my boot straps and carry the fuck on. This is the talk I would always give myself when everything would be too much. And I'd pick myself up, weary as fuck-all, and continue. 

I mean, really? What the hell was wrong with me, anyway?

ADHD.

Not an excuse. But a verified, late in life. diagnosis. Why can't I pay attention? Why am I bored easily? Why am I easily distracted? Why do I zone out when I should be doing something? 

I'm NOT a weak-ass bitch. 😤 (Thank you, trauma, you fucker.)

My brain was made this way, and I'm just now taking meds that can help alter these patterns. Is it still frustrating?

BEYOND

so so beyond...

But I'm working on being a bit nicer and more understanding to myself and not such a force of unforgiving nature.

I once had a boss tell me that if I expected everyone to work to my standard, I'd never be able to work with anyone. How right she was.

I have two conferences in August, and I need to finished Canary: Out of the Shadows. I'm watching my oldest granddaughter Monday-Friday, and life is still popping. Will I make it? Jury is out. But the bottom line?

I need to calm down.

Crystal*

I need to calm down.

I'm a roller coaster, on a good day. But since my ADHD diagnosis, I've been like the granddaddy of roller coasters. You know, those bitches where you think you've caught your breath...only to plunge down again...heart in throat?

Yeah. That.

My med doc moved. I don't have one right now so I haven't started with any of that. I had therapy a day before I found out about the diagnosis, so I haven't really had a chance to unpack mentally. 

Knowing has somehow made it worse? Is that possible?

*ROLLS EYES AT SELF REALLY REALLY REALLY HARD*

My focus right now is zero point shit. I want to: clean out the fridge. Shop at Sam's. Pick up my meds. Not do anything. Watch CNN (masochism at its finest). And I'm stuck sitting at my desk with absolutely zero energy and a brain that's doing the splits in eighteen different directions.

The Cube and I don't have ANY idea what's going on. Part of me wants to crawl back into bed because I'm damn tired. Wait.

FATIGUED. I am fucking FATIGUED. 

Still have allergies that are kicking my ass and waking me up every three hours. Wait. And I need to do dishes, too. 😒

Ope.

Bed.

Bed won.

Maybe the two wolves in my mind need a nap. Probably more like a rave of squirrels. 🤔 A murder of crows? 😶 A mishap of meerkats? 😑