Breaking a Sweat
I started my night knowing I had work to do. I have a tv show that I’m writing that has not been officially picked up in weeks. A sketch for it here or there but that’s about it. I have a spec piece that I’ve been “working on” for a week and a half that only has nine pages so far. I have a children’s show script that I “started” that has about nine pages to it as well that I think could be a really fun tv show to do, but I just can’t seem to connect any dots lately.
Tonight I finally picked up Eyes on the Flag again after a few weeks. Maybe, like, five weeks? Six? I don’t know. Whenever I start in on it again I get a weird dream about trying to break up with my ex again and then I tailspin a little and leave my play alone. But today Frannie sent me a link to an application for a playwright workshop that sounds pretty neat. So I figured I would force myself to write and edit tonight. I would1 I am going to SIT and DO THE THING. I have been putting it off for weeks and weeks but STILL pretending at night to myself that I finally released it into the wild and it became a sensation.
I’m really good at pretending.
So tonight I cracked my Red Bull, got my headphones on and began (after working on my spec for a few pages). And you know what? I realized that this whole thing still kind of scares me. Not putting it out there or telling my story or trying to restart conversations about rape culture outside of Twitter- but of specific people seeing it. Like my dad. Danielle. Mike. Not that they would. I wouldn’t let me dad come. But whenever I feel like I am making good progress on my work, or attempting to push myself out there that much more I picture him somehow hearing about it and finding me. It’s illogical. But that’s what abuse does to you.
And I realized also tonight that it isn’t just in my head. My body responds to it. I’m sitting here writing and rewriting, seeing his name and his abuses clearly here in black and white repeatedly. I get up from the couch and go to the bathroom and there it’s where I realize: I am soaked with sweat. Stress sweat. You can tell by the scent and location that it’s not just stinky hot sweat from being warm or whatever. I am covered in stress sweat. And I didn’t even realize it. It has become so normal to me, I guess, that it took getting up and walking away from it for a minute to even notice my body reacting.
So, that’s fun, I guess. Just kind of makes it all worse, eh?
Oh yeah, also my husband’s grandma is dying. So there’s that going for us as well. One has zero to do with the other but it’s just something that’s been in the back of my head. Things need to just act like my computer’s clock and stop for a bit. For whatever weird reason, my laptop’s automated clock has been stuck at 9:47PM since, I presume, 9:47. It won’t let me fix it but that’s fine. Maybe I don’t need to. Not everything needs fixing. And time doesn’t matter when you’re unemployed (despite my efforts) and trying to create a life for yourself as a tv and playwright. Time is nothing. Time is stress sweat.