My editor was talking about a writer who just won a bunch of awards. Besides the fact that he’s amazing and a wonderful human, she mentioned that he’s safe to give awards to. When I asked her what she meant, she said that he had no skeletons in his closet, and nothing that was likely to come out and embarrass them later. I understood completely, and realized again that my history of mental illness closes a lot of doors. I have a fairly scandalous past (a scandalous present as well, I suppose), and it’s not like I ever thought I was going to run for office, but I hate being limited because people don’t understand. But I don’t think I’m the one to change people’s minds about mental illness, especially since I have such epic fails. Epic successes as well, thank you very much.
It’s never boring, and I’m still determined to be award winning. Even on the days that I feel like the Typhoid Mary of Depression. Ooooo. That has kind of a ring to it- a good book title 🙂
Totally having moment of freak out on top of days of building panic and some SI, and I have two holiday parties tonight that I’m already running late for. Too anxious to leave the house and I didn’t go running earlier to alleviate the panic attack and now I have to function anyway. Fuck. Making an imaginary offering to the goddess of social interaction.
No song today, just a scream of frustration and then some loud singing in the car.