Day 7. January 6th, 2012. Overly Dramatic Melancholy. (Really Uplifting Stuff)

We both have a propensity for melancholy.  It feels like things are falling apart right now.  Maybe that's a good thing . . . pain on the tails of a good idea.  I lost my cell phone and the guys at the store weren't very helpful (actually, they weren't helpful in the way I wanted to be helped.  I'm learning there's a difference) Plus, I scratched my grandpa's watch.   PLUS, I couldn't start work on my new book idea.  What's funny is that I'm feeling pain and melancholy over all this!  I'm sure there are homeless people feeling my pain . . . what did I call them?  The raped and pillaged?  I'm a melodramatic alcoholic (is that redundant?).

What's just a little funnier is that I thought I'd find something comforting and uplifting in reading about "my new friend" (The relationship is pretty one-sided right now).  But, all she talked about was anxiety, depression and contemplated suicide.  Thanks, Liz.  Thanks for the help.

However, she did make me laugh.  The MacDevitt joke and the Hustler joke were funny.  She's got a silly sense of humor, like me, sometimes.  Now, if I could only write a New York Times best seller, we'd be equals.

It's hard to hear God when my anger and frustration are on fire.  I can't hear him through the pain of the crackling flames.  Then, off I'll got to work, feeling defeated and depressed, knocked back a step by my own absentmindedness, a depressing book, "Martian Chronicles", probably crowding out my phone from my pocket (As I write this do I realize I'm not only being over-dramatic, but I'm butchering the rules of grammar).

I like Liz's honesty.  However, she made depression and loneliness masculine.  She made them male agents.  Interesting.

It's hard to see past one's own problems.  Just because I can't see it doesn't mean life isn't good.  God is good to me, as ungrateful and as whiny as I am.  Things will work themselves out.  They always do.  I just need to take the action.  The boxes full of my old writings are right next to me.  They are the stuff of my book idea.  All I have to do is dig and pull them out.  Then I'll have done something, something towards my goal to become a writer.

I made a silent vow to myself that if I ever get this book published, I'll quit my job.  I want to be an agent of change.  I want to help heal the world, not infect it.  How I do that is up to God.  I guess all I can do is just answer the call . . . and hope it's not a wrong number.