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At the edge, again



I know it's because my mother just died.


I know that.


On Saturday, I did a posting blitz and posted more in one day than I've ever done since being here. Quality was not my goal. Humor reined supreme.


The laughter is gone.


I stand at the edge of oblivion.


If it wasn't so damned cold, I'd go for a swim.


If it wasn't raining, I'd go for a walk on a high bridge.


If I didn't want to live, I'd cease to be.


Life has been bad before.


Oh, god, has life been bad, before.


I know it's because my mother died and I can't grieve for the bitch.


She was a bitch unto death.


Yet, I want to grieve. I want to get beyond this, but it hangs there like a dead weight upon my soul.


I had my first diagnosed major depressive event on the death of my father. That was in 1971. I couldn't grieve for him, either.


I shouldn't grieve for my mother, either. She isn't worth it. She was not a nice person and got worse as she aged toward death.


And, yet, my mind wants to get rid of this feeling, or itself of me. It doesn't seem too particular either way.


So, I stand at the edge of oblivion. One step the wrong way and there's little hope for my survival.


I actually considered checking myself into a psych hospital today. Doing so would result in all of the psychological deaths I've dreamt about in the past. My life, as it is now, would simple cease to exist. So, I didn't take that desperate step.


The website project seems on hold. I don't know what happened. Everything seemed to be going forward and then we stopped. Of course, I said it was okay for things to slow down, but now I'm not certain if we're biding our time or off on some other tangent. It's tough not knowing what's going on.


A legal editor stepped forward to read Chapter 6 of the Kevin Project, the last chapter of the first section. I'm working on the next section, which covers Kevin from 16 to 18. The main subordinate character is a transgendered person named Euphorbia Gneiss. Kevin's love interest is a boy named Eric, who is one year older.


I posted Chapter 14 of The Pastel Cowboy.


I have to get the next chapter of Tim and the Corsair off to the editor.


And, yet, I stand on the edge of oblivion. You can't imagine how tempting it is to simply step into scourging flames and give up my spirit to whatever happens next.


Oh, my son said my father haunts the workshop in the garage. He also thinks my mother (his grandmother) has returned home. I have a suspicion it is my father, who spent a lot of his life in the workshop, away from my mother.


bitch adj. My mother.




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