Jesus, this journal has been depressing lately. Sorry, guys, this entry probably won't be an exception.
Despite the good cheer in the last few entries, I've been -- well, I wouldn't call it depressed, but melancholic, I suppose. My forays into VicLit are showing again, perhaps. It's not sadness or anything gripping, just...I drift. And I drift into dark places.
When I sit still and don't write, when I'm reading, even, or messing around with cooking, my head fills with all this stuff. Memories, some of them, and normal worries, and some abnormal ones too. I fret about writing; Torchwood is a pretty shiny toy right now, but I'm hoping, as with Life on Mars, that once I've run out of new episodes it'll throttle off a bit. I have a responsibility to my HP fics which I know is not imposed but which I still don't take lightly. Whether or not I finish out all seven years of LC, I refuse to let year three dangle forever, and Legion of Ghosts was only just getting underway. I'm behind on my email; I try never to let it get past fifty messages in my inbox, but I don't always win.
Jack and Ellis goes in fits and starts, but mostly because there's so much of the story left to write and I get anxious about how big it's growing. It's going to be a hefty work, perhaps too hefty, by the time it's done. Editing the completed draft will be sweet relief, let me tell you.
I've been neglecting friends, some egregiously. And I worry about my family, because I'm not there to see with my own eyes how they're coping with Bernard's departure. Bernard I don't worry about so much, and I'm not sure I even grieve -- we were never close, and once I left home we only ever saw or spoke to each other on holidays. As time passed, Mum even began to schedule holidays so that we weren't at home together more than five or six days, which it became evident was my upper limit of tolerance. I can't help disliking him; couldn't ever help it, and now he isn't exactly giving me reasons to try. I expect his wife will be pregnant soon. She was awfully keen on that payout the Aussie government gives for popping out babies.
I don't, surprisingly, worry that I've sold out of theatre; I'm still keeping my hand in and to be honest I needed the break, the stability this job provides, and certainly I needed the healthcare. I'm still favouring my left hand but now that the cast is off I don't panic every time I need to lift something or tie a shoelace or put a hat on. I shamelessly use the splint to garner sympathy, but at this point I really don't need it anymore. And besides, the two-inch scar on my hand where they sliced me open getting the cast off does the job quite nicely, thank you.
I feel ground down, not by any one thing but just mentally and physically deficient. Sometimes at work my ears buzz, and I don't know why. The headaches come with increasing frequency and don't go away as fast as they used to, though I'm sure part of that is the fact that my Vicodin stash has run out. I've been sick rather often, and there's a low-level ache in my joints that I don't like, probably the result of all this fucking winter we're having round these parts. *grins*
If I were rich, I wouldn't spend the money on antiques or nice clothes or cars or drugs or a stylish flat; I'd find somewhere pleasant, near to the trains and a lake or a river, with a nice kitchen and a fireplace, and I'd daydream. For years.
But, I am not, and as much as I would like it, the work ethic I had surgically implanted at university wouldn't allow it. Of the many things I'm meant to be in the world, an idler isn't among them. More's the pity; I would have made a splendid one.
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