The Downside of Unpopularity

Never have I ever... been popular. And I (for the most part) really don't care. I have a fulfilling life, surrounded by people I love. Except that life seems to be one big popularity contest.

How do we elect our politicians? How do we select our employees (if not by merit)? How do we pick the restaurants where we eat and the stores where we shop? Why do we buy certain brands or products? A New York Times Bestseller sells more copies than a book published by an indie author. A person with a huge social following will get more views, likes, shares, and comments.

The truth is...popularity is important to success. And, on a day like today, when I feel sick (I have a cold) and all my other physical symptoms are consequently exasperated, it's very difficult to stay positive.

This is not a new feeling... Maybe I was already coming down with a cold when I wrote that tweet. I hate to be the writer who moans and groans about low readership, threatening to quit writing forever. I'm not going to stop writing, but half of being a writer feels like despairing under the heavy umbrella of self-doubt.

I saw a tweet, the other day, asking to dismiss the belief that you need to be damaged to be a good artist. But the truth is, we are all damaged in our own way. We carry our flaws, our mistakes, our heartaches, our tragedies. It is what we do with this baggage that counts.

I am the sum total of everything that has ever happened to me. If I had a time machine, there are definitely moments in my life I'd like to do-over. But, if we've learned anything from time travel fiction, it's that even a small, insignificant change can cause drastic ripples in the future.

So, here's my ween... I'm sick. My throat hurts. My head hurts. I'm dizzy. No one is reading / buying my work. What am I even doing here? And, here's my counter-ween... I'm alive. I have a unique story to tell. And tell it, I will. Maybe tomorrow when I feel a little better.

In The Prime of My Life

If you have your health, then you have everything.

Unfortunately, you don’t learn this particular truth until you lose your good health. I can’t help but feel frustrated at my health situation. I’ve had this particular rant before so forgive me if you've already read it.

Five years ago, I was in the prime of my life. Happily married for ten years with two amazing sons. In a career with a great salary / benefits and room for advancement. Newly published author. At a time in my life when everything seemed to be going my way. Falling into place. The future looked bright.

That’s when it happened. It being the rug pulled out from under my feet. Or whatever cliché you can relate to best.

I was 32 years old. I can only speculate why my coworker targeted me so viciously. Jealousy seems to be the most logical reason. Whatever the reason. It doesn’t matter. I was harassed and assaulted at work. My whole belief system fell apart. And I got sick. I suffered a trauma that manifested in physical symptoms. Ones I still experience daily... years later.

Sick is such a broad and insufficient term to label what I am. Disabled is another label I’ve used to explain my condition. Hell would also be an apt description.

I’ve gone down the ‘why did this happen to me’ road more times than I care to count. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself. Although sometimes I still do. It’s not fair. Life isn’t fair. But, at least, it is fairly unfair to everyone. We all have our crosses to bear. Mine is a miserable one, but not a death sentence. So I know it could be worse.

Somehow that doesn’t make living it any easier.

Especially when the things I enjoy like writing have been taken from me. Some of the time. Most of the time. I had a great idea for a story last week. I’ve been trying to write the prologue ever since. My brain won’t focus on the task. I just keep blanking out. It’s not writer’s block. I wish it were that simple. I want to write, but I can’t think. I can’t envision my story. My whole process is hijacked. So I stare at my computer screen for minutes or hours, and I feel discouraged and frustrated. And angry.

I feel like crap. My head hurts and my neck hurts and I’m tired. I’m lying down typing this onto my phone. That’s how terrible I feel. I know complaining is futile, but sometimes I can’t keep it in any longer. My husband would ask me what I’m going to do about it. Right now? I’m going to wallow for a few more minutes and then I’m going to have a rest.

I’m fighting a losing battle. I’m trapped in my body while my mind fixates on all my to-do lists and the constantly increasing amount of tasks that need done. Will I finish my spring cleaning before summer arrives?

I feel lost in a world where purpose brings meaning. I can articulate these helpless feelings, but I can’t write my fictional story. Not yesterday. Not today. Maybe tomorrow will be better.