Catpaws Cafe

Random musings from my virtual fountain pen

Archive for the tag “chronic fatigue”

Crossroads


I want an unrelated job. I can’t do this any more. The time has come to give this wannabe author thing up. I need something I can do even when I’m stressed that will support me and the cats.

I don’t want to do the endless promoting that is self publishing, and I don’t want to make my writing commercial if that means I lose my voice.
I don’t want to spend years refining and editing a manuscript for it to sell 10 copies… For all the anguish, that’s not enough for me.

I’ll never stop writing, I can’t. It’s who I am, but it will be scaled back to contributing to anthologies perhaps. If it happens to fit. I can still blog and shout into the nothingness, pretending that somewhere my words connect with someone, means something, an other nodding to themselves.

When you need to pay an editor and proofreader out of your own pocket to be able to pub, and it costs more than you will ever make…there’s a word for that, or one that can be reclaimed. Vanity publishing. Dreamer.
It’s time to raincheck. There’s no money in it unless you strike it very lucky. Most of us throw our work out there for free in the hope that our labours of love is discovered and enjoyed by readers. That they will add your name to the list of ones to look out for new stories from. Perhaps send you a kind note.

I wonder what else I can do. 12 yrs in Mexico sure has robbed me of all professional self confidence, despite a wealth of experiences, and numerous arrows to my quiver.

But I’m not going to lie, some days I just want to give up. I didn’t come this far for that. I’ve started over so many times and I didn’t expect to, and don’t particularly want to do it again.
I just want somewhere to land softly. Somewhere I’m welcome. Somewhere to heal. To feel safe and where I can – and want to – stay. Make friends. The kind you can watch the sky with, feet touching, like the rabbits in the picture. You know what I mean?

Wanted: new life

It’s not yet 9 am and I’ve already cried. It never ends with a bang, always with a whimper. The kind where you ask yourself repeatedly if you got this right, is overreacting, or making it up? “face facts” as some might call it. Is it over, or is this another hurdle to push through? Unless it is one more serving of cultural differences, this is the end, because from where I’m looking, I’m the only one trying. He’s coasting along.

It’s deceptive, we get on so well. That’s not enough, I suppose. if there’s sex without love, then love without sex is possible too. but that’s not enough for some. everything is negligible if there is sex, it seems. sex outweighs everything else.

For 12 years I’ve been here, supporting, loving, caring, waiting for his kids to grow up so we could go off and do things. I’ve supported financially when not even their mother does.
After February’s bombshell I was still prepared to forgive if not forget. Try and find a way forward, a compromise of some sort. but there has been no efforts made apart from mine, no attempts to regain or rebuild my shattered trust. Again I wonder if it is cultural. I know his brothers have done the same, but in those cases there is mutual offspring providing motivational glue.

Then c19 hit and focus shifted to just stay alive and get through this first. One thing became clear though; we have very little to say to each other any more.
The first five years we talked and talked, longed for more time together. Now we finally got it, like in so many other situations, it was too late. He refused to talk unless drunk – I don’t see the point then because, a) he doesn’t make sense, and b) don’t remember later.
attempting to start even a civil conversation over dinner is like trying to squeeze blood from a stone. Cagey, monosyllabic replies, often ending in frustrated, not exactly arguments but something smaller, similar.

What hurts the most – beside the lies – is there is no “we” anymore. No little unit of us in the world.
Hoops I braved and dealt with, for as long as there was us, it was worth it. Now I have to remind myself to, if something comes along, to choose what’s best for *me*, because there is no more us.
I feel cheated, sure there’s been growing and experiences I wouldn’t want to trade, but I was so certain this was forever, not until.

I remember, watching the outcome of brexit and being upset and crying, and he said, “what does it matter? you’re not going back there”. and in the middle of everything sad and gloomy, it felt reassuring. Now, it still means I have nowhere to go.

Last night I was trying to form some kind of fictional hope in my mind before sleep; if I could have anything, wake up tomorrow to a new life, what would it look like? and I couldn’t.

Mexico you have drained health and life out of me, bled me of my savings and will to live. When will I receive something else, something new, something I actually want, a way forward and help out of here?


If anyone who made it this far know of *online work*, real leads, like your company is hiring, please drop me a line. I don’t have the energy to chase and jump through a bunch of hoops right now. I’ll consider most things, except sex and violence and coldcalling/selling. Thank you.

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