And yet, strangely, we're back again. Back and not back. This is still locked. I'm dancing around the idea of closing down all of my internet exposures. The mystery or glamour or allure of spilling my guts on a creepily epic level....has died down with the prospect of wanting to advance my writing career and not look like a total wingnut. I'm aware I am a wingnut, but I can cook, dammit! I'm sort of a domestic savant. I hate the phrase idiot savant, I am not an idiot, but when I'm not delusional or drunk I make a mean scallop brown butter linguine.
I don't think that redeems me on anyone's terms, but I'm drinking now, and made some stuffed portobellos earlier. Retreating from the internet is an active process now. I will keep this blog, it is an artifact to me, a record, but I will probably keep it locked for a long time to come. You see, my ambition gets in the way. I want things. I want an agent. I want Featherless to be well-respected and allowed to exist, I don't want potential Featherless readers to be scared away by my mutterings. A separation of the private and public is so, so essential.
I'm aware that I have a functional impairment, I am schizoaffective, but I am good at certain things. I work hard to keep them going. Even tonight, when the voices were telling me not to go outside, that there was danger outside, I went and got Katie her alka-seltzer from Rite-Aid. Fetching medicine isn't one of the things I tell myself I'm good at, but I was trying to push past the delusions.
What does redeem me from the damning status of mentally ill disabled. Does anything? Do I need to be redeemed, I enjoy the stipend and the freedom, as well as having a free pass to act like I"m 22 for the rest of my life. The problem is I'm a greedy monster, I want to accomplish things and build that stupid CV and publish more, and thus, and thus, I need to not be quite so public about my mental issues.