Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

Like Robert the Bruce found inspiration in the spider that kept rebuilding its web, I found inspiration in the teeny spider that kept crawling onto my notes yesterday. I am scared and mortified and nervous but also determined AF. Stay tuned...

I am clenched in the vicious, drooling jaws of anxiety. I am shaking and scared and apparently just labeled as dramatic. One, I'm on the autism spectrum, so fuck you, and two, it's an autistic meltdown. I am overrun with exhausting emotions right now. Hurt, fear, sadness, helplessness...I'm on day three of this but by all means, stay away. Like, could I have some actual compassion?  Yeah, I'm fine in that I'll get up tomorrow and go to work, but meanwhile, I feel like I can't breathe, I feel abandoned, my brain feels like a cake mixer on high, my back aches, and I'm nauseated beyond belief. I guess this is the cross I bear. Alone.

Liquid cream on my tongue slowly oozing to my anxious, anxious, washing machine spin cycle, stomach. Chalky cream. You tatste awful and you're a bandaid on a massive, sanguinary wound. Sticky with what ifs and possible embarrassment and thousands of constant scenarios. Do they make a calming doggy thunder vest for adult humans? I am aching. And nervous. And wondering. Sacred to holy hell. Please?

Queen. She was a queen- and a maverick.  A badass and strong woman. Someone to idolize. I longed to be  as cool as her, as funny. I marveled at her  beautiful hair and the way it moved. She never, not once, took anyone's shit. Smart and tough, great dresser to boot. What a hero to all of us born female.  All of us born as what society sees as lesser.  She was never lesser, regardless of society and systemic bullshit. Unwavering in strength and resiliency, intelligence and grace. You could argue but none could argue that you are a Queen.

I used to like you. Not just the character you played. I wanted to be you or her. You both were my idol I would've  settled for being  your sister or friend. Maybe I could've been your other best friend living next door  on the other side of your grey mansion with the bright red door. I would've been the politest guest  and perfect confidant.  You, who had eveything everywhere you looked. I would've given  anything for your father who never yelled, who understood.  Or your uncles, who were honored to let  their entire lives revolve around you. You had the best clothes and the best hair. Perfect grades and a room I've been jealous of for decades.  Plus handsome boyfriends I could  only dream of. I wrote my college essay about you. The letter that got me  accepted to my university was about you, your influence, and how nuch  you meant to me. But now I hate you  and love her. And not for the reasons you would think. You damn...

Sweet prince with the wolf cut hair of Hawkins and Forrest Hills. Leader of lost and forlorn labeled so unfairly,  Eddie the freak. The kind one, kissing the guitar. The unfortunate one, witness to horror. Hiding under the tarp. Sail out and sail away. You had no powers, not supernatural ones, just your goodness. Lovers Lake and radios, stopped watches and a trip to the  creepiest old house. Grabbed and pulled through the gate, followed by new friends. S.O.S. Through the old chandelier. The War Zone, ready for battle. Tin shield and makeshift spear. Play your song, concert for the ages. Deflect with the bicycle, refuse to follow and face the hoard. Heroic. Eddie the epic. Biten and consumed  and rendered rabid by those vile, evil, Demobats. Please return. Hero, vampiric,  ghost, or  reserected. Eddie the hero.

Optimism abound today! As I tried to start writing again and tried to make a writing career for myself, there were times when I felt like it was stupid to keep going. I often struggled with the optimism and perseverance to never give up and the reality of no one wanting my work. Then I found I was struggling with should I still write for myself, or was that dumb? I ended up taking a couple months off, if for nothing else, my mental health, and then surprises came. Interest in my work. Hope and validation. I'll skip ahead, but there's potential interest in a 5k word piece, and a short story has been accepted into an online journal. Thankfully, I've learned that never giving up is always the right choice. You make your own luck, and you should never give up on yourself.