Be Happy, Don't Worry

You know for a person like me who suffers from anxiety disorder, doing as the title says is easier said than done. I shouldn't say I suffer from anxiety disorder; I haven't been diagnosed by a shrink. I'm gonna say I'm a terribly anxious worrier type person instead.
Ugh, such a rabbit hole, can we get back to the topic?
Okay so as I was saying, I'm like a dog with bone when it comes to anxiety, just worrying it and worrying it and worrying it...whether my issues are legit or not.

So today it hit me, after blowing off work all day and just having some 'me time' that I was doing life wrong. I mean, look at me; I am living my dream life (except that I don't have a horticulture farm which was a completely unrealistic dream considering the total absence of a green thumb that I have). Hell, some things I never thought to dream of; who could have imagined I'd have authored eight books under my own name (actually make that ten, Cinderella by Any Other Name is finished as is a short story in the In Search of Paradise Universe) in my lifetime? Who'd a thought I'd make a living writing books for other people?
Not me.
Yet here I am.
I live in the house. The one I always wanted; yeah it's not mine but it's mine y'know? My son turned eighteen this year. I have managed to grow him to adulthood without irreparably damaging him.
I legit have not searched for new clients since September. They all are looking for me now.
Life is GoodT.
*spits, knocks on wood, throws salt over my shoulder and all other superstitious nonsense*

So why do I wake up worried, spend my days anxious and go to sleep worried? It's such nonsense. Today I just stopped. No actually it started yesterday. I was so tired after my locum at a hospital pharmacy that I stopped at a fast food shop to eat dinner so I could go straight to bed as soon as I reached home. (Yeah at seven pm, what of it?) And she knows me so the cashier asks if I'll have a warm apple juice since there are no cold ones. And I was just like FUCK IT, give me a fanta.
Do you know the last time I drank a fanta?
Yeah, neither do I.
Everywhere people always posting about how bad soda is for you blah blah blah. I grew up drinking fanta. It never made me sick. I stopped because well, peer pressure.
Fuck peer pressure.
Fuck worrying about mythical health problems I might get.
Imma enjoy my fanta.
I didn't finish it because well, sugar is not my friend these days but I enjoyed it. I even enjoyed the little sore throat I got afterwards because Freedom bitches!

Anyways so this morning I woke up with that anxious "OhgodIhavesomuchworktodowillIfinisitontimeImalreadylate" mantra going through my head coupled with "shitIneedtofinisthisgotbillstopay" that accompanies it. But I was still reeling from the weekend. So I said, hey, let me take some time to just be. I'll get back to work. But first, breathe.
And I did.
Imagine the world didn't end.
Yeah, mind boggling, I know.
But I really have to get back to work now; the difference is, I'm looking forward to it. I love writing, I love stories. I get to write stories for a living. Imma enjoy it.
And for you other writers who seem to live under the illusion that you HAVE to think your writing sucks in order to be a "legitimate" writer; and also you have to post about how much you suck on social media...man, look...if that is supposed to get me interested in your work, it doesn't. If you don't love what you write, why should I?
I love my stories. I think they're epic. I think they convey important messages without being weighed down by too much seriousness. Average Joe can enjoy them and they would still make her think. You have to be careful of that negative self talk. If you tell yourself you suck enough times, you start to believe that shit.
It's up to you if you want to be Cardi B or Azaelia Banks.
Rihanna isn't my fave just because of the songs...when it's 3am and I'm flagging, I tell myself that Rihanna's day isn't over yet either and she's much richer than me. Whatever you need to tell yourself to keep going.
Anyways, for real, gotta get to work.
The rent is always muh'fuckin due.

Of Clouds and Silver Linings

I think my Instagram is seeing all the action my blog should be.
I'm sorry, but when I'm writing in the moment, Instagram is faster. And sometimes, I even get comments *side eyes all of you*.
How are you doing? How have you been? Are you practicing self-care? Are you asking for help when you need it? It's not a crime to ask for help. It doesn't make you weak. It doesn't mean you're failing.

but I'm asleep tho...

I just read the interview Oprah did with Michelle Obama about her book, Becoming. It really gave me insight into something I've never understood. How fatalistic African-Americans are and how sure they are that everything is NOT going to be alright. Why they only think they can succeed as entertainers or sportsmen. Why the majority of black NFL players do NOT kneel.
It's an insidious thing that American society does.
It's easy for me in my majority black country to judge and say, 'why do you not have the self-worth to fight for yourself?'
But wow, it's complicated.
The American mid-term elections were just carried out and wow, they really took a page from the Kenyan election when it came to rigging. Can I ask politicians a favor? Could you at least try to pretend that you're not totally stealing votes? Like, try to make it less obvious, please. It's insulting to the inelligence of voters. People keep asking why white women keep voting against their interests. The truth is that there are interests and there are INTERESTS. And making sure white supremacy remains the status quo is an INTEREST. Just like Kikuyus do in Kenya. When people have been on the top of the totem pole, they will literally cut off their own feet just to remain there. It's stupid, but apparently, its human nature.

Anyways I'm not going to go and on about it because this post isn't about wallowing in the things we cannot change. It's about figuring shit out.
I've kind of dropped off the face of the planet because thanks to my Upwork score shooting up to almost perfect, I have suddenly become very popular with employers. You'd think it'd make me happy but no, I'm salty because I was this same person when my score was 82% but now, suddenly, I'm a valuable commodity. I'm salty because I'm tired of things that are circumstantial defining who we are; who I am. I use the same samples, I have the same profile, I deliver the same level of service but thanks to a circumstance over whose control I had little, I am now an MVP rather than that chick from Africa who might not even know how to write in English.
So anyway, my scope of job offers has widened, as has the challenge of successful completion. Two weeks ago, I got invited to bid for a regency romance. Now I've never written Regency books before mainly because I've never been shortlisted before. The amount of history you have to study is crazy and the word choices you have to use are a challenge. You have to check that the words you're using were in use at that time and the context was the same.

it was a circle of hell

I prepared by listening to an audiobook while I washed dishes, letting the words permeate my subconscious. I also read a bit but time was an issue; I had seven days to produce twenty thousand words of story.
I thought many times of just throwing in the towel. For the first time in my writing time I thought to myself, "Maybe I can't do this."
Then into day five of my seven day Odyssey, my arms went on strike. They were like, "We are not the ones. You will not do this to us." They do that sometimes when I push them too hard. Nobody tells you how taxing typing is. The pain gets so bad, is unrelieved by painkillers and makes you want to cry because a. I can't work and b. it hurts.
So I couldn't type and I was floundering and I was behind deadline. I've tried to use voice typing before, in genres I'm actually familiar with. It didn't work. The words don't arrange themselves the way they were supposed to. The poetry disappears.
But I was down to the wire and there was no other choice. So I closed my eyes, thought of what I wanted to say, constructed a sentence in my mind and then spoke it aloud. Even that way, it was still faster than typing. My hands were grateful.
It got easier.
I finished behind deadline. By twenty-one minutes. Unfortunately, my client and I are on the same time zone if very many miles apart.
Still.
I did it!
I got the job done.
I figured it out.

Now as I await the verdict; did I succeed in creating a story worth pursuing? did I fail?
I am still changed forever. Because I did something I didn't' think I could. And to be honest, in my humble opinion, I did a good job.
The other thing that resonated with me about Michelle's interview was being a 'box checker'. For sure any African with parents will tell you it's all about the box checking. Go to school, excel, find a job, get married.
Unlike Michelle's, my life didn't follow the script. I was flailing like Barrack. I feel like flailing enables you to really find out who you are if it doesn't destroy you.  Basically, I can't wait to read the memoir.
While we're on the topic of reading, have you visited my author page yet?