That's how we start these things, isn't it? Hi. Hi, I'm xx and I'm a ... fuck-up.
All my life I've made mistakes. Some big, some little, some motherfucking HUGE, and yet I'm still standing. That has to count for something, right?
So why are we here? Well, I used to love blogging, (check me out at The Crumpet) and I miss it, but I no longer paint my nails 15 times a day, so that took that option away. I find writing cathartic, especially when I'm churning up old, dead stuff and trying to make sense of it. Oh, and although I have assembled the most amazing coven of fictional witches ever, I can't for the life of me work out their story, sooooo book option off the table.
Writing has been the true part of me since I can remember. Never in a disciplined way that would get me close to publication, noooooo, but in a "this is what I am" way. Words define me, as does overthinking, and reading used to be my happy place until depression stole it away. Funny how I struggle to read, but I can still write ....
During my life that has involved poems, song lyrics, a 1000 page unfinished serial killer thriller (with a mapped out prequel and BINDERS full of research), countless other started but abandoned literary forays, and in the last 8 to 10 years, blogging, which somehow seems to perfectly match the scattered mindset of the mentally challenged ;)
I've struggled with my mental health half of my life, back from before it was trendy, through post-natal depression and divorce, all the way through to now, when it's some sort of de rigeur rite of passage. I do drugs (the anti-depressant kind), I numb myself with other drugs (alcohol, food) and I've thought of killing myself more times than I can count. Yet I'm still here.
Why? Lack of courage? Guilt? Possibly. But maybe, just maybe, it's to help other people. To share the view from the shadows, to light the path to wisdom, to swathe the obstacles to peace. Maybe.
All I know is that writing HELPS. It takes me outside of myself to a place ... I don't know where. It's like a parallel spiritual plane where I am Zen, bad-ass, and able to resist food. It's a flow. It's MY flow. And if it helps me, it may just help you.
Recently, I've vomited on the page about a few things in my personal life. Toxic men. Regrets (thank you Midnight Library). The way I abuse food. And every time I've done it, I' ve felt clean. Purified. Maybe cleansed is the better word. Like a weight I never knew I carried disappeared, and with it all trace of the bitterness that gnawed away at me. I feel lighter. Calmer. At peace.
So consider this blog a long continuous vomiting. All my thoughts, all my regrets, all my fuck-ups. All here. In all their hideous anti-glory, but maybe, just maybe, there's something to cheer in the learning, the growing and the life lesson-ing. There's a little of everything - motherhood, self-hatred, self-love and care, work related stuff, money stuff, men (groan), personal growth, creativity .... all the ways I've fucked up and all the many, many things I've learnt (often painfully).
And why the title? Well, I love a good play on words. Life is full of fluctuations and fucktuations. My life fucktuates constantly, lurching from one bad choice to another. Plus I've met more than my fair share of fucktards.
So buckle up. Laugh at me, live with me, WALK with me. I'm not here to preach, but I am here to share, and hopefully prove that the struggle was worthwhile, and that there's a damn good reason why I'm still fucking here.