One . . . and Done

I woke up early this morning, hours before everyone else. It happens sometimes despite the Ambien but when I awaken I am clear minded. Sad, but definitely clear minded. I'm coming off of Zoloft. It has been 9 days now. I know that there is a proper way, going to the doctor and slowly weaning myself, but I've done it all at once. I've been heavy for too long. Not just fat (although, yes, I certainly am that) but leaden. Inert. My anxiety hasn't abated, even when I was taking zombie-inducing levels of the meds, but I have to let the medication go. It is the first of many things I have to let go. In the fall, when the boys go back to school, I'm packing away my notebooks and turning in my creative license. I'll be giving up writing and will be rejoining the workforce with a real job. It is disheartening, but it is time. I was only 8 when I first knew I wanted to be a writer. Through the years, I had only considered other paths that might leave me time to write. I really thought that I was gifted and must admit that hearing praise from teachers and professors bolstered me. When I saw an opening, I took it. I took the chance to do what I thought I was meant to do. And I failed miserably. My book bombed. Worse than bombed, actually. It seemed to be a gigantic mistake, revealing parts of me that might have been better off staying hidden. Indeed, hiding away one's true nature seems to be only way to get along in life. I must remember that lesson better. It isn't that it wasn't well received. It wasn't received at all. I know that copies sold. I know how many copies sold because I have the number seared into my brain like the scarlet mark of failure that it is. Beyond that, though, were the lack of reviews. I haven't received a single review either via email or online. I tried not to let it bother me; after all, the subject matter is pretty raw. But either no one read it or those who did hated it passionately and wanted to spare me the vitriol. Not that it matters now. Everything I've touched over the past couple of years has turned to shit. The whole IRS debacle has just proven how depressing and pathetic the whole mess is. Jeff's income is regular and normal and easy to chart. I'd been keeping track of my own income through freelance work (though ebay, odesk, paypal, amazon and lulu make this incredibly easy to do). Finally, four months after filing our tax return (filing early, as always), our tax advocate indicated that the taxes have to be refiled. We didn't make any changes to anything and still no one at the IRS can tell us why nothing has been done on our return since it was received in February. It might be another four months, but it won't matter. It will be one more thing to put behind me. The book will be behind me and I hope it will stop embarrassing my family. I'm obligated now to send off the promised copies to GoodReads, but after that, I hope to just be able to let it go. I hope the urges to write will abate and that it will all fall away to be something I used to do. And I hope beyond hope that there is still something that I am meant to do and that I will find it. Over thirty years of living with a dream makes it hard to let it go. But I'll remember how it feels to fail, leave it behind and move on.