I haven’t written in a while because I’ve been focused on fan fiction. It’s always fun when a story you’re writing is going so well that you don’t feel like watching something new on TV because you’re far more interested in what will happen next in your own story. It also means I’ve had less to rant about. But right now the fanfic is a bit stagnant, so here’s more trivial venting from the life of Sarah James:
I had a dream that there was a group of people recruiting individuals who had potential, just like the characters in The Magicians, only the books they claimed were real were the Brandon Sanderson Stormlight Archive. There were police reports with photos of previously ‘abducted’ individuals, and the same person from the recruitment team would appear nearby in every one. Eventually, I was recruited – I was a ‘believer’ but struggling to reconcile the logical impossibilities of a fantasy world being factual – but I was running late. I was supposed to leave at 9am but my phone said 9:24, and I realized I had turned my alarm volume down too low. At this point I realized I had been dreaming, and I was thankful that I wouldn’t actually be late, because I was in fact planning on leaving my grandparents’ house at 9 this morning in order to get home before 3pm. Unfortunately, I did sleep through my alarm, and all my bitterness, frustration, and depression from the past three days was compounded from that one incident.
My dad recently lost his job, and while I had said a couple prayers for God to give him wisdom and still his anxiety, my own emotional well-being seemed to suffer as a result. I sat in the washroom, my mind hurling insults at itself, like so many previous bipolar crashes – the usual being variations on the claim, ‘You’re a fucking piece of shit.’ And in this state I thought out a rant to God: ‘You freaking piss me off like no one else, and the worst part is that my anger must have next to no affect on you, otherwise you’d have done something about it after all my ravings. I have no right to complain, and my hatred of myself has only grown the longer I’ve waited on you, when others say these desert periods are when we really get to know you. In your eyes I must be less than nothing, and still I’m convinced that you’ll punish the slightest failure with maximum pain. Why do you think I fixate on stories and romantic pairings? Because you refuse to comfort me, to console me, to give me anything that might make life worthwhile. If you were really the source of everything, and you really loved me like your Word claims, and you were truly deserving of all praise, then I wouldn’t be forced into eternal emotional starvation. Did you know that I almost never do anything new or go anywhere outside my primary living areas because I’ve only had myself to rely on? I call it being frugal, but really, it’s a natural result of endless loneliness. I’ve been yours all my life. I’ve listened and learned and believed and put my faith in everything that not only my spirit, but your Word and other wise counsellors have affirmed was your will. I have believed to the point of psychological damage, and all you’ve done is left me to flounder. So fine, you’ve made it so none of my plans have worked out, and you’ve obviously never bothered to come up with any yourself (save for leaving me to rot as an unemployed, thirty-year-old virgin who lives with her parents). My hopes for some ‘grand’ narrative, or a miraculous event that makes it all worthwhile is foolishness. That only happens in fiction, or to people who thoroughly aren’t me. So you refuse to give me the kind of love, purpose, understanding, solace, and connection that I crave, and beyond blind faith, I have no reason to trust you. And now with all these people who are praying for me – my parents, grandparents, probably a dozen others I’ve shared my story with – you can’t even rescue me from crippling depression. So when it all comes down to it, what good are you?’