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semiotic_pirateThis is what happens when the dog, the little warm, soft, cute dog sleeps on the bed. I get woken up at 2:20 in the morning and am unable to get back to sleep.
So. Since I am awake, I might as well get some stuff done. I've recently, with encouragement, started submitting my poetry again. I've got four submissions currently waiting to hear back from (one just submitted minutes ago even.) All but that last set I have gotten confirmation from the people I submitted to that my submission had been received. Likely the last one is going to wait until someone wakes up at a more reasonable time and notices the incoming emails.
One set was submitted through Submittable, two were directly through submission web pages within the publications' website with uploads of documents, and the last was submitted via a series of emails (one poem per email, in plain text, as directed.)
Not counting the one that is AN ENTIRE MANUSCRIPT OF POETRY FOR A BOOK, I have a total of twelve poems floating in front of editors' eyes. I believe the final draft of the manuscript was 89 pages, or approximately 85 poems. Yeah. I had a significant backlog of stuff that I've written over the decades that insisted on finally seeing the broad spectrum light of day.
In researching these places to publish, I discovered a newly named form that I've been writing all along: slipstream. Happily, I write well in this form, and will have no problems creating new poems for this format. I tweet snippets of this stuff all the time, around which I can then build a poem.
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In other news...
I've, at the behest of my new primary care physician, started going to therapy sessions. I've finally come to terms with being labeled as bipolar. I've been told that it is the mildest form on the spectrum and is typically mistaken for normal mood swings. Medication induced appearance of symptoms counts, apparently.
I've also been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. This latter explains the "startle" response I have, which has been getting worse in the last few years. Worse to the point where my spouse has made a comment about it (without making a connection to PTSD.) With all the shit I've had happen in my life, I am not surprised at this diagnosis and can readily accept it. It is presenting comorbid with generalized anxiety disorder and social anxiety. Yay me! TRIFECTA!
Although I don't think I can call it a trifecta if I have to include the bipolar diagnosis. Jumble bag? ... Moving on.
A suggestion has been made for me to get a certain type of therapy that involves the remembrance of traumatic events coupled with rapid eye movement. This would be in addition to regular individual talk therapy and a carefully monitored, extremely low dosage drug therapy.
It's officially called eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) and I've been reading up on the process and history of its use.
The therapist I ended up assigned to is one of the nicest, easiest to talk to people I've encountered. He radiates calm, peace, and safety. We'll see if he's ready to ask any difficult questions when I'm ready for them or if they're needed. He's encouraged me to continue journal writing (which I've recently started back up around the same time I picked the poetry back up) as well as the poetry. He's asked to read both, though I'll likely only give him the latter. Yes, yes, it might be more insightful, but I'm already used to sharing it so it will be easier to hand over for examination. I don't want to chance feeling like I have to self-censor in my journal, thinking about who else besides me is going to read it intentionally, with my permission.
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I've also got a lot of other stuff going on. If you've been following me on twitter, or reading through and making sense of my tweet roundup posts, you know about the floors and the vehicle. There's also a dishwasher event and a closet reorganization that includes a bureau. Chaos! Excitement! Fear! Just another normal series of days I guess. But it is nice to finally get some serious work done. First we put a new roof on, out of desperate need, a few years back; then we finally put art on the walls, maybe a year and a half ago; now I'm dedicated to putting down roots into this house, this location. This mild bit of remodeling is an outward manifestation of my inner determination to embrace the concept as well as the actuality of roots. It's only taken me... about eight years to be able to get to this place after moving in.
So. Since I am awake, I might as well get some stuff done. I've recently, with encouragement, started submitting my poetry again. I've got four submissions currently waiting to hear back from (one just submitted minutes ago even.) All but that last set I have gotten confirmation from the people I submitted to that my submission had been received. Likely the last one is going to wait until someone wakes up at a more reasonable time and notices the incoming emails.
One set was submitted through Submittable, two were directly through submission web pages within the publications' website with uploads of documents, and the last was submitted via a series of emails (one poem per email, in plain text, as directed.)
Not counting the one that is AN ENTIRE MANUSCRIPT OF POETRY FOR A BOOK, I have a total of twelve poems floating in front of editors' eyes. I believe the final draft of the manuscript was 89 pages, or approximately 85 poems. Yeah. I had a significant backlog of stuff that I've written over the decades that insisted on finally seeing the broad spectrum light of day.
In researching these places to publish, I discovered a newly named form that I've been writing all along: slipstream. Happily, I write well in this form, and will have no problems creating new poems for this format. I tweet snippets of this stuff all the time, around which I can then build a poem.
-----------------
In other news...
I've, at the behest of my new primary care physician, started going to therapy sessions. I've finally come to terms with being labeled as bipolar. I've been told that it is the mildest form on the spectrum and is typically mistaken for normal mood swings. Medication induced appearance of symptoms counts, apparently.
I've also been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. This latter explains the "startle" response I have, which has been getting worse in the last few years. Worse to the point where my spouse has made a comment about it (without making a connection to PTSD.) With all the shit I've had happen in my life, I am not surprised at this diagnosis and can readily accept it. It is presenting comorbid with generalized anxiety disorder and social anxiety. Yay me! TRIFECTA!
Although I don't think I can call it a trifecta if I have to include the bipolar diagnosis. Jumble bag? ... Moving on.
A suggestion has been made for me to get a certain type of therapy that involves the remembrance of traumatic events coupled with rapid eye movement. This would be in addition to regular individual talk therapy and a carefully monitored, extremely low dosage drug therapy.
It's officially called eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) and I've been reading up on the process and history of its use.
The therapist I ended up assigned to is one of the nicest, easiest to talk to people I've encountered. He radiates calm, peace, and safety. We'll see if he's ready to ask any difficult questions when I'm ready for them or if they're needed. He's encouraged me to continue journal writing (which I've recently started back up around the same time I picked the poetry back up) as well as the poetry. He's asked to read both, though I'll likely only give him the latter. Yes, yes, it might be more insightful, but I'm already used to sharing it so it will be easier to hand over for examination. I don't want to chance feeling like I have to self-censor in my journal, thinking about who else besides me is going to read it intentionally, with my permission.
-------------------
I've also got a lot of other stuff going on. If you've been following me on twitter, or reading through and making sense of my tweet roundup posts, you know about the floors and the vehicle. There's also a dishwasher event and a closet reorganization that includes a bureau. Chaos! Excitement! Fear! Just another normal series of days I guess. But it is nice to finally get some serious work done. First we put a new roof on, out of desperate need, a few years back; then we finally put art on the walls, maybe a year and a half ago; now I'm dedicated to putting down roots into this house, this location. This mild bit of remodeling is an outward manifestation of my inner determination to embrace the concept as well as the actuality of roots. It's only taken me... about eight years to be able to get to this place after moving in.
