You know the rack: the old torture devices that pulled people apart. I hate to be a whiner, but this thing is eerily similar to my life at the moment. Our poltergeist is still in residence, gleefully tampering with both computers, my cat, and at least one major relationship.
Seriously people, if I did not have a daily writing habit, I would be in the nuthouse.
But I am a spirited writer, and I do have a built-in escape hatch from the real world. Though I am woefully behind in my nanowrimo word count, thanks to a writing class that is competing for my time, I am thoroughly enjoying a totally off-the-cuff, road-trip adventure with a new nano character. She is searching for a better life with a delightful chip on her shoulder, but I suspect she may not be entirely honest with herself about the source of her troubles.
And her troubles are not my troubles, so they are much less annoying to grapple with!
There it is, then. Writing as escape. Writing as therapy. Writing as addiction. Perhaps this period of my life will not produce great fiction, but it is definitely helping me muddle through.