Ironic much?
I self identify as a writer. A writer of prose. A brain chemist. One who takes thoughts straight out of your head, and writes them down…for prosperity…
So how did I get here? Simply put 2018 has been the worst year of my life, for so many reasons, on so many levels. It made me gasp and cry. I’m rusty. I haven’t written anything of significance in more than a decade. That’s when I lost myself. That’s when I disappeared. That’s when my life began revolving around small children, single parenthood and not very much grace.
I gave up…or gave in…to misery. Emotional pain big enough to take over my universe and everyone else’s in the immediate vicinity. The voices in my head started drowning out me…..
So this blog is going to be about finding me again. The me who loves the sea….the me walking through tall redwood tree’s holding my beloved yellow and green lumberjack mug full of earl grey tea, honey and mist. The me who ghost writes. The me who has let go of live music. The me that cares about others more than myself.
I’ve been gone. I’ve been gone as surely as if I were the little girl in the episode of the Twilight Zone called “Little Girl Lost”, where she fell into another dimension form a small hole under her bed. She could hear her family, the voices in her room, but she couldn’t make sense of them. Everything was all swirly and dark. I’ve been existing…surviving. I’ve been living inside a storm of physical pain, emotional doubt and huge regrets. I’ve hurt the people closest to me….really hurt them. That’s what pain does to you. It fucks with you. It messes with everything you ever considered to be normal, slaps your hand…and says…”NO MORE”….No more doing things like everyone else does. No more cleaning house on a Saturday morning. No more taking garbage out …it hurts too much to walk to the trash. I’ve been being mauled inside of my head. My knees…..how do I describe my knees? Wicked painful should suffice. The technical diagnosis is “severe degenerative bone on bone osteo arthritis”…aka HELL.
My knees are hard. They feel like cold silly putty…you can’t push the skin in. Pain is hot and constant. Everything I’ve ever considered normal has become impossible for me to do. Gardening…Nope…. Riding my bike….Nope Working out…Nope….my life has become a road full of “nopes”.
So.. I’m scared. Of everything and of nothing. Most of all I’m scared of my pain being with me for the rest of my life…
My Pain is like another person. I talk about it like it’s a separate entity. “My Pain” this….”My Pain” that…and I’m it’s bitch.
Maybe all I have to do is NOT be scared anymore? Maybe I say….”is that as good as you got bitch?”. All I know is I’m closing in on 55, way to young to hurt this much. Damn…sounds like a country music song!
OC
my montana lair 