I keep trying to come back to this blog, trying to do my real work here, which is writing. I’ve said I was a writer since I was about 8, when I was in fourth grade, and my teacher Mrs. Tillitson gave us all sheets of that nasty newsprint paper for creative writing “period” and told us to try to write at least three sentences on the front. Those awful sheets were half blank, because creative writing “period” in fourth grade in the 1970s was also art “period”, so we drew fanciful pictures on the top of that slick, weird, beige-ish paper to go with our massively complex, at-least-three-sentence-long “stories”. That liberal California public education system, I tell you, it was OUT OF CONTROL!!! When I realised we had something like an entire 45 minutes to sit quietly at our desks with crayons and pencils to draw and write, I thought it was preposterous, and then just heavenly. I filled the front AND the back of my paper. Every time. My teacher thought I was miraculous, and praised me. Too much, according to my classmates. I was the teacher’s pet, oh glory me. My mother was befuddled but delighted, because I used good words and I spelled them correctly and my penmanship was excellent. My father didn’t give a shit as long as my math was good, which it was, until I got yelled at for doing the entire semester’s math all at once and “not waiting for the rest of the class”. Then I got in trouble for being a smart-ass know-it-all.
But this is about writing. I have always been meant to write, and I keep trying to get over here to write about writing. And then disaster strikes in my life, and I have to tend to the disaster, and get caught up in the disasters surrounding the disaster. And since I am a person who is broken, this takes a HORRIFIC toll. This last time, that horrific toll made me extremely sick physically instead of mentally, although I came very close a few times to that. It’s only thanks to my precious support network and my own lessons learned that it didn’t. Right now I am in the process of finding out just how much of a toll physically the past couple of years has taken. I’m sick. Pretty damn sick. So I have spent the past couple of months seeing some doctors, and telling my family that the buck stops here. They have to pick up all the slack. I am too sick to do chores, drive, manage all the household accounts, let the drama with the landlord slide anymore, or any other form of procrastination. I have been told by my doctors, both physical and mental, to quit letting myself be anxious, tell my family to do their jobs, rest and take my drugs, get a fuckton of tests, and sit on my ass. And apply for disability (which is going to suck disgusting donkey balls). My doctors have also told me, and my family, to get help wherever and however I can. We are, it’s helping, and the name of the game is patience. Half of my family is not known for their patience skill stats. I, however, have somehow been blessed with a natural ability in the patience skill, and have a bonus ability to boot, and the gods have seen fit to level me up in that stat on a regular basis. I also seem to have some kind of natural immunity to impatience, but lately it’s been under some kind of viral strain.
I am literally sick and tired. There haven’t been many people who can say that, I think, but I’m one of them. So I am writing my damn life out again. Everyone tells me to do it. At first it was a lark. Then a whim. Then a dalliance. Then it got serious. Then a sort of compulsion. Now it’s kind of a crusade. Everyone I meet seems to NEED me to do this. My therapist practically begs me to do it. So I’ll do it. It’s going to take an awful lot out of me, because when your very first memory is so traumatic that it pretty much makes every feeling human want to scrape out their insides, writing out a lifetime of that and worse is so emotionally draining it’s understating. There is a reason I appreciate British wit. When you love to write but still cannot find the words to express the horror of what you feel, the talent of British dry understatement cannot be applauded (softly) enough.
I’ve been practicing this, warming up to it, on my Facebook for the past month or so, as I’ve come to terms with how sick I am. As I face having to go to one doctor after another and sign up for one invasive procedure after another, making sure my insurance doesn’t roll us for some test or another (which they just did, and in addition to being sick, I have to call and argue with them), struggling to help my husband and life partner and sole income balance a squeaking budget with looming domestic demons all while letting him know he is precious and loved and that all his feelings matter so very very much….I am processing vast and enormous amounts of ancient traumas and wounds. Settling all the things in my heart and mind I’ve been working on since I first found out I had PTSD in 2006. All so I could write my story for the people who need to hear it, and for that 8 year old girl who was given a truly terrible first sheet of paper.