I never would have guessed the title of this post would be so appropriate when it floated up from the depths of my brain to present itself, but we'll get to that later. (For clarification's sake, this was written after the rest of the post.)
I guess we'll start with the biggest piece of news. I'm almost at the end of the fourth draft of my memoir. Only things left after that is a read through to try to catch spelling and grammar mistakes and selecting sections for eradication to get the work count down further. If it goes according to plan, the fifth draft should be the last one. (For more updates on this and other projects, keep your eyes out for new posts on my writing blog:
Make a Write Here) I thought I would be more excited, and maybe I will once draft four is done and dusted. But at the moment it's more of an anxiety trigger, probably because next I'll be moving from the thing I know, writing, to the things I dread, marketing and networking (both of which involve interacting with humans...egad!). I've marked out several avenues of approach, but that hasn't taken care of the Titanic in my stomach. I'm hoping that, as with other things that make me apprehensive, once I get to it I'll be fine. Now I just have to convince my brain that will be the case. Good luck, me.
Maybe that's not the biggest piece of news. Maybe having joint specialists tell me that the increased pain in my knees and ankles over the last couple months isn't going anywhere is bigger. Maybe seeing one of the top
AVN (avascular necrosis, which is the bone disease I have that has caused many of my joints to collapse) specialists and having him tell me that there isn't really anything I can do to try to fix my crumbling bones other than replace them is bigger. Those are what dominate my thoughts as of late. That the only real solution is more joint replacements down the line when the pain becomes intolerable. The singular light in this pall of darkness is that the pain is manageable for the time being. But how much longer does that last? A year? Five years? Ten years? Ten months? Five weeks? Tomorrow? It's literally anyone's guess. It'll happen when it happens. I've started doing low-impact exercises to strengthen the joints and my body in the hopes it staves off surgery a bit longer. If not that, then at least the exercises should grant me a bit more muscular strength and support to draw from during the recovery process, which might make recovery progress more quickly. So that's good, right?
In my last post I talked about pushing harder to be social and how it was getting easier. In this post, we talk about backsliding. I've become increasingly reclusive over the last few weeks, and am only now starting to fight it again. It's another case of sticking to what I'm used to, even if what I'm used to isn't really all that great, like, say, surgery. There's comfort in familiarity, simplicity in what's already been established. It's such a constant theme in my life that I should probably think about shoving it into a book title or write essays about it. "The Siren Song of Familiarity." "Comfort in Stagnation." "Doctored Bundy, or How I Learned to Love Surgery." But moving away from that and back to listing off reasons for craving reclusivity (which sounds a lot less clunky than "reclusiveness," and I love words that whisper like liquid silk into my brain), I know my reluctance to engage in human contact is in part to do with the conditions of my joints, which has been become an increasing stressor lately as pain ratchets up and options diminish. I don't want to talk about it, because then I have to think about it, and when I think about it all it does is remind me of where I am and what sort of future appears imminent. I dunno, maybe I'm just trying to find excuses, reasons to explain and justify my lack of effort.
I think I just realized why I haven't written a blog in a while: because there doesn't seem to be much to write about other than more bumps in the Unmerry-Go-Round called My Life. Because I'm feeling particularly morbid and exhausted with looking for what's good when all I can find is more dismal news. I really have no idea what to talk about. Do I try to paint a cheery picture over the bleak canvas? Or do I leave it bare, the naked truth for all to see? I want people to see the truth, but I don't want to discourage people and make them pity me. My life isn't miserable, but when I try to look for events worth writing about, I can't seem to find anything positive. It's in those little moments, getting into a pun match with my family, watching funny TV with a friend, inventing a word or phrase that tickles me, listening to music in the car and not caring who watches me sing and play air instruments, reading about space and Pluto, those are the moments with seemingly little importance to life's progress, and yet give life the color and pleasantness that keeps me going when all I want to do is implode and hide. Finding pleasure in the small things is what keeps the crushing weight of the Colossus of Bad News from squashing every bit of life out of me. It's what kept me (relatively) sane in the hospital when all I had to look forward to was toxic sludge and vomiting and oxygen masks. It's a revelation every time I remember this obvious, simple, yet transformative bit of insight.
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| Pluto |
I started off this post with a title, which I quickly removed because I had no idea why I wrote it. "In a Sea of Chaos, Find the Lighthouse." It just came up, completely without context or reason. Maybe it's a lot more appropriate a title than I gave it credit for initially. It's certainly a hell of a lot more fitting than I could have known when my subconscious floated it up. Freud might have been onto something.
~Andrew
