Hijacked by pixies (or something)
Earlier this week I made this nice waxing poetic post about how I’m going to be all adult and put down STB and go finish up the work needed to submit TWA, and be present in my life, blah, blah, blah. I also was thinking of how I would start sorting through the house to prepare for the spring garage sale, put my name in for more substitute teaching, and I would write the several blog posts I was going to, and mail the thing I’ve been going to mail for a week. What actually has happened is that I have continued to do my PT exercises and go to PT and struggle through what I thought was a turn into the next level of getting better and quickly took a big step back, added my neck and shoulders into the mix. When I wasn’t doing exercises or hurting or sleeping because I was tired and hurting from not sleeping because I was hurting, then I was usually filled with sudden, strange rage, and the only thing that made it better was another 3-5 thousand words on STB.
I don’t know what the hell is going on here, frankly. I think I did fairly well with the "be with the family" thing, but I’m not wildly pleasant to be around, and boy to I have a low bullshit tolerance. Half the time I’m high on Vicodin, which sounds good, but it’s not where I want to be, and not what I want to be doing, and I keep looking ahead at when I can even realistically hope to be "normal," and it’s MONTHS away. MONTHS.
And I still don’t know why this happened, and nobody else does either. Something about weak shoulders and hips. Why? Why now? Maybe I injured them. Maybe I was cursed by a demon. Maybe I ate a watermelon slice under the sideways glint of the full moon. Maybe it was Memphis. Don’t know. What I know is that I have to pull on wimpy yellow rubber bands and lie on foam rollers and wait in line behind the 90 year olds in walkers to use the Nu Step machine at the fitness center and plan shopping expeditions carefully. And sleep on a foam dias with a big pillow under my legs, and take more fucking pills than I have ever taken in my life. Well, I know this, and that, very, very, very, VERY slowly, I’m getting better, and that as far as anybody can tell, I have no dread disease or even a forever condition.
I feel like the universe has pulled the blinders on me. I feel like it has shut the door to my face, and every time I try to open one, even just a peep, it slams me back against the far wall and hands me another illness or some other screwed up thing to deal with. And for some reason, every single time I try to even work on starting to submit TWA, it gets really, really bad. I don’t get it, but it’s starting to get ridiculous enough that I’m willing to put it down for awhile to see if I get beat up less. I don’t like that, because I really do want to work. So I’m going to try and submit little things here and there, some to ridiculous they-will-laugh-at-me places, because why not? Short stories, etc. Something to pass the time while I work my way slowly up from whatever the hell this is.
For whatever reason, STB is my lifeline. I spasmed a bit starting, but now it’s like my saving grace, this wonderful place I walk into whenever I get a chance. I pay a little bit to go there, because sitting in the chair gets my hips, but walking is worse, so I figure at least I can be getting something out of it. And god, do I. It feels like word painting, so lovely and wonderful, and it’s SO SHAPED, first draft out! Well, this is not the first draft, at all. But it’s a fresh draft, and it is hands down the most formed thing that I have ever done. Probably because I don’t care if it is or not, because I"m not supposed to be writing it, and probably because there are NO RULES this time, and I refuse to let them in. And the characters are so fun, and so fucked up, just like me. I have a chain smoker and a meth addict and someone being stalked and assaulted. No, I"m not enjoying torturing the characters at all–that isn’t what I mean. It’s that every time I rage, or feel despondent, they have it worse, and out comes their angst, and it’s not mine but it is, but it isn’t the same as mine, and yet somehow it’s a better release than anything else going.
So this is me right now. Rather short-tempered and often furious and sometimes despondent, getting regular wedgies from the universe, but writing a lot, and writing Will, so much that when I take walks around the block I can all but see him walking beside me, and he puts his hands in his pockets and smiles and tells me just wait, it’s going to be even better than I dare to hope.