Writing for Life

My sense of  “self” has been nonsense for several months. I have been sick and scared and all of my energy has been focused inward.   No writing, no storytelling, just the need to protect myself and to sustain myself . Rest, try to eat, cry, beg for help while feeling unworthy of help . Waiting, a lot of waiting. Fear, a lot of fear. Now I’m starting to feel better and I know that writing is the key to re-inhabitating my life. My writing muscle has atrophied, it’s  stiff and weak. I’m telling myself, start slow, small steps, just get writing and remind myself that writing is one of the things I do that feels right to me. Fake it till you make it. I’ve spent months living in the land of “What if?” and today I’m beginning to ask “What now?” 

It’s simple really—begin again, renew, find the scattered pieces, old and new, and put together the ever changing puzzle of my life. I don’t get a do over to recover my “missing” months, i just need to sift thru them for pieces of pain and wisdom to keep and build on. What have I learned? The truth is that although I’ve always professed “ It’s ok to ask for help.”, I didn’t really believe that. The mountains I had to climb over were my feelings of pride and unworthiness to finally get the humility to squeak out the question “Can you help me?”.  I figured out that people aren’t mind readers and sometimes they are wanting to help, but simply don’t know what to do. Asking for help is really an act of bravery and often fear over-ruled my courage. There were times when I didn’t want to be alone and I asked family and friends to stay with me. I had to tell the voice that was telling me I didn’t deserve help to “Go to hell!”, and some other expletive deletives. What I’m telling myself when I talk to myself is often old propaganda, intended to bolster fear and unworthiness, both old friends of mine. I learned it was time to let some of my old friends behind and nurture the positive friends who sustained me and who I could sustain and nurture.

Getting old can bomb dreams into a million tiny pieces.  Illusions, delusions and dreams whither in the face of time passing. It’s not all bad news because one thing I found was a lot more clarity. “How important is it?” was a question I asked myself a lot and the answer was often “It doesn’t matter.” —and it didn’t . Order Thanksgiving dinner, make all Christmas gifts gift cards, dust around objects and DO sweep under the rug. Nobody suffered and no love was lost. My son finally won big at Zilch and that’s a great Christmas memory.  I am not going to live forever. Wow that’s a news flash right? When I hear that someone has died the first question I ask is “How old were they? Younger than me and I feel fear and dread.   I prefer the dead way older than me, 80’s and 90’s so I can think about how many years I have left. 

I notice more about my world. I stopped to watch a whirling funnel of leaves and thought about how many people just walked on by. The geese are really pretty funny to watch, such an attitude!  When I’m inside and it’s cold and the wind is blowing, it’s  warm and cozy because I am not homeless and I have 2 little doggies to cuddle up with. I guess noticing is how I get to gratitude. I don’t want anybody to tell me to be grateful, but a lot more gratitude would have eased some of the angst I’ve felt in the last few months.

Thank you seems like such a puny thing to say to my very special friend, M, who saved my ass in the last few months. Day and night, over and over she was the best friend I’ve ever had. I can’t possibly find the right words to say how very grateful I am that she did not run away. I was so sick of myself, I’m not sure how she did it. Thank you my friend.

It feels good to finish this mediocre post because I’m writing for my life.