Writing is hard
Well to be honest living is hard. My eight months dedicated to my recovery last year blew by. I read a lot. I took my time with everything. I took lots of baths. I sat in the back garden in the sunshine. I spent hours in an oxygen chamber at two atmospheres. But I didn't write like I'd hoped to.
At a certain point, I even felt myself lose interest in microposting. I was totally quiet until only a couple of months ago. I felt the need to be silent.
Now I'm working as much as my employer would like me to be, three days a week. (They were really kind to let me ease my way into this full schedule over a period of about five months.)
Friends with chronic illness for many years had explained to me that many of us who work part-time with this illness enter a dynamic where we work, and on our days off we rest, often aching and ill. I'm starting to accept this as my new reality.
I also spend a lot of my days off on medical admin. In fact I should be doing that now. But I'm forcing myself to write.
As I explained in a previous post, getting a dog helped me get past the three year mark of my illness. Gave me a real boost.
But now I'm starting to need more. I've struggled with depression all of my adult life, on and off. I'm thinking back to the ways I was lucky enough to be able to drag myself out of it — starting with looking it straight in the face. Learning (especially new languages), human connection, and reminding myself that life is absurd and sometimes tragic but there is such comedy here too.
I remember reading Bolaño's Savage Detectives – a delicious wake-up call that if we allow ourselves to be, we are all characters in picaresque novels. And we must laugh at ourselves. Laugh at our predicaments, and then change speed and direction, towards another absurd predicament. Until the end.
So I suppose I have my work cut out for me. Compile a list of Italian foodie videos to savor. Or see if I can find a way to finally learn Farsi that is engaging.
And perhaps I really do need to start writing more, especially to capture the absurd comedy emerging around me, springing out of the cracks. Like flowering bodies from slime mold. I just need to pick up the magnifying glass.
