At least, the big good things.
Somehow there are always words – and, often, far too many of them – for the big bad things of life. The angers, the fears, the hurts. Immediately after I woke up, in March 2010, my fingers would literally cramp and freeze because I was in such desperation to try and express myself. To try and prove I was still alive, that I was still me… to the world, and to myself, because if I couldn’t believe me, how could you?
After a time, I realized that I was deleting far more posts than I was publishing, because I kept saying, and writing, and thinking, the same stories. The same fears. The same hurts. Ad nauseum. I couldn’t tolerate myself anymore, and it simply wasn’t helpful to keep rewriting ideas and feelings. It would be boring and pointless to read a blog of someone who is basically content, not thinking too deeply about anything, just swimming along… and it was boring and pointless to write a blog when I was basically miserable, not thinking too deeply about anything, just swimming along.
Then, the words imploded. They simply collapsed under their own weight, unable to bear the wounds they were causing. Most of my readers friends were voluntary, insisting they wanted to see even the most mundane and repetitive drivel, encouraging me to write even while finding ways not to push too hard. Which only made me feel that much worse, knowing how sad I was making them. I hated to push more negativity out into the world, but I wasn’t able to find a way to keep it light, and so I became stifled.
You all knew, didn’t you, just how bad things were? You realized that I was in despair, and many of you would have suffered outright bodily harm if that somehow would have lifted my spirits. You sent kind words, and good vibes, and sometimes weird little elephant statues or CARE packages. If wishes were enough to heal a soul, I’d have been healed so quickly I would barely have realized I’d gotten hurt in the first place.
And you know what? Maybe wishes are enough. Not instantaneously, true, and not independently, but collective karma is as good a reason as any for the seismic shift in my life just lately.
(Hey. You. There, in the peanut gallery. Yeah, you. Shut it. I know I started this post by mentioning big good things and few words, and then spent 400 words rambling about bad stuff. Sit down and wait: I’m busy proving my own point.)
Because I could devote pages and pages to the explanation of the process, the transitions and key moments that led from Big Bad/Sad/Scary Point A to Shiny Happy Point B… or I could just skip to the good stuff:
1. I don’t have a serious seizure disorder. Maybe a low-key one, along with other neurological and psychological shtuff. I can handle that.
2. I do have PTSD, complete with anxiety, hypervigilance and dissociation. But this falls under the Good Stuff category because I’ve had PTSD before, and I know how to cope with it. I know how to live with it, and eventually I’ll learn again how to live after conquering it again.
3. I realized how much I missed my last job. How much I hated being completely reliant on Willem for all things financial, but more how much I missed being really, really good at something that other people valued and respected. So I went back to work.
4. I also really missed being a homeowner, and I hated seeing the market stay low and knowing now is an excellent time to buy. So we’re buying another house.
5. I’m OK.
I won’t promise to write much more often, because I really hate making promises I can’t keep. But I can tell you that I want to. I have things to say… some stuff I’ve said before, some stuff you’ve thought before, and maybe once in a while I’ll find something new and different to share.
Right now I’m very, very busy, mostly with adjusting to just how many minutes there are in a day now that I have things to fill those minutes up. I’m adjusting to needing work clothes, and having work to wear them in. I’m adjusting to being recognized by more people than those with whom I live.
But I can sense it. Right around the corner… that adjustment is en route. And once it strikes… I’ll write. More. A lot more.
Consider yourself forewarned.