I've had more trouble writing this particular entry than any I can recall writing before. I've spent most of the previous week muddling around in what you might call a state. At first, I thought it was purely physical. The Chiari symptoms seem to be part punishment and part balancing mechanism. At first, I was on a high like I've only experienced a few times since I got sick. I was paying attention to the other side of writing at last by getting my work "out there" as I've been telling Melissa. At the same time, it wasn't truly out there as in available for potentially hostile individuals. I'd sent the link to download a few selected pieces to a few friends who knew me to varying degrees.
My high got even higher when I had information drop into my lap on Facebook. An old friend is happy, healthy and as fully engaged in life as ever. I'll give myself a little more credit than that. When I decided that I wanted to run down a list of names, there was my friend sitting right there in the open but with a new name. She managed to find her someone and get married just as I had. Maybe I was giddy from my time spent awake but I set aside my usual reticence and desire to have a decision surrounded on all sides before taking it. I sent a Facebook message which I do not think has been received but there is no way to know for sure. Some part of me that is still nursing wounds from old high school and college battles fears the rejection I'd see in no reply. I've always been one to avoid provoking others to anger or frustration, I have suppressed my urge to follow up. It might not be considered harassment or anything like that but I don't have to cross legal lines to disappoint myself. I suppose I'll wait a while longer then attempt another re-introduction.
Within hours of sending this message, I was crushed by fatigue and vulnerability. I'd been awake for 72 hours or longer in pain. Certainty went away along with the arguably manic energy I used to try marketing my work. There is a lot of uncertainty when you set out to write fiction for a living but this was different. I mentioned the many layers of uncertainty with my old friend. They range from the technical to practical matters like being priority 11 on a day with 10 slots in it which is something that causes me to not return messages and emails but then there are the old wounds which cause me less rational doubts. My temporary physical deterioration combined with the old wounds and the doubts inherent in writing for others to see until it became something different.
Thanksgiving wasn't really a day of giving thanks for me as a child. It was a day for earning my oxygen in front of a wider audience than usual. I have to be doing pretty badly to fall back on trying to earn my oxygen already but this was worse. I tried to measure my worth in the world with a few well placed sallies from inside my little fortress. The result was pain, exhaustion and silence. In my dazed state, I took quiet to mean an ominous silence. For some reason, I made excuses to discount the people who did express caring and I'm sorry for that. When I'm trying to justify my use of public oxygen, it is because I believe that I am in deficit. I feel the need to move mountains and too weak to raise my head for long.
I need to shift my thinking. People are distracted by the holidays while I look for distractions from the holidays. All that blaring joy hurts.
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