Where in the world is Patti the writer? I’ve not been doing much of anything, to tell the truth. Well, working. Sometimes. But, writing? Yeah, not so much. I come home from work exhausted and in pain. Most days, it’s all I can do to get the basics done. You know, dishes, laundry, feeding the cats, cleaning the litter. I tell myself I don’t feel up to writing. I don’t feel like sitting in front of my computer and trying to come up with something to write about. And I most certainly don’t feel like doing the actual writing.
But, the thing is, writing has always been my escape. When I was younger, it was my emotional escape. Why in the world would I refuse to use it as a means of escaping the physical pain I’m in every day? I think, for most writers, the act of writing allows us to focus on something else. And I could definitely stand to direct my focus somewhere other than the pain. So why haven’t I been doing it?
I’ve been feeling somewhat alone in this battle with arthritis. I’ve spent most of my adult life living by myself. For most of that time, it’s worked well for me. But lately there have been times when I find myself wishing I had someone here to help me out, to carry some of the load. Don’t get me wrong, I have amazing friends. Many of them have offered to help me out, to go to appointments with me, pick up prescriptions, and so on. And my step-sister is just the best. I know she’d do anything I need her to do. I’m having a procedure done on my shoulders next week. Originally, the doctor was going to do a more invasive procedure and I was going to need someone to drive me home. Kathy offered to do that for me. What I didn’t tell anyone was that they also told me I’d need someone to stay with me for 24 hours. That just seemed like such an imposition.
So, what? I think I’m better than other people? That I’d do that for them, but wouldn’t give them the opportunity to do the same thing for me? Or that they would turn their backs on me when I needed them? Or that I don’t deserve their help? I don’t know.
See? This is another thing writing does. It allows me to look at myself and try to figure out what in the world is going on. Why do I behave the way I do. Why am I so hesitant to ask for help? I know no one likes to have to ask for help. I know it isn’t easy for anyone. And maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to look too closely at my feelings, my fears, my desires. If I acknowledge those feelings, then I kind of feel obligated to do something about them. And it’s a lot easier to ignore them than it is to deal with them. Not healthier, just easier…in the short-term.
I think it’s time to get back to writing because I need to figure out how to live with this pain. I don’t want to just survive it. I want to be happy in spite of it.