Have You Done Any Writing About it?



Damn it.

Every fucking day.

More writing.

Writing and more writing, morning and night, the writing.

“Well, you still sound really angry,” she said to me, rocking forward on the chair outside on my back patio.

I had a special visitor this afternoon and we checked in and did some work and I got to tell her how I was really feeling and also get to be told what she was seeing, ie, anger.

Which I know is a masquerade for fear, which if I continue to turn it inward will manifest into depression.

Anger turned inward equals depression.

I know this.

I haven’t been on antidepressants now in years and I don’t want to go back, not that they didn’t help, they did, for three years, but I like myself unmedicated.

Besides anything that potentially messes with my sex drive is not something that I want in my system.


Side bar.

Yay sex.

Back to blog.

I did wake up in self-pity yesterday, which is not depression but it’s a flagstone on the garden path leading there.

I woke up and the voice said, “oh, why bother?”

Why bother getting out of bed, that is.

I did lay there for a minute longer, the hardest part of the day is getting out of bed in the morning, not because I normally have my sad face self-pity party hat on askew, just that it’s a challenge to get up and out of bed.

My body is wonky, my head is muzzy, and I don’t spring forward like I did when my leg was just my leg and not this weird apparatus that I have to pick up and lift about and haul around on crutches.

The effort of going to the bathroom to pee.

I mean, I got to be awake and a bit cognizant or I will wrench myself on something or set my foot down or further injure myself.


And my visitor, all about the shower chair.

“Oh,” she said in regards to the news that my employers are going to help me out, “so you get the news you’re being taken care of and you decide to self-sabotage by taking a shower and balancing on one foot in said shower.  Are you trying to break your other ankle?”

Not that this one is broken.

But she has a valid point.

Tomorrow finding shower chair/stool/high chair/lawn chair/golf stool/giant Lego blocks, whatever, to put in the shower so that I can wash myself without being a hazard to myself.

“What was going through your head when this happened?” She asked, pointedly.


I know what was in my head, I can still hear it, fucking little weasley voice trying to cram more things in so that I could be efficient, be faster, get to where I needed to go quicker.

I parked my bike.

I threw my bag inside.

I got the keys to the scooter.

I put on my helmet.

I tried to start it.

The voice said, “slow down.”

I kicked it.

It didn’t start.

I prayed to give myself a time to pause.

Then I tried again.

Then again.

Then, well then the rest is swollen ankle history and trip to ER and six months before it’s really healed.

“Oh, you are so lucky,” she said to me tonight, the new girlfriend of a good friend of mine, hiking up her jeans over her ankle,” broke this bad boy, had to have surgery and the recuperation time was one year.”

Oh my fucking god.


I am lucky.

Lucky I got put on a full stop without having to break my ankle.

I cannot imagine.

I am so overwhelmed with relief, when I am not angry at myself, my vain, egotistical self,  my overweening ego that says, you got to go back to the mother land–Wisconsin–with money in your pockets, looking good.

The self that is too scared and lives in fear.

You got to ask for a raise for Burning Man so you can pay rent.


Yes, this is a better idea, work extra hours and pick up more shifts to make more money so you can pre-pay your rent and not have to ask for a raise.

Because that makes so much sense too.

My disease is a sneaky ass motherfucker.

And I can be mad at myself.

Or I can cut right to the chase and go smoke some crack.


Maybe it’s not that cut and dry, but I keep that anger up and I keep resenting myself for something that I need to forgive myself for, because I did not plan this, it’s just life, I am not that all god awful powerful, it’s just life.

Life happens.

I am not impervious to life.

I can plan it all out.

I can try to run around and keep myself busy and think that I am somehow managing the chaos in the world, instead of contributing to it, and be safe.

Life is not meant to be safe.

Life is meant to be lived.

And so, here, now, I forgive myself, in my little public forum, on my little stump, standing behind my podium of self-loathing and doubt and I am not good enough, let me throw down the gauntlet, or perhaps a crutch, and say.

I surrender.



Always this.

I forgive myself.

I did not do this on purpose and there’s no one to blame.

And I am not a victim.

And I am being taken care of.

He handed me his card, “call me, I can help, I am a party planner, I do this all the time, we used to do this all the time in New York, send me two numbers and I will set it up.”

I cried.

Are you kidding me?

“Listen, you do a lot of service in the community, you are loved and needed, let your community love you.”

Now I am going to cry again.

He wants to throw me a rent party.

I don’t even know you!

And, I am not worthy, I am going to be fine, it’s gonna be tight, but, I will make it.

(where’s the God in this sentence?)

“Let people help you,” she said to me when she left today, “let people be of service.”

Ok, ok, ok.

“Text me your number and two other numbers,” he finished, “before tomorrow night, let me help you.”


I cry uncle.

Before I get too in my head about it I will.

And I did.

I took out the card, teared up, and sent him a text with my number and two others.

I can’t think my way into right acting.

But sometimes.

I can act my way there.

And that’s enough writing about it for today.


Another action.

I take them all the time, I just don’t let myself see them.

Humility is also seeing that.

Humbled again.

Hum-bowled over.

Love and service.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Just make sure you’re on a shower chair while doing so.


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