[This was originally written in the fall of 2017. I miss placed my note and I just found it to type in. Seems like a life time ago. I was still new to the polymyositis diagnosis. ]
I just finished a two week vacation where I had intended to finish "Skinned" and assemble a collection of my writings into a book.
But I found my self unable to write. Just nothing in the well to pull up and hammer into type. The most I wrote was a very forced sentence. A run on sentence at that.
But yesterday as I sat in the doctors office I was able to jot down some words that flowed in sync with the music I write internally too...and I realized that pain is my muse.
It has to be a certain level of pain. Too much and my writing is terribly dark. Too little and my words are too light too fluffy to sink down and touch my readers.
This summer, after the pain reached the point of 10/10 on a daily basis I requested 2 weeks off in November. Not to take a break, no, for more darker reasons. Because uncontrolled chronic pain smothered with a thick layer of depression and shit flavored frosting is a awful thing to have to eat each day.
Hope came from new dishes and a referral to a rheumatologist. Dishes that gave me a daily reminder, that life goes on. A very tangible colorful reminder that life is what we choose to make it. My sister's decision to open her life and cupboards to let in a rainbow, spilled over into my life and quite literally altered my path into a healthy coping mechanism that helped me as the doctor worked on getting me diagnosed.
Chasing down what is wrong with me is a complicated dance with symptoms, labs and tests. A loop.
This is what my soul barfed up yesterday. I can hear the writer in me struggling to resurface through the medication. But I wonder if the lack of creativity and ability to write of late is a direct result of the medication. The prednisone has been mostly effective in blocking the pain. And since pain is my muse I am left wondering....is my writing at the end of its time? Gawd I hope not. that would not be nice to leave everyone hanging with my last piece unfinished.
anyway, here is what I wrote yesterday:
Pain loop
Anchors.
Places we return to in life.
Like puddles with the same reflection.
Time and space arches and I am once again deposited on Dr. Grants door step.
With my pain there is one consistent. Him.
He was there when the OJI started me on a different chronic pain journey. He links me to the past as he joins my life again. A quiet visitor who's familiar hands I have been in before. What clues does he hold? What keys does he have that will release me from his anchor?
Destany splits and archs brightly as I again lay on his table and let him poke and prod my nerves with electricity...as if he is some alien, who has again journeyed to this planet to experiment on me.
Time and disease slowing my reflexes...my muscles are less willing to jump under his command this time.
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