I cringe every time someone tells me what a good writer I am these days. Friends, I DO NOT shrink from praise. I lap it up like a greedy little piggy. I roll around in it like a hot little piggy desperate of the cool of mud. I squeal for it… okay, that’s too much. But you get the picture. I like praise.
Still, being told I am a good writer makes me want to scream
HOW CAN I BE A GOOD WRITER IF I NEVER FUCKING WRITE?!
I’ve read the books, essays, etc. Writing is a habit. A discipline. Blah blah blah. None of that has helped me step away from my desire for inspiration.
Earlier in the land of blogging I had a list of things I wanted to share about my experience with Multiple Sclerosis.
Diagnosis – check
Mobility aids – check
Sex – check
Tremors – check
And so on.
Now, nearly 21 years into my diagnosis, I am at a loss. Can I render the mundane frustrations and occasional delights interesting enough to be share-worthy? How much enthusiasm can I muster up to detail the resigned humiliation of having to call Neal while he’s en route to work with a request that he double back to hoist me off the floor, undies around my knees? (Fastening a bra properly was once my modern augury for how a day would go. Now all clothing is a struggle.) Is there a lesson there or any amusement to be squeezed from this lemon of a situation? Years ago, Neal would have returned to find me in a puddle of tears. Now I’m just a lump of middle-aged flesh too over it all to do much but sigh.
It’s a fucking bore sloughing off abilities year after year. Honestly, I miss the rage and heartbreak of my first cane, first clumsy attempts at self-catheterizing. I miss the catharsis of bursting into tears when things feel hard yet know that even if I indulged that impulse as regularly as I could I would go through life red-eyed and dehydrated.
I *just* realized that catharsis and catheter must have the same root etymologically,
and that is delightful.
I recently attended a storytelling workshop that encouraged relieving ourselves of the burden of a tidy ending by closing with “and that’s my story.” So here goes…
And that’s my story. (For now.)
P.S. I’ve joined Substack, so if you’re consuming bloggy contact there, please follow me.
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