I’m just going to sit here and type for the next fifteen minutes. I don’t even care what I type, I’m just going to tap out little words, big words, whatever words come into my head because, for heaven’s sake, I need to write about something. It’s been too damn long.
On the one hand, there is a piece of my heart that is shriveling up, drying out, dying because I am not writing every day. And on the other hand, it is so much easier to read what other people are writing and when I run out of other people’s words, to turn on the television, plant myself in front of it, and stuff my face full of ice cream and potato chips while I berate myself for being a fat loser slob.
Three weeks ago I got some very bad news. I hate it when bloggers write vague crap about the bad shit in their lives. I like details, you guys. DETAILS. I appreciate writers who blog the good, the bad, and the ugly. I like honesty. I like transparency. It takes courage to tell the truth. But I’m going to go ahead and be a fuckhead and be really vague and leave you to imagine what might be going on in my life that makes it nearly impossible for me to drag my sorry ass out of bed in the mornings because a) I’m not comfortable putting into words what’s going on; b) it might be too painful to type it all out in grisly detail; and c) it’s not really my story to tell. There are too many other people involved and out of respect for their privacy, I will be vague in all my whining.
Have you ever cut yourself with a very very sharp knife? Like, you’re slicing tomatoes and you slice through your finger by mistake and you watch it happen and immediately afterwards you think, Oh SHIT. It doesn’t hurt yet and there’s no blood, but you know you’ve just sliced through you finger and in seconds the wound will burn with a rage you’ve never known before and the blood will come, it will spill out and over the edges of the clean cut, it will flow in rivulets down your arm and pool on the chopping block, mixing with the tomato juice and tiny seeds. But for one moment there is no blood, no pain, just the knowing that you’ve opened your finger with a very sharp steel blade. You grab a paper towel or a dishcloth or the hem of your shirt and you press it to the wound, press it hard to stop the flow of blood that hasn’t come yet. Your heart beats in your throat and you take deep breaths so you won’t burst out crying or screaming because you are afraid you might have to go to the hospital for stitches and you hate hospitals.
That is how I felt after I got the very bad news. I spent a solid week wandering through life, fists pressed hard to mouth to staunch the inevitable gush of blood, heart beating hard in my throat, eyes wide and bone dry. I couldn’t talk about it. If I talked about it I would fall apart. I couldn’t sleep at night because when I closed my eyes I felt my world tearing open at the seams. I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning because I couldn’t bear to face another day.
It’s better now. Much better. I’ve removed the proverbial dishtowel and the cut wasn’t that deep after all. There wasn’t ever any blood. I’m still tender, but I seem to be healing all right. It’s still hard to get out of bed but I’m getting things done again. I’m trying to be more proactive. I’m keeping the apartment clean. I’m washing my hair. Putting on makeup. Getting through the day. It’s going to be okay. This too shall pass.