Monday, December 2, 2013

at the end of illness, laments and literal blood

I usually juice every day, a big green juice full of kale, spinach, apples, ginger, cucumber, lemon, celery and some sort of berry, usually raspberries. Due to a broken garbage disposal, general laziness and not wanting to deal with the pulp-y mess juicing brings, I stopped juicing a little over a week ago. Four days ago I got sick. I haven't been sick in over a year, not since I started my daily juicing/bone broth/cod liver oil routine. Crazy how removing just one daily medicine kick-dropped my immune system into vulnerability. I'm sitting here, sniffly, with a pile of bloody tissues beside me, as my nose membranes have been subject to so much blowing that the blood vessels have ruptured. Boo. I'm at the end of it but still, yech.

When I'm sick I drop into the lowest mood possible, so I stop talking, since everything that comes out of my mouth is a lament, a woe, an inner weeping for my hopeless and wasted future. I wrap myself in the electric blanket, drink broth, and despair. I stop meditating, which is pretty much a straight shot back into anxiety for me. I stop my other daily practices of mindfulness, the journaling, the little rituals I start and end my day with. The worst part is that I know when I'm sick I'm not the real me, but wounded, moping ego wears her cape on top of illness mountain and screams this is who I am! see me, dying and full of unfulfilled potential and unwritten books! I forgive myself the dramatics, as I am usually only this dramatic when I'm sick.

As for the unwritten books part, that specter haunts like no other. This weekend whilst wrapped in the coils of electric blanket I dipped into a fantasy classic that has been sitting on my shelf for years, unread. The book is just a few years younger than I am. As much as I love epics and fantasy, I am not enamored. Telling telling telling, a little showing. Exposition, exposition. Long monologues of backstory: Why is this happening? Because, young overly trusting naive one with the heart of gold, generations ago when blabby blah broke the tropey trope all the generic archetypes of mythical-heard-it all-before-land fell under the spell of boring masculinity and land ownership (penis) issues and all went to shite. Pass the grog. And you are our only hope for this all white, male dominated world of war and furrowed brows. Buuurp. Let's find you a teacher and kill said teacher before you are fully trained. Maybe I'm an asshole, but really?

Why is writing such a terror sometimes? It isn't that I don't enjoy the process, or the story, but approaching it at times is like approaching a storm, naked and with no protection. I don't know what I'm afraid of.  Failing, maybe, but I'll keep writing whether there is success in it or not. It's my thing. I suppose these is a part of me that is scared of success too, being open to criticism and there is so much internet out there that thrives on being mean, cruel. I am sensitive. But for all this the bigger terror is that I won't finish what I'm writing, that it won't make sense and (also, I'm literally bleeding all over my keyboard right now, my blood is literally dripping off my face onto my hands and the keys, NICE METAPHOR UNIVERSE! SUBTLE!) I'll fail in a way that isn't even stunning, just fizzle out in my own mediocrity.

Thanksgiving was lovely. My married sister spends the holiday with her husband's family and I always miss her. We have such a big, beautiful family. I truly love us. H fit in perfectly. He got to see me in full holiday cooking mode, with a strict schedule: crushing nuts, whipping eggs into meringue, tempering yolks into homemade custard, shocking the beans in ice. I love cooking, I know the end game is a full belly, tongue exhausted from all the flavors. If only I could write the way I cook, messy and covered in raw ingredients that through some mysterious alchemy of guided hand and instructions, turns into something everyone wants to put into their mouth.

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