It’s as if, in pursuing answers to the pain that’s plagued me for more than fifteen years, I gave myself permission to write again.
Since mid-August, I have written more than 30 poems, started working on three collections (two chapbooks, one full length), and performed at more than half a dozen open mics. I’ve also submitted to four journals, and plan to submit to even more this weekend.
All this while my pain level climbed, and I started walking with a cane, did X-Rays and an MRI, watched my mother defend her dissertation, went to work, fought with the main office about my handicapped parking permit, tried to read regularly again, and learned new boundaries for my body.
At some point, I just decided that this life is mine alone, and I can choose to fill it with writing, literary-minded friends, and the exchange of ideas – or I can ignore what I believe I was meant to do and pursue a career that will pay, but will also take more than I can give.
While that decision has, seemingly overnight, changed my life, I know that this journey is far from over.
Now that we know what is causing at least some of my pain (if not most of it), I get to tackle the quest of Pain Management. Widely interpreted, broadly implemented, this quest is far from a linear path, lengthened or diverted or made more difficult depending on the state of the questing body. I’m trying one tactic, so far unsuccessfully, with plans to try something else in two weeks if the former refuses to take.
In the meantime, I’m going to try to rest as much as I can, read and write when I have the energy, and lose myself in Nora Ephron films when I don’t.
And blog, hopefully, if only to document this process for myself.