I used to be addicted to writing. I've wanted to be a writer ever since the reading circle in Mrs. Taylor's first grade class. I wanted to go to college to study creative writing, and at 17 I was looking for colleges that would teach me to write. Then I heard the voice. THE VOICE, which told me "...not to study writing until you have something to write about...get a job, go where people live, when it's time to write, you'll do fine...."
I wound up in nursing school and have never regretted it for very long! I write chart notes every day that I work, for each person that I talk to. It used to be 3-4 patients per day, now it's 10-15. And, I've learned to dictate; writing by fingers seems strange and time consuming.
In those early adult years, the clinical writing was tempered by seven years of letters to a therapist, and another five years of letters to a therapist qua writing coach. Then the silent death of writing. Maybe now the rising phoenix.
Well, I started this blog post to brag on myself for changing blogger templates and fixing the CSS stylesheet so that it displays the title of my blog correctly at long last.
I started this blog to help me return to my dissertation work after a yearlong absence of writing due to extreme pain/numbness. I titled it triggXR after XR & XL trend in naming pharmaceuticals.
I was reaching for trigg Extended Release with the intention of pushing endurance. That's what I needed at the time. Endurance. Come to think of it, I've been reading for endurance for a long long time.
I'm still dissertating, but moving closer to the edge. Completing the dissertation seems to clearly mark passage from one life to the next. I fear the next. But I'm tired of being a grad student.
I've been reading clearcreekgirl. I read her blog at night as I'm falling to sleep. I read it on my blackberry, against all rules of good sleep hygiene. First I read the NYT for the next day. Then lifehacker or TechCrunch.
When I feel very drowsy, I move to clearcreekgirl and fossilguy. Fossilguy has left the mortal plane after an heroic battle with mesothilioma. Clearcreekgirl shares her struggle in the wake of his passing. I recognize the inconsolability in her writings. I can't say I have exactly been there, because I think each grief is itself a distinct and individual world. But I remember my pain at the passing of three friends in 12 weeks one year.
It took forever to get over, and frankly, I don't think I ever did. Instead, I walled off one life behind me, and started off in a different direction. No music or poems or much good literature for many years. Those things were so painful that I couldn't bear them. In the same years I gained all this weight. I think the fat is where the sadness in the body is isolated somewhat from the CNS, so that life can go on, make new babies, insure the survival of the species.
I turned to television to control my thoughts, as I'd been taught in my family of origin. I stumbled through dark and frightening and unknown passages for years. I quit writing and working in my journals. Each page was a slipping point where I might turn back a page, or reach to an earlier journal where I could become trapped again in the boggy pain that lived on in the pages just after those deaths (for years). I understand why clearcreekgirl destroyed that earlier series of journals so many years ago. In my youthful ignorance, I begged her to call me first before she ever took such drastic measure again.
Graduate school didn't snap me out of it seven years later. It simply started refocusing my thoughts, cramming my mind with new language and visions of the world that was so foreign that it could never lead me back to that just previous life. The train wreck still smoldering if I open the pages of journals from that era.
I am still fat. When I finish this degree, I don't think I'll slip back to the pain. I hope I can lose this fat. In spite of all my fine education, I'm a little afraid that as I lose the fat, the sadness will filter through again.
Lately I've been sneaking looks at the journals from those years. The ones from just after the deaths are the most beautiful things I've ever seen. It's easy to tell by looking at the bookshelf where the deaths took place. I couldn't write for a while because the people who died were most closely involved in my writing. I started cutting and pasting pictures into the pages of my journals. I remember it was a way to speak without the words which all lead back to my three dead friends. I finally had to quit all of it.
I also quit my life. I quit several lives and a lot of people as I was trying to leave the fire. Lately I've been trying get back some of the people. The ones I can find at least.
I'm planning my 50th birthday party, and inviting as many of those folks as I can find.
I'm a psychiatric/mental health nurse practitioner, postmodern redneck. Postmodernists say that we are not individuals, that we "perform many different subject positions." I plan to use this blog to perform them all in one place. Let's see what happens.
This is an old picture of me. It should stump my cyber-stalker.