What Illness Does to a Writer

Quick comment: my laptop is very outdated and it can no longer update (we’re talking over 8 years old here). With that, I can’t fully access my wordpress on this thing anymore, so I can’t do anything with comments, sorry.

This may be a series of posts, simply because there’s a lot to say about such a topic. I may not do them much though since, obviously, illness effects my ability to write.

I’ve seen how illness effects a person’s ability to live a normal life. My in-home care clients wouldn’t need me if that weren’t the case. I may not need someone to do in-home care with me (at least not yet), but it still effects my ability to do much. For me though, the most devistating part is how much it takes away from my ability to write and draw.

I’m still able to do it, but not as well or as often as I used to.

Losing my ability to do this allows my depression to grow worse, feeling down and upset with myself for not being abl to accomplish what I want to or what I used to be able to do.
There are times when writing feels like a chore–my energy is drained, if there’s anything to even drain, and I have all the pain, nausea, dizziness, and other strange feelings distracting me on the side. Something that’s supposed to be fun or relaxing, even invigorating, becomes difficult with everything else in the background. I try to push through it, but there’s only so much I can push through.

Comparing how much I used to be able to write compared to now can feel depressing, sometimes inexcusable despite spending many hours sick when I’m not at work or trying to get things done.
I keep telling myself I can do it again, that I can be like that again, maybe even better, but part of it is trying to accept that that’s a time in the future, not right now.

It’s hard to think in the cloud of dizziness. Depression and anxiety with my living situation isn’t helping either, but that doesn’t slow me down as much. I’m forgetting and scrambling up words and I’m becoming more aware of this. People point it out to me too and sometimes have to help me.
Some doctors think it’s just stress, some say it’s a sign of my illnesses getting worse. Whatever the cause, it’s frustrating to be someone who struggles with something they’re supposed to specialize with.

There’s less than a week to finish three art pieces and write one more short story for the 2015 release of Progenitor.
At this point in time, I don’t care about getting in as much as I do getting at least one of each in. I want to get all three art pieces in, but at this point, that may be too big of a goal for me anymore.
I’ve been trying to push myself, but it’s been one distraction after another with everything getting worse.
I want to do it so I can take pride in myself for accomplishing that much. It’d be an achievement for me to at least get something out of me through this fog and weakness. It’s the same sense of accomplishment as taking your first shower or some other independent act since a surgery.

It did inspire the idea I needed for the short story and the art piece.I have just enough in me to write the short story. I don’t know about the art yet, but I’ve been drawing bits and pieces here and there when I’m able to. I do worry I won’t have it in me to finish it in time, but I am glad I got it about 75% of the way there.

It is such a relief to finally find that spark in me again. I almost want to cry from joy, but then I won’t be able to see to write it haha.

Whatever doesn’t get into the magazine, I’ll try and post. I dont’ know where I’ll be living at that time, but I’d just need internet long enough to post them.
I’m making progress in a permanent living situation, but it’s a matter of enduring until all the puzzle pieces fall into place and that there aren’t too many distractions. That’s a post for another day though.

I’m thinking a lot of this is the lupron shot they have me on, but it’s my last option and it’s not working. The doctors theorize that I’ve been weakened by this to where I’m too weak and at risk of damage to be operated on again. My only options were pregnancy and the shot, but I don’t want a child for 1001 reasons and I cant guarantee I’ll concieve if I try.
I do plan on looking for other doctors to confirm the whole too weak for surgery thing too.
It’s just their observation. How do they know my organs are too weak to endure surgery without tests and just by looking at me? Can they put an ICD-9 or an ICD-10 code to what is causing the weakness?

Until they can, I’m not giving up.

Since I’m having some symptoms in the “rare but serious” list of side effects, I may have to go to urgent care later today and that’s why I wanted to try getting this post out.
I want to write as much as I can of this story as I can until it’s time to decide. Whether I end up going or not doesn’t really matter, I just want to do this much.

I finally understand how my grandmother felt when I took care of her and why she did the things she did, and that’s where my inspiration for this story came from…

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RTD Adventures: A Flash Non-Fiction

I don’t know about you, but the fact that this isn’t fiction is the scariest part. I plan on several things–I want to put this in the short story collection. I want to put this in a short story section of this blog. I also want to make this a series. Riding public transit allows for a great number of adventures worth sharing, so look forward to more RTD adventures… I think (I can’t say that’s something to happily anticipate considering the scary encounter you’re about to read…)

The concrete hurt the bottom of my feet. The soles of my shoes were completely walked away and I didn’t want to put on the pair I got bought yet. Music drowned out the sound of the cars rushing past. Weeds and rocks bridged off one side of the sidewalk while the cars and a bus bridged the other.

I looked inside of my Hobby Lobby bag to make sure I didn’t forget anything I needed. After doing a sort of head count of my supplies for making some dangling earrings, I realised I had forgotten the glue. I was in the direction to Wal-Mart as it was with just Target and the Aurora Mall left in between me and the super store, so it wasn’t an issue.

In frustration that I had to walk all the way up to Wal-Mart, I encountered another frustration.

The bus that rushed past me stopped at the bus stop a few feet away. The bus stayed at the stop instead of taking off. I assumed that the group of people were leaving because of the bus having mechanical issues. I didn’t know the route well enough to know how likely this was to happen. The 153 bus was known for such issues, breaking down from having such a long route. However, this was the 15L. Regardless of the route, it was possible, especially if I didn’t know the route.

A group of people got off the bus. This struck me as odd–that large amount of people was unusual for the stop, location, and part of the route. The group worse bitter faces, which was nothing out of the ordinary. However, their bitter expressions were for a different reason.

A man got off the bus through the back doors and out in the opposite direction. This was something people might not normally care, but I realised people seemed to be trying to avoid the man. He seemed ordinary enough to me–I couldn’t see why they would.

He was an older gentleman of a darker color. This shirt and jeans were clean and appeared to be new. Freckles from age and great exposure to the sun spotted his face. The sun reflected off of his cleanly-shaven head.

He mumbled bitterly and I could feel something wasn’t right, that it was worse than the anger people usually had but still controlled well enough to keep to themselves.

He didn’t.

He mumbled and swore while he walked through the bushes. As his swearing grew worse with his attention to the rocks, I grew more nervous the closer I got to him. I could tell was he was doing, even though I didn’t want to believe it–he was searching for a rock to throw.

I had to go past him. I didn’t want to turn back since I had to get my errand done before the buses would start running only once an hour, but I couldn’t stay either.

I happened to be in the crossfire of his anger and his target.

He picked up a rock and threw it. He didn’t care who could’ve gotten hurt. I ducked, just barely missing the rock itself.

The rock shattered through a window and more people started flooding out of the bus. He yelled racial slurs and threats of murder at the bus, telling someone to come out, but gave no hint as to whom besides the n-word.

“The police are on their way now!” a woman yelled as she hurried out the front doors.

“I’ll fucking kill you too, Bitch!” he yelled back.

Other people hurried out of the way. I started walking in the rocks and weed patches to allow other people to hurry past me. I was lucky to avoid getting hurt and avoid getting anything in my worn-out shoes. I watched the bus driver pull out the phone attached to the bus mechanics to call for 9-1-1 while that same woman boldly threatened him with the police a few more times before she moved on.

I quickened my step, catching up to the group of people that had left the bus. Some were calling the cops while others were calling to tell their friends or family what happened, either to laugh at it or express their fears.

After looking back to make sure that he wasn’t after someone in the group I was near, I stopped and sat on the curb.

I yanked off the shoes I had planned to throw away a couple blocks down the sidewalk when there would be a trash can or dumpster nearby and crammed my new ones on. I didn’t want to worry about stickers or broken beer bottles or any other dangers keeping me from running if I had to. I didn’t need to, but I figured it was better to be prepared to dodge another flying rock than not.