Entry 1

I became sick on Tuesday night, up at 2am, thinking it was the same old same old, the stomach issues I’ve had since childhood, brought on by stress or hormones or stray grains of wheat lodged in my gut. Usually a double-dose of ibuprofen knocks out the pain. Not this time. I’ll spare you the details, but it appears I had the norovirus, which mainly just made me feel absolutely terrible without any way to fix it.

It also brought me 24 hours of glorious quiet. Without the patience or ability to focus (on the news, on social media, on books, on myself), all I had was the sweetness of extended quiet suffering, falling in and out of fitful sleep punctuated by the occasional irritation of retching (thank you, husband, for attending to my retching bowl). Unable to make conversation, I was given a pass on interaction. Even the cats avoided me until I became semi-upright about twelve hours in.

My phone was on another floor, so the never-ending buzz of texts and spam voicemail notifications were silenced. My Apple Watch lay on its charger, its haptics and constant measurement of my movements on pause. When I did flip open my laptop, the stream of information overwhelmed me. News, Facebook (ugh), Instagram, Bluesky (a different kind of ugh), all designed to interrupt, to distract, to work on the most basic of emotions. No wonder my thinking process is so disjointed. The mind needs time to be free. The writing mind. The emotional mind. The connected mind.

I’m making a commitment to writing something messy and of the moment in this blog on the regular (what does on the regular mean? More than once a week. I could be ambitious and try writing daily, but I don’t want to feel trapped by it). It’s been a year since I last wrote. I doubt anyone is reading or eagerly awaiting my deep thoughts. But I have to get back into this process again. I have to get the words flowing. So much goes on in this mind of mine, when I let it go free, that I would like to get onto the screen. Even if no one reads it.

And these are very sad, disconnected, interrupted, overwhelming times. There are many ways to fight tyranny, to say free inside your mind, to be in community with others. So, Internet Void, there you have it. I’m going to write like it’s two thousand and five. Low expectations, high word count, here for no one but me. Let’s just hope I’m not feeding AI.

In the gloaming

I’m not sure when I’ll get it back, the urge to write, the desire to create (anything). The last year has been confusing. I’m like a dulled version of myself, no controversy, no spark, no spirit. Also no direct pain caused to others. Can I be myself and not cause pain? Can I have passionate opinions without hurting others? Take creative risks? Stop writing about my arid mind?

Perhaps none of this makes sense. I’m not spelling it out.

In a few weeks, we will leave this house, this container for family life, this land of the dead. Versions of us lurk in the corners. They are packed in boxes that we leave out by the curb, pieces of self strangers rifle through, wanting something for free. This is the place where I became a writer, the place where I stopped writing. This is where I drank and yelled, where silences hid pain. Pets lived here, got sick here, are buried here. A brother died here.

We’ve celebrated 18 Christmases in this house. The boy went from toddler to registered voter in a matter of moments. From where I sit, I can see his graffiti sharpied on the fireplace brickwork, the kindergarten scribbles of a boy who had just learned how to write his name. At this moment, he is upstairs. Tomorrow at this time, he’ll be on a plane back to college, while his dad and I will at the other house, hanging curtains, prepping rooms, because on Sunday my mother arrives. One person leaves, another slots into place.

And maybe in six months, my creative mind will return, fed by change and urban breezes.

Transfiguration

I’m not sure what this space is anymore, or who I will be in a month, a year, a season. My creativity is dead. Missing. On a long hiatus. I blame death, the vagaries of aging, the imminent departure of the boy, who will not be in this house by this time next week.

I’ve followed the rule of threes for 18 years now. We’re whittling it down to two, then one, then none. The fall will be confusing and chaotic. Rebirth, reinvention, is mandatory. On optimistic days, I see the changes ahead as an opportunity to reconnect with the parts of myself I have allowed to atrophy. Who am I at my core? More than a mother. More than a partner. I am an uneasy friend. An absent artist. A professional drone.

It’s not just the pulls of home responsibilities that have worn me down. It’s the job, all grays and softness, where my only viewpoint is one of support and compassion, a supposed expert in the ways of the mind and heart. In addition to ruining me for anything but silence and depth (I barely have the energy or patience to maintain most friendships and family relationships outside of an increasingly shrinking circle), it has made it difficult for me to adopt the necessary clarity of a writer. How can anyone be fairly summed up in a few pithy sentences? How could I dare speculate about the complexities of another human’s psyche? We are large and contain multitudes. Words are powerful. They illuminate my experience. But my words can box others in, remove their subjectivity.

To survive, I have to shake this mindset off, fling it out of my system. I have to have faith that there is something left in me worth sharing. On the positive side, I’ve been inhaling books of all kinds. That has to count for something, the ingestion of other peoples’ metaphors, their worlds, their beautiful, complex simplicity.

The waiting room

I’m sitting in the living room predawn dark, highway roar of heat at my back, wondering if I’ll ever find my way back.

This is March 2023:  one 17-year-old boy, distracted, college admissions decisions slowly revealing themselves over the month; one man too young to die, but dying still, immobile on a hospital bed in our back room, sleeping more and more, confused more and more; the two of us, 50-somethings, our devotion and isolation intertwined. You are spread thin over days of nothingness pierced occasionally by the deep needs of the dying. I am here, trying to help, but never feeling like it is enough, never feeling like I am on the inside.

At night, it’s the worst. How did I get here, disconnected, disillusioned? I can barely keep up friendships, have discarded long-time dissatisfying connections, made impatient and picky by my profession. Deep listening, heavy holding, not-judging have used me up. And you? Such a devoted brother, about to lose what is left of growing up, floating with only the boy and me to tether you to this world. I wonder:  are we enough?

Hours of nothingness, clients canceled, disembodied voices from the tv in the back room, cooking instructions for those who no longer eat. We’re in suspended animation, the days thick as ointment.

This is March 18, 2023, 1:30am. Your brother tries to get up in the middle of the night (“an experiment,” he tells you later), the inevitable fall, the confusion, the eventual visit by paramedics to lift his six-foot frame back into the hospital bed. No lasting injuries, just battered delusions and pride. He’s as fine as a dying man could be, asleep now, as I hope you are, too, and the boy, back in bed.

 Me? I’m here on the couch, sleeping dogs curled to either side of me.

 I want it to be over and I feel guilty about it. Whose life is it, anyway, and who are I to decide? I am here and not here, occupying the in-between, with no room for transcendence, a helpmeet for those who are used to doing it all themselves.

When I go, give me vistas, an open window, a person next to me holding my hand. Or make it like the dream I had months ago, the knowledge that I had the pills to do the job, the approval of doctors (she’s terminal) and my family (we don’t want you to suffer). I took the drugs, I watched my spark slowly dim, I touched the velvety darkness.

But hopefully that is years away. Perhaps it will never happen, at least not like that.

And so we attend and wait.

Liminal musings

I have spent the last several months sitting on the couch, occupying the chair, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’ve completed the entire output of Denise Mina, consulted a credible psychic medium who did not follow up (was it me? was it her?), and written journal entries with asides to my imagined survivors. I, along with my partner, have cajoled, encouraged, and supported the boy, life changes around the corner for all of us, some presumably more permanent than others.

 The other shoe has started its leisurely, tragic fall. My body is signaling its age (the pain that radiates at odd moments from my left shoulder—an errant shrug, an arm tossed out to avoid a potential stumble, the resulting sharp heat that takes a minute to ease). I experience troubling symptoms that are statistically unlikely to indicate cancer, but still could indicate cancer, and await the outcome of an upcoming appointment, perhaps appointments, with a specialist.

 It's not all drawn-out endings and liminal musings. Somehow, surrounded by reminders of mortality and change, I feel ok. But perhaps that will all shift next week, when I am armed with new knowledge, the possibility that I am closer to ashes and grit than I really want to be. I have people to attend to, a child on the cusp of adulthood, a family member weeks away from the grave, and a husband who needs me on this side of the veil. But I’ll deal with that knowledge when and if it arrives.