Holy Fuck

It all begins with an idea.

I’m working on the idea that everything I’ve done has added up to now and so I get to use whatever inspires me to go forward if what I want is to feel inspired.

So one of things I am thinking about is the time I almost died but didn’t.

And the reason I mention it here is because I want to find the gold in it, the insprational prompt that allows me to move on while being grateful for whatever I gained.

I’m not there yet.

I’m still mad about having my 60’s snatched away and squeezed through the medical gauntlet of drugs and therapies, of pain and limitation, and more drugs. I’m coming out the other side but I cannot say I am stronger in the broken places. I am just alive.

So what do I need to do to move on?

I can tell you the things that stick in my craw.

I don’t like quiet drip of resentment that flares up when I can’t do something that I want to do because I hurt or because I’m not strong enough or because I don’t have enough money. My mind swims aorund in that sewer for a while, hoping tha thte woman who hit me has had to struggle at least as much as I have. This is not a part of my mind that I am proud of nor do I think I gain anything from it. I think it is mostly poisonous.

I don’t like the battle with drugs; I had successfully stepped away from drugs as a friend to go through life with many years ago. And for these last 10 years they have been back flexing their biceps regardless of whther they actually help with the physical pain with their siren call of “but you’ll be happier if…” as their calling card.

I don’t like how suddenly I got old. One day I was riding my motorcycle, happy as a clam, heading to LL Bean to get new hiking boots and the next day I didn’t know who I was or what the hell was going on. All I knew was I couldn’t move and I wasn’t allowed to drink water and I couldn’t figure out why. but in the aftermath, my skin has gone limp, my walk has gone crooked and my mind wanders around trying to figure out what it forgot. I don’t smell and I don’t taste and it pisses me off.

So why write about it now?

Because whenever I try to write about something, some aspect of this suffering inserts itself and then the story gets carried off into martyrdom and suffering. I grew up with both so I think I was factory built to attract more than my share. I flaunted safety suggestions including bombing around on a motorcyle at 60. The rules were not made for me. They were made for the more delicate beings.

And so I was shown the truth, that I am much like everyone else. Mortal. Fragile. Human.

And maybe that’s what I can be grateful for going forward. I didn’t have to actually die in order to receive the lesson.

I hope this is it. I hope I’ve got it now.

Go gently. Try it. See how it feels.

If anyone reads this and wants to jump into their own writing form here, consider the prompt being about lessons you’ve learned that you didn’t ask for but you might be glad you got the.