Why I write

This blog is being written for the PFAM Blog Carnival hosted this month at Bed, Body and Beyond.

Writers write.

I don't always refer to myself as a writer because I have had long periods in my life when I was not writing.  At the moment I am most definitely a writer.

When I think back over the times I have identified as a writer a few moments stand out.  Back in the early 1990's I was reading a bunch of lesbian detective novels, read toss, read toss, read toss... I was burning through them.  Then one day I just thought, "I could write a better book than this!"  So I sat down and wrote a novel.  It was never published, I didn't really try, the act of completing it was the reward.  Then I went back to school and got a degree in Administrative Leadership and one of my professors chose to publish two of my academic papers in his course books for the following two years.  I clearly remember sitting in the heat dressed in cap and gown and the young man beside me saying he had read my papers and he said "How do you make it all make sense?  Are you a writer or something?"  His question brought me up short and made me think.

Am I a writer?  I had taken for granted, up til then, the ability I have to express cohesively in this written word form.  That was the beginning of my awakening as regards writing.  That was the moment when I began to realize that not everyone can do this.  Since that time I have written millions of words.  Another novel (unpublished by choice), a business book (published), hundreds of short articles for various outlets, countless presentations, seminars, speeches, and masses of marketing materials (I rather like alliteration!).  Gradually I have come to realize just how fortunate I am to have this gift.  I take praise of my writing with grace but also with rebuttal as I really think it is a gift and I have only made a minuscule effort to refine it.  I'm just lucky.  I can write anything (except songs which always turn out so corny that I embarrass myself!), technical writing, creative writing, short, long, fact, fiction, academic, irreverent, poetry, prose -- pretty much anything I want to do.  I'm just very lucky.

So why do I write?  I write because I can.  I write because it helps me to clarify my thoughts.  I am a verbal processor.  My ideas and thoughts coalesce as I express them and for me writing is a verbal communication in that I write the way I talk.  People who know me who have read any of my books tell me that they feel I am sitting beside them reading aloud - my voice is very evident.  

I write to process, I write to share, I write to soothe myself, I write to make myself smile, I write to show my love, I write to reveal my heart, I write to enlighten, I write to pass the time, I write to analyze.  Most of all I write because I can, because I was given a gift that I have not earned and I think it would be neglectful of me to squander it.

Gonna Eat Worms hits the big 50

Well well well... my 50th post.  How things have changed in the short time I have been writing this blog... and then how they haven't...

I have had a weird day today with some very strange sensations going on.  My arms are still feeling very weak from the exertion last Friday night which is a little worrisome,  I feel like I need something to support my wrists and to be honest if the keyboard became difficult for me I would totally freak out!!!  The fatigue has eased a little in general and it was quite a good day pain wise too but OMG the damn vertigo has picked up.

The Boy and I went to lunch together and then wandered slowly through a department store trying to find an inexpensive (but very classy) gift for his boy friend.  My poor darling I was having regular head spins and he had to keep waiting for me or worse yet I would put my hand on his shoulder for balance!  "Why do you keep touching me?" he grumbled (as only an 18 year old can), though he shouldn't be surprised I have been using his shoulder for balance up and down stairs for years!  I'm a bit scared of stairs.

Today I have had strange skin sensations all day.  This morning there were invisible bugs walking all over my legs.  I kept slapping at them but I knew they weren't there.  I feel like I have the DTs except that I haven't had a drink in over a week!  Not that I drink much ever really.  So the imaginary bugs were replaced by patches of burning skin and then in interesting combination of creepy crawlies and burning patches.  Shit, this stuff is fun!  Something new and different nearly every day... well mum always said "Variety is the spice of life".


Gonna Eat Worms has turned out to be a variety laced blog, everything from philosophy, to family dysfunction, to medical news, to politics, to developments in my love life!  I find this act of clarifying my thoughts into readable bite sized pieces very therapeutic.  I also have really benefited from the comments people make here.  My little band of followers has grown from just two personal friends to 18 in total and perhaps a few more who read but don't follow.  I'm very grateful to you guys who bother to read this and I am amazed by the warmth and compassion I have been shown.  I really feel that this little open diary has given me new friends and the broadest of global horizons.

Thank you to everyone who reads this.

I am my mind

I'm scared shitless.

The things going on with my body are (at times) inconvenient, unpleasant, depressing, annoying and disabling... they are not terrifying though.  I am not my ability to move fast or my ability to contort into pretzel -like positions, I'm not my ability to sit still or to walk long distances, I'm not my balance or my tactile sensitivity (well maybe I am that a bit) or the strength of my grip, I'm not my energy level (though I do mourn that one).  Experiencing significant degeneration in these areas doesn't alter the core of 'me' it just makes everything harder.

For the past two years I have abjectly refused to even consider that I might have any kind of cognitive problems caused by Fibromyalgia.  There is a symptom colloquially known as "Fibro Fog" which is present for many FMS diagnosed people.  It manifests as forgetfulness, aphasia (the inability to remember words or communicate effectively), and a general inability to recall the things you are trying to recall.  I have often made the point that experiencing constant pain creates a level of distraction that increases forgetfulness, as does stress, and I have blamed any deficit in myself on these factors.

Last night I could not remember a song that I have known all my life...  I don't mean I couldn't remember the lyrics - I couldn't remember it at all, I had an aching annoying sensation of having it be on the tip of my tongue but out of reach.  I remembered where and when I had sung it on stage.  I knew when it was played at sporting events.  I knew it was stirring.  I knew everyone knows it... everyone but me.  This morning I attempted to remember it again and came up with another similar song... for a little while I thought I had solved the mystery but it didn't exactly feel right.  As the feeling of "not rightness" grew I googled surrounding subjects and found it listed in Wikipedia.  Land of Hope and Glory... not Rule Britiannia (this morning's effort) nor God Save The Queen which was all I could think of last night.  I know everyone has things like this happen to them sometimes, the more stress the worse my recall has been for the last 10 years, but I am beginning to think that this is happening more often than it should.  I walk to the kitchen to get the phone and a plastic bag and return with a plastic bag and the vague feeling of failure.  I write these blogs and reach a point where i am searching for a word and it doesn't want to come... the other day I could not remember the word "ancillary" for some reason my mind kept suggesting "incendiary" and I KNEW that was wrong.  Roget was needed to save me from that one.  Yesterday I kept thinking the gallows were called a galley... When in my adult life have I ever done this????  Anyone who knows me knows that I ALWAYS have the right word on the tip of my tongue.  I'm a walking thesaurus for Pete's sake!

I'm frightened that other aspects of my intelligence might be affected too (though I have not noticed my processing slowing down I think) - what if I don't have the gifts that earned me a slew of High Distinctions last time I was a student?

But I am just totally frightened, scared shitless and witless because I am not my body but I AM my vocabulary.  I AM my quick incisive wit.  I AM my mind! 

Becoming more patient.

This blog has been written specifically for the Patients For A Moment blog carnival.

My father was a doctor and listening to people being referred to as his "patient" was as ordinary and mundane as talk of the people who were referred to as his "friends".  Although we lived in a suburb in Sydney, there was still a small town village feel to the area and his "patients" were his "friends" and for that matter they were also my friends, schoolmates, neighbours, team-mates and their families.  Dad's patients were everywhere!  In my formative years when language and perception is developing the term patient was omnipresent.

Throughout most of my life I have been pretty healthy and to be honest I am still pretty healthy.  Maybe it is a little trip down DeNile that is making me disconnect being healthy from having a chronic condition (note the use of the word "condition" instead of "illness" which allows me to maintain the image of myself as healthy).  I'm not "unhealthy" I ache, I'm tired/dizzy/hurting/anxious/sore/hurting/aching/tired/itching/hurting (did I mention that before?) but I am not unhealthy.

Words are like little signposts with secret, private perceptions hanging on them; they never mean exactly the same thing to any two people and I have to be honest and admit that "patient" is not a trigger word or a sensitive word to me at all.  Yes, I am the "patient" of my health care professionals as I am the "client" of my accountant and the "customer" of my favourite stores.  That said, I do wonder if my view on being a "patient" might be different if I were an "Inpatient" rather than an "Outpatient", being a person who is "Out" in all things a prolonged "Inpatient" experience might be disturbing to my psyche.  Let me admit it here and now, I am an OutandProudPatient!

I love words and I especially love words with multiple meanings where the double entendre lies waiting for a humourous twist or an absurd, unique perception.  Patient, I am not, never have been.  I'm not part of the instant gratification generation but I still want things done yesterday.  Learning to live with a chronic condition has tap danced on my patience and forced me to reevaluate my approach to everything and in very real and concrete ways it has forced me to make significant adjustments to the pace of my life.  I can no longer leap from my seat into action I have to wait for my body to be ready to participate, wait for pain to recede, wait to get where I am going because my progress is often slow, wait for appointments, wait for test results, wait wait wait...  It's bloody hard for an impatient person to have patience forced upon them.  Breathe, relax, philosophize, chillax, in short be patient.