inkgrrl's inkblog

“I try so hard to convince myself that I am not ill, that I am not truly suffering, that I am keeping it all together. This is the opposite of compassion, is it not? This denial only keeps me from taking care of myself. It is the “push through” method, and it doesn’t work.”

–Blisschick

I would so very much like for the “push through” method to work. It did for years, to an extent. And yet, crazy = doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. Expecting the results I want instead of the results I’ve gotten so far, doing the same thing over and over again, hammering away at every problem like I never learned how to use a paintbrush or a suture needle or a rotary blade or a shotgun. I’m afraid. What if I put down the crazy hammer of denial and have nothing to pick up in its stead? Been a long damned time since I studied Shotokan, or even Bujinkan. I prefer blades for their surety to easily broken fingers, but the lack never stopped me from punching at all the really hard things, no matter how much it hurt. Which takes me right back to my default.

Mom: I haven’t heard from you in over a week.

Me: I’m recovering from having my neck zapped, remember?

Mom: Well, you could still call your mother.

Me: Well, you’re a nurse, you should know better.

Mom: Not about that.

Me: You knew I had a painful surgical procedure that leaves me screwed up for a few weeks afterward. That calls for a pretty generic response in the “How To Be A Mom Who Is Also A Nurse” handbook, and your phone works fine, so there’s no reason you couldn’t have called me in the last TEN days to see how I’m doing.

Mom: … (starts yelling at my stepdad to put the dog down)

The truth of the matter is, I am a lazy writer. I don’t want to have to work out the details as I go, I want all the answers before I begin. There’s a certain smug comfort in having all the answers before putting oneself into a perilous situation. And writing down the bones and shadows and blood and guts that lurk not-quite-deeply-enough in my soul is a committment most perilous, should I ever intend to show the strewn errata to anybody. Much less hope to have them understand what the bloody hell I was on about. Which requires time and effort to edit into shape plus a lot moar words, as I tend to write short in my first drafts. So hey, I’m also a committment-phobe. Yay me.

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