I don’t know if you’ve noticed (and if you didn’t, please lie and tell me you did), but I haven’t written much lately. Here are my excuses:
– I have enough energy to actually be really focused on work.
– I’m a lawyer, so the last thing I want to do after writing all day is to write more.
– I’m still not fully back up to normal speed, so my focus at work drains me for the creativity necessary to write.
– Blah blah blah blah.
The true problem is that writing about what I’ve been dealing with lately is hard. Really hard. I’m no longer dealing with the physical symptoms of chemo or cancer. (Well, sort of, but I can only talk about fertility or being out of shape for so long before I start boring even myself.) I’m dealing with this amorphous, ethereal mental/emotional something that I can barely wrap my arms around.
“How are you doing, Lydia?”
Honest answer? I have no clue. Literally.
Physically? I’m completely different than I have ever been. A different weight, a different shape, an athlete trapped in an unathletic body.
Mentally? No idea. Not as…something…as before. I’m not slower, I’m not less educated, but I’m not something. How does it manifest itself? I’m not really sure, but I know it’s different. I have more patience for jumping through certain mental hoops (editing, document review) but less for others (problem solving, complex situations).
Emotionally? In many ways, completely fucking freaked out. My body doesn’t work the way it used to. My brain doesn’t work the way it used to. People don’t treat me the way they used to. Some very fundamental ways that I have achieved the extraordinary success in my life are different. I’m very used to being personally and professionally successful in very specific ways. Those ways are now different, but I have no idea what they are. I’m in this weird limbo-land, and I don’t know where I’m going to land.
So…this is why I haven’t been writing. The problem is that since I can no longer go for a long run to process all of this crap, writing is my only way to process it. So, here’s my promise to myself: I’ll start writing again. Even if it doesn’t make a lot of sense, even if there’s no answer at the end of the paragraph, even if it requires me to admit that I’m different (for the moment, at least) in ways that I don’t like at all.