Tuesday, August 3, 2010

You Can Put Your Eulogies Back in the Drawer

Okay, everybody. Tell all your suicide counsellor friends they can rest easy re your friend Fran. She is definitely not in danger of doing herself in today. (I'm sure we're cool through the end of the week if not further out into future.)

Yes, I was having an emotional crisis. I guess I still am having an emotional crisis. But you all should know that this crisis didn't, doesn't live in a vacuum. Sometimes, when you feel like complete shit, the addition of one more negative element can put you flying over the edge. For me, this crisis turns out to be a crisis of three.

One, I think I've bitching about pretty regularly. The pain in my back that won't go away. It hasn't been as painful as it has been, but I tread on egg shells every time I cough, pick something up, get up, sit down, exercise, and all other sorts of normal everyday human crap we do to get through our day. And for me, I do that shit with hardly any air. (I feel like a trapeze artist. "Yeah, and I can do it all without a net! Isn't that cool?) No, it's not cool.

Four or so months of really bad back pain fucks me up in so many ways. It's depressing. I got that. I'm even more hyper-aware of my physical limitations which have become further limited because of really bad back pain. (And over-the-counter shit doesn't seem to help ease it a great deal.) And it fucks with my mind. I become cheery even less often than before. And I'm never cheery. (So what am I complaining about for chrissakes? The children in Darfur are starving.)

I also feel guilty as hell because I believe that I caused this mysterious back pain. (When I challenged my self to stand for an hour. Well, I did it. But afterwards my back hurt like hell. Hasn't stopped since) So I've fucked myself even more than I already have. Guilt. Shame. Shame. Guilt. Blah, blah, blah. This all get really dull doesn't it?

What's the other thing? Well about a month ago, my earthlink server wasn't functioning all that well. I had to force quit mail all the fucking time to escape the swirling, psychedelic spherical asshole that wouldn't leave my computer screen. So Chip switched me over to the gmail server. It worked beautifully. Every email, no matter how loaded with docs, flew to its appropriate destination without my being subjecting to that goddamned swirling psychedelic spherical asshole. To do this Chip needed to set me up an email account that of course I wouldn't use. I just had it to allow me to use the gmail server. Are you still with me?

Well that's not exactly what happened. All my junk mail and Facebook mail still came to my usual email address. But when I emailed out, the email indicated that my address was a gmail.com address. So good people you all are, took note of the address change. I'm glad you all were paying attention, because I wasn't. I had no idea I had changed email address. So I sent emails to people, left phone messages that were answered via email, and Rich my editor extraordinaire, couldn't figure out why I kept sending him weird emails like "where are you?" through the month of July. And that he kept sending me chunks of book to review and getting nothing back from me. But I responded to posts he made on FB. I didn't sound like I was flipping out or anything. Rich has been apprised of this awful mess hours and hours ago. Bottom line, besides FB and junk mail, I received no incoming mail for the entire month of July.

All of July? Are you fucking kidding. I'm afraid not. No wonder I was flipping out. I'd write to people and I never heard a word from them. As this had been going on for a month, I figured this is what life has in store for me so get used to it chica. Time for me to turn inwards. Forget there is an outside world that once upon a time, I actually lived in. I couldn't write any more, I couldn't leave any more messages. I couldn't do more than what I'd been doing. I'd really be that pain in the ass or as I wrote to Bob, become the gum AND toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe. I had no reserves to keep me going. I can't hound people. (Any more than I already do.) And the was I saw it I had two choices: living like a hermit or cutting out a little earlier than expected.

Then this afternoon. Chip finds all the month's worth of missing emails. I was mortified that I it appeared I was taking my sweet time writing back. I got a mess of emails out to people whohad written back to me. And I asked (told) Chip, write to Rich right now, tell him how mortified I am and what had happened this month of July.

So put your nifty black clothes back in the closet. You won't need them for me. I'm still a mess, but you can clean up a mess. (If I could only get my back nonsense figured out, I'd be golden, fucking GOLDEN.)

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