getting to know you, getting to know all about you*

Five hundred and ninety-eight posts ago, I asked the question: “Is there anybody out there?” Turns out there were. People who formed health-based communities in the cyberverse; their generosity, kindness, caring, understanding and support made a huge difference in my life. As has the cyberverse; its horizon keeps pushing further and further out, opening up more new worlds to explore.

Two constants have shadowed me since my first remembories: pain, and telling a story (to myself and/or others). As my grasp of the alphabet, words, and paragraphs increased, I could write down these self-stories– not just play them inside my head. And the more I read, the greater my vocabulary became. Hard to believe now, but once I (read and) wrote for a living. I traded in sentences and paragraphs. Words and writing shaped me and my former lives.

Pain is the canvas upon which I paint my words. Pain is the common denominator of my health issues. Pain rarely takes a day off, and often works overtime. For its devotion to duty, it’s never ending work for the cause, for its day to day perseverance, pain could be rewarded with an employee of the millennium award. But I didn’t hire pain, invite it in, pain just flopped down on my couch and never left.

My pain is physical and emotional. I can’t really separate these twin daughters of different mothers. Physical pain affects more than just my legs, my head, my neck. Just as emotional pain (mental health) manifests itself outside of my head.

The current tagline for my blog is “pain, poetry, bipolar, prose (and a little whimsy on the side).” Guess that sums up best where I am right now. Don’t know if blogging about my physical and emotional pain has helped anyone else. It’s been my outlet, my therapy, my connection, my companion. Many times I’ve felt like quitting – getting out of the blogging game. Far more words remain in my head, scribbled down in various notebooks, entered into numerous computer files and folders than in the cyberverse. I guess until my mind is as blank as a new computer page, I’ll keep tapping the keyboard.

Who was I then, who am I now describes the roller coaster ride of bipolar 2; once upon a time (arising from the weekly writing prompt at Carryon Tuesday) delineates the changes physical and emotional pain has made in my life. There are other blog posts (the memory problem) that are on the tip of my mind to include by way of introduction into my world. There are so many individuals and health-based communities to thank, and this post is already getting lengthy. So, I’ll just say an all-encompassing “thanks! You all have made a positive difference in my cyber and real life.

*Oscar Hammerstein, “Getting to Know You,” The King and I (Had the privilege of seeing Yul Brenner reprise his role as the King while I was in London).

multitasking: juggling with chainsaws

An illustration of the box juggling pattern. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hey folks, I can multi-task: juggle the chainsaws of chronic pain, bipolar 2, and *****. Then again, maybe I can’t
A busker’s trick, drawing in a disbelieving crowd as each machine is fired up and tossed in to the theatre mix. Do we watch because it’s illusionary like a magic trick? Do we vicariously stare down danger and pain with each catch and release? A running commentary over the roar of the machines – concentration forged by Himalayan monks; confidence bestowed by creative visualizing, timing honed in Cirque de Soliel . The juggler can handle the danger, the timing, the consequences.
These multitasking chainsaw jugglers have to be in focus, of the moment so that the worlds beyond the whirring blades are a blur. All that exists are the juggling pieces – like balls or juggling pins. Sharpness is in the focus, not sharpness in the blade. A steadiness, a grounding, a careful ploy in a dangerous juggling game.

I watch the trick play out, gasp and clap with the crowd. Is this a peek at an illusionary danger? Are the chainsaws real or props? Gasps and claps equal ones and fives in the hat – passed from one voyeur to the next voyeur.

I wonder what I should put in the hat. Not the bleakness of chronic depression (part of my biopolar 2). Not bone weary inertia. Not mind numbing tiredness. Not breathe taking pain.

I make myself invisible and stare into the middle distance – close enough to touch, but too far away to embrace. I’m not lost – just scattered and shattered; fragmented and fractured.
Can it be time for absolution; time for self peace? Like that almost in an afterlife experience; disconnecting from your body; hovering between two worlds (or maybe five and six).
I’ve lost count the number of times I’ve reached this point. I want to jump through the fiery ring on a motorcycle, sail over the crowd on a gossamer thread; fly high above without a net to catch me should I fail and fall. Make Cirque de Soliel my Mobius loop; cycling through the stories, the acrobatics, the lighter than air escapism.
What stops me? Is it fear of heights, fear of failing, fear of hiding the ground hard. Inertia doesn’t keep me grounded (in the worse sense of the word). It’s an excuse, a cover-up, a mask to hide behind, rejection avoided. I put a note in the hat along with my last $5.00.
Sure, I’m juggling with three chainsaws; trying to forget the consequences of dropping one. That was my question, my note – what happens when three becomes two becomes one?