Changes

Life happens while you are busy making other plans. –John Lennon

Where I’ve been

Two years ago, I stopped posting. There were many reasons, mostly time and hope. What I hoped was to dedicate time to editing, then have my work professionally edited, then submitting. Time was becoming more precious as the caregiving aspect of my life was getting more and more complicated and involved.

Truth was I felt like I was drowning. I had to try to save myself.

I had to rid myself of my jetsam and flotsam. The blog seemed a bit of a failure, a waste of time. No one would miss it if the blog weren’t there.

Still, it was a difficult choice. Writers are told we need a presence on social media, even before we publish. You know, a ‘platform’ but I find that is a double-edged sword. Social media is great but it is a time thief and maybe, even a big waste of time. I’m not sure. 

Besides, hope of publishing was shriveling a little more everyday. Every writer’s magazine I read, every change to the publishing world vs mine took me farther and farther away from that goal.

Oh, plenty of writers become successful in part because of their attention to social media. But time is time. How did I want to spend mine?

When I started the blog, I thought the journey I was on might help someone else. I like the idea of helping another writer, like me. You know, some someone dealing with caregiving, illness and trying to be a successful writer.  After all, the journey of caregiving and illness is universal, right? Throw in trying to have a little writing success—I was navigating obstacles and pitfalls. Learning. My mistakes and successes with all three battlefronts—maybe, I could help one someone else.

I could not deny writing the blog did help one person-me. That wasn’t a bad thing, but maybe, that time had passed.

Before I began writing my blog, I did look for other blogs about caregiving and writers, about MPGN and writers, about side effects of prednisone and writing. I found nothing. I could have used the help, the experience of someone dealing with those things. So why not? There had to be others like me. Fighting similar battles. Others living/struggling with chronic illness, caring for an aging parent, trying to write and have a little success. Maybe, my blog could help, maybe….

I began the blog. I enjoyed writing it. I blessed my son for the suggestion and help. I kept at it, despite the small following— until—I couldn’t help anyone anymore. Because I was floundering. Floundering to find things to write about. Floundering under the changes in publishing and other things.

And then some things…the caregiving things suddenly became impossible to share. Too private, too heart hurting. And that, stymied other things. It became another battle. I could not find the wherewithal to defend another front.

So, I stopped.

I missed it. A little less each week. I took the time and made huge strides with my Work in Progress. I started to feel a bit hopeful again. My disease was under control, had been for six years. I felt good. Able to handle the caregiving (the emotion and family drama, not so much), though it was getting more involved and complicated.  I worked on poetry in small pockets of time, which fed my soul, took some classes and spent time on fun and family. I felt I’d made the best decision.

So, Here We Go Again

Of course, the bottom fell out. My disease flared, which really took me off my feet, emotionally. Why I don’t know. I was well aware there would be flare-ups, that I would never be cured, that the disease would progress. Yet, even knowing that, deep down, I must not have believed it. I must have thought/wanted that none of that would happen. Not to me. (denial 101, ya think?)

The one good thing was there were no symptoms. I didn’t feel sick, just a little tired, but I was caring for an elderly parent, a home, husband, two cats, a dog, a yard.

The worst part is the cure. I wanted to cry when I saw the lab results. I did. Dr. directions: Prednisone for six months and another six-month weaning off period. I wanted to shake my fist, yell at…something.

Dealing with the side effects of prednisone again sent me into a down ward spiral of depression. Yet, as my Dr. and Husband reminded me, (damn ‘em) it was much better than dialysis. I should be thankful. And I was. Truly. And frustrated. And angry. I wanted to rail and rant. (I did) I was thankful we caught it early. And depressed and angry and sad. So many emotions flooded me, I couldn’t hold on to a one.

Worse of all, I knew what that medicine would do to my writing. (and hair, and face, and body)

As if the main line tap has been turned off. Nothing comes. Nothing. Blank. I can analyze while on prednisone, so you’d think I’d be able to continue the edits, but I was afraid. The creativity part is so gone and without it, what could the just analytical part do to my work? And my memory was shot. How could I keep the threads of a novel together? Could I lose what is unique about my writing? Would I take a chance of losing the best of my work? I just couldn’t take that chance.

Of course, about this same time things went a bit south on the care of my elderly parent front. Stress (or as my Dr. explained, how I handled stress) exacerbates my disease. This was not good.

 (Another ‘side effect’ was how vulnerable I felt, anxious and vulnerable. How much of this was the medicine? How much was just the return of this illness?

My writing would be derailed. For over a year? Stopping writing again would kill me. I was depressed enough. I wasn’t as sick this time. We’d caught it early, so I wasn’t sleeping all day, barely able to function. I had to keep busy, work at something. Something for myself.

I had to fight—I had to Do something.

I wasn’t sure what. I floundered. I’ve floundered before, but not like this.

(Finally, I surrendered—so I could fight.)

For the last eight months or so, I’ve been on a journey, fighting battles. It’s not the same journey I traveled before. I don’t really know what I’m doing. The battles are different, my response more complicated. I’ve floundered, and sunk and risen. I’ve failed and railed, crawled up, slipped down. I’ve learned some stuff. A whole lot of stuff.

I got my fight back.

Sometimes

On good days.

So, now what?