Well, it's day six of National Novel Writing Month, and I'm four days behind. Instead of making excuses I'm forging ahead. I don't know if this writing month will only be about the novel for me though. I hadn't written in a long while until just a few days ago, and things are starting to loosen that need to be let out. I need to write some poems I think, or at least just the one that's been tumbling around up in my brain. And I need to journal, desperately.
I'm shooting for the 50,000 word count to be a "winner" at the end of the month, but my long work is not the only thing I'll be working on. I was not prepared for this month in any way, shape, or form--and not just when it comes to writing. The past month and a half of my life has been topsy-turvy, to put it nicely.
It all started when I fell down my stairs. Well, it started much before that I suppose, but this was the catalyst. When I slipped and fell down the stairs, which were fortunately plushly carpeted, I bent and bruised my tailbone. Because I was unable to sit up or do much of anything, I could not work. At my job, I was on the last step of disciplinary action for absences (because I worked for big, corporate doo-doo heads). So, whenever I was able to come back, I would be subject to termination. I decided to use of the rest of my paid time-off and after the very last paid moment passed, I resigned. I'm hoping it will look better for me to have resigned my position rather than having been forcefully terminated for absenteeism.
Quick side note.
Here's what made up my disciplinary points over the course of six months: half day because I was throwing up, full day because I was throwing up, full day because of allergic reaction, half day because of throwing up, half day because of anxiety attack AT work, and a missed punch. Yes, a missed punch on the time clock has the same weight has half a day of absence. All this, followed by my butt-bruising, would culminate in me being let go.
I've forgotten to mention until now that the day I fell was a Monday. On the Friday of this particular week, my fiance and I had planned on moving in together.
So, I fell down the stairs, nearly breaking my tailbone and rendering myself absolutely bedridden for five weeks, losing my job, having to cancel plans of moving in with my fiance (which affected him and his family in an alarming number of ways, which thankfully have mostly been mended), my dog became unwell, I got sick, she got better, I got better, and then she got much, much worse. We, my parents and I, made the decision to put the dog down. We raised her for eight and a half years, from when she was a very small puppy. I can't begin to describe how hard this has been on all of us.
I read Memoirs of a Geisha for the first time today. In it, I found a quote about grief I found poignant. "Grief is a most peculiar thing; we're so helpless in the face of it. It's like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it." None of us has found that day, I don't think, so we still pull a blanket over our shoulders and try to keep the window closed.
Shortly before my dog became so ill, a close friend of mine suffered an immense trauma. I had to balance how I dealt with everything in my life before I could think of helping them. I still have to, and it's a constant tightrope walk. Clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder have a way of bringing the world crashing down even when it's not. But when the world is a little wobbly to begin with, well, those little storm clouds don't exactly help things much.
In this span of time, my mother's health has declined. We are relieved to have a diagnosis and are proceeding as cheerfully as possible with trying to help her get her diet in order to get this thing licked. It's a tall order. With as much as I've been through in these past few weeks, she has had an infinitely harder fight. I can't help but marvel at her strength, even though I know she does not feel strong in any way.
*EDIT* My mom is okay! I've had a lot asking after her her well-being after I posted this, and I can assure you she really will be okay. She's had some major digestive issues, has undergone a lot of testing, and now we're learning how to help manage her diet to reduce discomfort and to get keep her healthy.
I am sick, again, but I am mending. I'm going to persevere and keep writing--in my journal. It may be pieces of my long work, a poem, about a particularly disturbing dream I had, or just thoughts that need to be laid out and put to rest, but it will be something. 50,000 words at least by the end of November. And I will continue journaling beyond that into the months to come.
Thank you for bearing with me through all this.