Bone 4: Of arrghs, fears, pains and couches.

Today’s bone, my self expression and writing exploration exercise is brought to you by fear, twinges of pain and really crappy memories.  With a side note of arrgh.

Quite the menu to fulfill.  Mmmm, menus, not so bad as getting lost in a six page menu, though.  Have you ever tried seeing how many dirty things you can come up with in a menu?  Dennys is particularly useful for this.  It all started with “Pam is available upon request.”  And if you don’t get how that leads to fun, dirty sex talk, well, we need to work on your filth quotient.

To argh first or to argh later, that is my question.  Whether tis nobler to tag it on at the end or just spill it all out at the beginning, placenta on that hospital floor, first expression of life all tangled up with death.  Booya.

I have decided, I shall argh.  Suitable warning is wrapped up in the arrgh.  And the arrgh is this:  when I write about a nasty/painful/scary/fearful/depressed/etc moment and I say I’m not doing it for sympathy, I really, truly, honestly mean that I’m not looking for sympathy.  It actually makes me uncomfortable to receive it, cared about, yes, but uncomfortable.  Because I didn’t want it.  I share because it’s healthy to be honest, to be bald and brave and bold and put real feelings out into the world, fuck whether or not they’re positive or negative.  I share because I believe it’s important that we see all of the world.  I share because I want everyone else to realize that it’s okay to feel all these crazy, mixed up, painful emotions.  And that they can be shared without a need to be fixed.  That I can sit with the emotion, give it its own time, its own space, acknowledge its essence and being, without needing to smother it or, gods forbid, “fix it”.

So that is my arrgh, should the universe, or some spark in it, decide to empathize, then low-five friend, just no sympathy.  No insult, no rejection of anyone as a wonderful person, just stating my own needs and boundaries.

Right, now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get into those freaking emotions.

And I am freaking out.  It’s at this weird, deep, quiet level, but it’s there.  I herniated a disc nearly a year ago, 11 months actually.  And the last two days I realized that I’ve done something bad again.  And in the last week I had an exercise that showed that there is damage in my back due to the herniation which may just be causing other lingering pain and may indicate a degenerative situation.

Degenerative disc, horrible fucking phrase.  Bite my ass, phrase.  I’m going to take you to the good doctor and get some real answers.  But in the meantime I’m phased with the results of my own, in hindsight foolish, choices.

I figure that I have either re-injured the ligaments in my back, have another herniation or both.  I so hope it’s the first.  I’m most fearful that it’s the last.  Mostly because I have this little zip of a pain sliding down my ass into the back of my upper thigh.  That’s nerve shit.

So tonight I lie on my couch, typing awkwardly on my laptop and determinedly not thinking about that which I cannot fix.  I have made what arrangements I can to try and heal faster and solve the problem.  Now I wait.  No, now I lie, prone and lost on my burghundy couch.  It was here for my last time, and it still supports me.

Do you ever think about that?  About how when you sit, the furniture you are on supports you.  It is uncaring but also endless in that support (minus a Three Stooges moment).  It asks for nothing and gives its very essence over to us instead.  Is there anything more selfless than a piece of furniture?

Picking the right couch has always been important to me.  First test is naturally the sitting one, is it comfortable?  But for me this is immediately followed by the lying down test.  I need to be able to rest my head on one end, feet up on the other, and be comfortable.  This eliminates about 80-90% of couches.  After that it becomes a matter of looks and additional features (recliners, for instance).  Even our couches come with extra features these days.  We really are never satisfied with simple and plain, are we?

I want to keep writing, keep tossing my existence onto the whiteness of this screen.  But NaNoWriMo calls my name.  As a potentially contributing factor to my situation (the extra sitting during all the extra typing these past two weeks), I considered being pissy and saying ‘fuck you’ to it.  But then the injury wins.  And that just makes me crazy.  So instead:

Today, today I write!

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