I don’t know what to say, . . . other than that didn’t go well.
It’s been over two months since I last posted on this blog. Since then, I have been caught up in my by-now too-familiar anti-trifecta of concussion symptoms, arm issues, and mental health crises.
I don’t want this blog to be primarily about my health woes. It’s supposed to be about reading and thinking and wisdom and truth.
But in the name of the last three of those topics, I should probably take a stab at an explanation of what has been going on with me over the past two months. You are probably wondering. And perhaps we could all use a good life lesson, if there’s one to be had here.
The trouble is, I don’t have a good explanation. It’s all a muddle. Some days, I have concussion symptoms. Some days, I have arm issues. Some days, I have anxiety. Some days, I have depression. And most days, I have all of these problems, all at once.
Also, sometimes the concussion symptoms, arm issues, anxiety, and/or depression are mild, and I can work with them—while other times, they are completely debilitating.
Worse, most days I can’t tell whether my difficulties in using my body are a physical problem, a mental health problem, or a mixture of both.
And then there’s the guilt and sadness I feel at wasting weeks and months and years of my life on all of this trauma. As if it were all 100 percent my fault. As if no one in the whole world ever experienced difficulties in life. Or overcame them.
That wasn’t much of an explanation. But that last paragraph was perhaps a life lesson of sorts.
I don’t know; you tell me.
And if I ever figure out what happened to me in the last couple months, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, let’s talk about books. Good ones.
As I recall, we were in the midst of thinking about the tiny gem of a novel Indelicacy, by Amina Cain. I wrote one post about this book. It examined the idea of writings about writers, paintings about painters, songs about singers, and so on. In two days, I’ll post another preview of this lovely novel.
Unless I fall back into the grip of my old trauma monster. In which case, I’ll be here at home, kicking and clawing my way out.