So here’s the thing. I’m writing this from the comfort of a recliner. I’m not saying this to sound spoiled or entitled, I’m just telling you that I’m writing this post while reclining because I want you to imagine the following discussion happening in your living room. Yes, I brought my recliner to your living room, and no that’s not weird. You’re weird. Why don’t you have a guest recliner? Get it together.
I’ve been pretty well laid up the last several days, and that makes it difficult and embarrassing to do anything – there’s this inertia that only working consistently or resting consistently can provide and I seem to only want to do one or the other. From the medical side of things, this is great. My chest doesn’t feel like a legion of elephants is learning to tap dance the Morse Code lyrics to Hamilton, and I’m finally getting a chance to work on my Kurt Cobain hair style.
That’s the good part. The bad part is that without work, I get the pleasure of watching my bank balance recede with tidal urgency, and I get a substantial spoonful of guilt that I’m not doing more. I mean, there have been days where showering took all the energy I had, and we’re not talking depression, this is straight can-I-get-up-these-stairs-and-get-my-arms-over-my-head-energy. I’m not really sure I can explain that more clearly, and I want to. I feel like if I can find a better metaphor you’ll understand why I needed to spend more days where the most exciting thing I did was try and cut my toenails. Also, I feel like if you understand how I’m feeling, you’ll forgive me for feeling that way. Because I feel bad for being ill. I feel guilty for not doing more, and not doing more faster. Like how I used to. Granted, that way was imperfect, but I at least felt grounded in that identity – I knew who I was. Now, today, I might not know who I am, but I know what I can do. I’m not sure that’s a great trade-off yet, I’m still wrestling with the concept.
I say all that to say this: I know on some level I cannot control how you react to this. Maybe you’ll be sympathetic, maybe you’ll be disappointed, maybe you’ll pity me. Maybe you’ll call me a cuck because apparently that’s the new buzzword for a guy who isn’t much a guy (even though cuckery and hotwifing are two sexual lifestyles requiring an emotional maturity and communication skills, and are not “wrong”). Maybe you’ll cross me off a list of people who can help you turn your ideas into a book because you don’t expect me to live long enough (which I totally get, but if that’s your thinking, take the extra ten seconds to tell me that). Whatever. I can’t control how you’ll react, and no matter how you react, that doesn’t make me inhuman or wrong. It’ll be what it is, and I’ll do my best.
So I try my best to get up and work when I can. Not always easy, but I do what I can when I can the best I can.
And I appreciate your patience. And your support.