Writing, not for others but for myself

It’s been a while since I sat down to keyboard and wrote anything, anywhere.  It’s not been due to laziness, but rather a frustration with my brain and fingers.  Seems that the words I see and hear in my brain do not want to translate to paper, and for some reason my fingers have decided to type whatever the hell they want.  It gets frustrating having to use the backspace key every other word to correct a spelling error, and I weary of seeing all the red lines under words telling me, seemingly yelling at me, that I have made another mistake.

I have decided that, despite the internal frustration this causes, I am going to attempt to renew my writing endeavors.  When I was writing before it was cathartic, and helped me to keep from going over the edge mentally and emotionally.  With all that has been going on the past year, I definitely need the outlet.

I look at writing as a gift.  While anyone can put pen to paper, or in this electronic age fingers to keyboard, it takes a certain level of patience, perseverance, and just plain insanity to want to be a writer.  With all the bloggers out here in aether, and all those that wish to write but have not the courage to do so, why would anyone desire to put their inner most feelings and thoughts out for others to read?  The answer is not as simple as ego, or desire for financial gain.  For me it is release.  Release from the tortures of my mind and body.  I can talk with social workers, who nod and grunt approvingly at what I have to say.  Commenting along the way that they understand the frustrations I feel.  Like hell they do.  They have never had to deal with a body and brain that get confused with each other fighting some internal war day after day, hour after hour.  I can talk with family and friends, sharing my aggravations and concerns.  Being that they love me (why is the topic of another post) they try to be understanding, but all it turns into is a pity party, something that drives me mad.  I can share with a lover the pains that I feel, and while they try to understand, I get at most words of reminder to take this or that medication.  I know these people are trying to “help” but all it does is frustrate.

So I write.  Not for others, but for myself.  To give myself the chance to express my frustrations, concerns, and pains without having to sit and listen to others drone on about how I need to listen to the doctors, or how they once sprained this or that, and the pain was unbearable.  I’ve had sprains, broken bones, concussions, and other injuries, and truthfully I would trade the worst sprain or break for the chronic pain and confusion that I now deal with daily.  An acute condition, while at the time seems to be the end of the world, is nothing in comparison to a chronic one.  You know that the pain and suffering you feel from a broken bone will stop in a few days or weeks.  But with chronic pain you never know when relief will come.  Perhaps only by meeting the reaper will one get relief.  To borrow from a movie I saw recently, I don’t fear death, but I’m not going to ask him on a date.  So I endeavor, and push on.

The sitting about feeling sorry for myself, as I have for the past several months, does nothing but cause me to feel worse.  While the self-pity party that I have been engaged in as of late may help me to justify my sloth, it also has caused me to descend further into depression, and a feeling of hopelessness.  Things have not been getting done around the house.  I have shied away from most social contact.  My personal hygiene habits have suffered.  So it is with depression.  Depression brought on by pain, and an inability to control some portions of my body as I would see fit.  Since I no longer get release from frustrations via heavy physical exertions, I need to learn to get the same sort of release by mental exertion.  So I am back to writing.  I know that I have tried this before, and fell back into the habit of not being in the habit of writing.  But I will try and try again and again until the habit of writing is as regular as eating or breathing.  It is something that I want to do.  It is something that I need to do.  Not for anyone’s sake but my own.


About Joseph Ordower

I'm a middle aged, some would say curmudgeon, who is sick, tired and truly frustrated with the way things are going in a country (America) that he loves, honors and respects.
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