Contrary to most people's opinions, writing is hard work. Physically hard work.

The original Harl Delos had a brother, Reed, who had damage to his heart while still a toddler, from rheumatic fever. He'd never be able to work for a living, the family decided, so from a very early age, it was determined that they'd send him to college.

Of course, it is that side of the family that has all the literary sorts. At one point a couple of decades ago, about 50% of that side of the family was a writer. reporter, editor, or photographer.

Easier Than Working

We all teased each other that it was easier than working for a living - but in fact, cardiologists say that occupation is one of the top twelve for heart attacks. I was concerned a couple of decades ago, because when I'd be in the middle of a writing session, the sweat would pour off my brow and back, and I'd need to stop and go take a shower because I would develop the worst body odor.

The cardiologist laughed when I said I wasn't doing anything when this occurred; I was only writing. He told me that the brain was the #1 consumer on the body's energy budget, and that I was, indeed, working heavily indeed, and that's why so many writers are skinny.

I don't ever apologize for not blogging. I assume you'll figure when I have something to say, I'll say it, and when I don't, it's better that I not post. This is more of a whine; I'm feeling sorry for myself, and yeah, self-pity is somewhat unattractive, but if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, right?

I Earned It

I used to have a sign above my desk saying, "As soon as this rush is over, I'm going to have a nervous breakdown. I've worked for it, I've earned it, and I'm damned well gonna enjoy it." And at one point, I had a regular cycle, where I would get an issue of the paper out, then collapse in a heap for 24 to 48 hours, then work increasingly hard until I wouldn't get to bed at all the last 24 hours before the next issue came out.

In case you're daft, that's not a good idea. Slow and steady wins the race. Feast-and-famine stresses you, aging you prematurely. On the other hand, I wasn't choosing to do that. I pushed myself to get out that issue, and I was physically sick afterwards, complete with wheezing, sneezing, diarrhea, fever, and other symptoms.

It was like I was a habitual customer of a Payday Loan shop, only a shop that dealt in gumption and health instead of cash. The loans look so inviting, but the interest rates they charge are pure hell.

Lupus Is A Chronic Illness

Lupus is a chronic disease, they say, but in practice, it comes and goes. Em would get better and worse, influences by events of the calendar, and of community and family life. Em would push herself to cook a great meal and bake a fabulous decorated cake and decorate to celebrate Jasper's birthday, and the stress would result in her lupus flaring immediately after his birthday party.

She'd demand that I help her with the party, and I had to, because the more I helped, the lighter her flare, except that the more I did, the more Em decided to take on, so it really didn't help. And when she collapsed afterwards, the load on me increased even more, and I dare not fail to be up to the task. But about the time her lupus flare was easing up, it was my turn to collapse in a heap.

I felt so ashamed, for years, of not being up to the task, and after Em had become a memory, I spent a lot of time with a therapist learning to accept my limitations. I learned to put limits on myself, instead of trying to be superman, and things went a lot better for me.

Chinese Finger Traps

You know those "chinese finger traps" that are made of thin strips of bamboo? They are woven like a basket, in the shape of a tube, and you insert the index fingers from your two hands in the opposite ends. The harder you pull, the tighter the bamboo grasps your fingers.

My therapist told me that the conventional solution to the chinese finger trap is to relax, allowing one to remove one's fingers - but that I seem to have perfected a second solution. If you pull really, really, hard, you can tear the bamboo to shreds. It completely destroys the chinese finger trap, and it is pretty rough on your fingers, but if you're determined enough to do it, it can be done.

It's just that it's pretty stupid to do things that way, he explained, and he kept advising me, session after session, that I was fighting a chinese finger trap.

Blondie's Cabin Fever

When the doctor recently ordered Blondie to stop driving - she has vascular dementia - it landed pretty hard on her. She was already missing the social contact of a job, and now she was pretty much locked in the house, having to rely on me to take her out.

Meanwhile, I have agoraphobia, which means I don't go out often or easily. It'd be grossly unfair to accommodate my disability and ignore her needs, so I've been going out a lot more than I want to.

My gut knows that the outside world is dangerous. I end up clenching up, and that leads to constipation - and the constipation makes me even more constipated, and I start accumulating matter in my gut. I end up developing edema in my legs, and when I sit up, I shut off circulation to my legs making the edema even worse.

That's Not All

Add to that, the fact that my hip isn't right. I try to move my right leg from gas pedal to brake pedal and back and forth, and suddenly, the inside of my upper thigh wants to cramp. At that point, I can pull over and walk around for five minutes to ease the cramping, but the trip is basically over; I need to head home and lie down for the rest of the day, because the cramping will only get worse, and soon get to the point where I can't drive at all.

All of which, as you might expect, is hard on Blondie as well. She expects me to drive her to get her meds, or to the store, and I'm not supposed to say "No."

I used to use health insurance to talk to a therapist. These days, I blog instead. It helps, sometimes, when I can blog. I bought extension cords for my keyboard and mouse, and put a monitor on my nightstand, so I can lie flat on my back, balancing my keyboard on my belly. Learning to touch-type this way was a challenge.

Flat-backing It

And I did this entire post while flat on my back, but I'm now soaked in sweat, I can smell my own stink, and my head is pounding with a nasty headache. Even when it's an extremely personal blog, writing is hard work.

I woke up in the middle of the night last night, soaked in sweat, awakened by a nightmare. Years ago, nobody had air conditioning. On the farm, we had a lot of trees surrounding the house, and if you opened the windows on opposite sides of the house, there was pretty good cross ventilation, especially if you supplemented it with a roaring box fan.

In this dream, though, I'm in the city, in a third-floor apartment. The temperature is well into the nineties, even in the middle of the night, and the humidity is about that high as well. And I don't have a fan.

Sleeping In Salt Water

I go to sleep, and wake up drowning in sweat. The bed is soaked. I take a quick shower, but the cold water is fairly warm. I flip the mattress upside down, put on new sheets, and go to sleep. Another 45 minutes later, I wake up, and once again, the bed is soaked. Another quick shower. I've gotta get some sleep. I grab a blanket out of the closet, fold it on the balcony, and since there's no dry pillow, wad up a winter coat for under my head.

There is nobody on the balcony to the left or the right, and nobody on a higher floor; I'm not worried about getting in trouble for being nude. I lie there, but sleep doesn't come. There is some noise from downstairs. A girl in the apartment below me is arguing with her fellow. I look through the spaces in floor boards; she comes out and fixes a pallet like mine on her balcony, and when a guy comes out to join her, she tells him to go on home, and she doesn't want to see him. Ever. Again. Ever.

Tempers Are Short

It's hot. Tempers are short. I suspect that come morning, they may reconcile. I just lie there silently, wishing for sleep. There's noise from below me. I wonder what it is. She's lying on her back, wearing nothing, and she's masturbating. She's not pretty at all; she has a unattractive face, badly-styled short hair, a flat chest, a boring body.

I think about how nice it would be to have her for a girlfriend; I'm tired of being alone. I don't think tonight is the right night to introduce myself, though. And I think about masturbating, but it's just too friggin' hot. I can't put forth that much energy. I just want to sleep.

The light of parking lots shines skyward and illuminates clouds. It's dead still at my level, but higher up, the clouds are moving, and they're getting thicker. In another hour or two, maybe they will get thick enough to rain. The forecast on the radio says we'll have rain.

I lie there thinking about turkeys. Domestic turkeys have been bred for breast meat, not brains. If they are outdoors when it starts raining, they will look up to see where the rain is coming from. Some of them will have their mouths open. Some of them will choke on the rain, and will drown.

I'm Miserable

I feel awful. No sleep. I feel weak and washed out, from electrolyte imbalance, from having sweated so much. I have a fatigue headache. In a few hours, I'm going to have to get up and go work 8 hours in a hot brake-lining factory, and my nose is already full of the stench of hot asbestos, wax, resin and body odor. I'm hungry, I'm lonely, but mostly, I just want to sleep, damn it.

Maybe if I lie here with my mouth open, it'll get cooler as it gets ready to rain, and I'll fall asleep, and when the rain comes, I can drown. Nah, I think. Somebody luckier, but not me.

Then I wake up and realize that it was all a dream. It's kinda strange, to have a dream about having insomnia, wouldn't you say?

Other Bloggers On Related Topics:
agoraphobia - air conditioning - balcony - blogging - cabin fever - chinese finger trap - cramps - edema - hard work - lupus - night sweats - rain - rheumatic fever - self-pity - sweat - turkeys - writing