I Write Through It

a coping skill in real time

Words don’t fall out of my mouth the same way they spill from my hands. When I speak, I am a fool, when I write I’m a fool with a better vocabulary. I am trying to process too many things at once these days between three jobs–marketing, editing, authoring–a home to run, dogs to care for, and a sick husband. My jobs are all about words. My life is all about tasks. Between it all, my mind and body have become separated like oil and water; I have disconnected from all of it in self-preservation.

But is it self-preservation? Or is it denial?

I don’t know, so I write through it.

At 3am, anxiety dust bunnies fill my head. The very long impossible-to-do list. Bills.Debt.Taxes.Firewood.Lawn care.Laundry.Medical calls.Appointments.Schedule juggling.The dogs need their flea meds.I forgot to buy coffee.My car is due for oil.Joe’s prescription is ready.

What else can I do at 3am except list all of the things I cannot do at 3am?

I fall back to sleep and wake up later than intended. It’s shameful to sleep in, unproductive and wasteful. It doesn’t matter that I have nowhere to be other than inside my computer. There are words and tasks waiting. How can I be so lazy when there is so much still to be done? Now I must decide between work in which I’m paid and work in which I hope I’ll get paid.

Is that entitlement? Or is it persistence?

I don’t know, so I write through it.

I get angry at people who are “cancer free”. I get angry at people who are at the beach. I get angry at people who can make plans more than a week ahead. I get angry at people who get their haircut regularly. This is one of the stages, I’m told. This is normal. But anger has to be channelled. Grief compartmentalized. Comparisons squashed. In order to carry on the tasks, and write the words, and get up each morning, I remain oil and water.

Is this living? Or is it just survival?

It is both. So, I write through it.