One of the saddest things a person can tell herself is “I can’t do this anymore.”
After some years, many people will utter a version of at least one of the following: I can’t go to work after a long night of partying anymore; I can’t have sex until walking straight becomes a faraway fantasy anymore; I can’t do twenty pull ups anymore; I can’t act like I’m twenty-one and bulletproof anymore… I just can’t freaking be who I used to be anymore.
Most of the items listed above (perhaps not the sexy bit) make complete sense when coming out of the mouth of someone who has lived a certain respectable number of decades.
But when you are a thirty-something-year-old hotness, who has always walked around in a fairly healthy body, saying things like: I can’t pick up a gallon of milk anymore; I can’t drive my car anymore; I can’t sit at the table anymore; I can’t write longhand for more than a few minutes anymore; I can’t miss sleep without consequences anymore… Pretty much, saying “I can’t anymore” can really break a soul in half.
Years ago, not being able to do the things I always enjoyed doing (I swear this is not an ad for an antidepressant *cough, cough, cough*)… Anyway, not being able to do the things I loved doing used to be really hard on me. After I hurt my hip, I was angry because “I could no longer wear a bikini;” and after I hurt my shoulder, I was livid because “I could no longer do pull ups.” A few years after that, chronic pain knocked on my door, and I raged and cursed because I could no longer do a shitload of other things.
Then I lived a few more years, learned a few more things… And I laughed at my younger self. Don’t get me wrong, I still hold her in my arms and let her cry when she feels cheated by Fate, but I mostly laugh at how silly that Magaly used to be.
Less than a month ago, I received a partial diagnosis that seems to explain most of the acute health issues I have been battling against these last few months. I say partial because although I might be dancing with Ulcerative Colitis for the rest of my days, my doctor also believes that Crohn’s Disease has moved in, to turn our relationship into an irritable threesome.
I saw my cognitive-behavioral pain management psychologist (say that 13 times fast) a few days after I learned about the diagnosis. And I think the doctor might have been a tad worried because I walked into her office with a galaxy-size smile on my face. Maybe she thought I was in shock. I mean, it would only make sense that someone who is already living with two chronic illnesses would get really pissed off when told that now she has to share her life with an autoimmune disease, too. Right? Well, I’m not thrilled about having sores in my gut. But I’m deliriously happy that it’s not me, chronic pain and cancer doing this dance. That deserves a mildly psychotic grin, don’t you think?
But why are you telling us all this, deliciously Witchy Writer Woman? Oh yes, my Wicked Luvs, I can totally cyber-read your minds. I’m sharing this because I want—I need—you to know why Blooming Howls will be put on hold for two weeks: I’ve had too many medical appointments and more are scheduled on the horizon; in order to publish on the 31st, I would have to sleep very little and stress out a whole lot; and I don’t want to publish a book while I’m too ill to enjoy the process.
You see, my Wicked Luvs, in the last thirteen years, I’ve learned that “I can’t do this or that” is often a stinky load of lies. I can definitely wear a bikini as long as I don’t mind flashing my butt-scars. And who the hell says I had to handle a whole gallon of milk? I can buy half gallons. My Piano Man can separate a gallon of milk into smaller portions. And why would I pick up a gallon of something I don’t even drink?
I can do almost anything I was able to do when I was twenty-one and not in pain… I just have to use my ginormous, creative, beautiful brain to come up with realistic ways in which to do these things without half-killing my sexy and often throbbing thirty-something-year-old body.
The title of this post is a quote mouthed by a character in the first story of Blooming Howls. And it is a half-truth. For the character is correct, “no one alive can control a murder of crows.” But why would anyone want to? One could just make friends with the birds; maybe get to know them and see about joy-soaring with them. Who knows, one could get all kinds of lucky… and find oneself guiding the flight of an uncontrollably happy murder.
So… it’s not that I can’t publish Blooming Howls on Halloween day, but that I’m not willing to make my flesh and soul miserable in order to do it. My gut tells me that November 13th will be the day. Does this cause me a little pang? Unquestionably. But I’ll fly with it… ♥♥♥
Murder of Crows 2.0, by xWaxWingx