20 Oct 2019
The insomnia that has dogged me for decades has given no indication of leaving. Even though the side effect of virtually every drug I am on is “may casue drownisess” with the added “do not operate heavy machinery …” Apparently, it’s only the obsucre side effects that I get to experience.
Insomnia is different here and now, though, than it has been for the past few years. There are certain things I miss from my most-recent previous life, but sitting tucked up in the treehouse, watching the sunrise over the mountains has to be a big one.
How many times in a lifetime do we re-invent ourselves? Re-find ourselves? Renew ourselves? And I wonder, “Why do we keep losing ourselves?” Why do I?
“You should write a book,” some friends say, “You’ve been through so much. You need to share your story. You give people hope.”
“You should write a book. You are able to express what I feel and wish I could say, if only I had the words.” Say some compatriots battling Parkinson’s disease or other dragons.
“You should write a book. You are the only person I know who has faced what you have had to face and yet remains so positive. I don’t know how you do it.” This is not faint praise. This friend knows a lot of people.
No, the praise is not faint, it is heartfelt and heartwarming. But write a book? Seriously? Me?
For one, who would read it? There are nine people who “follow” my blog (thestarseachnight.com). And I am one of them. Some of my friends don’t even understand why I write a blog.
For two, I am not remarkable. I do not stand out in a crowd. I have done nothing particularly brilliant. Haven’t made a name for myself. Haven’t triumphed. I have survived, though.
I have struggled, and cied, and given up, and doubted. But I have fought my way back. I have overcome debilitating fear, pain beyond words, and crippling loss. As so many others have had to do. I haven’t cured Parkinson’s, or sympathetic ophthalmia, or fibromyalgia. I’m just trying not to let them cripple me.
Maybe that’s enough.
For three, I am preternaturally cheerful. Sure I have a dark twisty place where my heart hides when the light that is my soul is sputtering in the wind, about to flicker out with a puff of smoke and loss. Given time, though, I will smile, and laugh, and make it look like everything is better. It is not usually, I just can’t help it. It might go along with the dancing. Which I do. Every day. Everywhere.
So maybe that’s enough.
We’ll just have to see.
Love you. Love your writing. Love your laughter through, above, over and under the pain.