I Want to Dump Twitter and Facebook, But Can’t

Apr 24, 2019 by

I Want to Dump Twitter and Facebook, But Can’t

As a conservative minded person, I have about reached the end of my patience with the necessity and value of social media, in particular Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Those are the only platforms I use with any regularity, and I have curbed my time on them way back over the past year, two years, even three as the noise, hate and intolerance tolerance has become more and more hypocritical.

Why do I remain on Twitter with my 16,700 followers? For one I worked hard to build my following. I have spent the preponderance of my time the last four years connecting with authors and writers working to get published, who have been published, etc. I desired to learn about the industry by also following literary agents I fancied and wanted to learn about before I pitched them my projects. For agents this helped, too, because I could see the more vocal ones about their far-left ideology, ideas I don’t support on a bad day, so how could I possibly have them fronting my book(s) when they see the world 180° opposite of me. I also saw how many I was interested in, too, also had book projects of their own and while on Facebook they spend 90 percent of their time pitching their own book, so if they did agree to rep mine, when the hell, I wondered, would they find time to talk about mine or their other writers?!

I will admit I did this some myself, but I came across another group of writers on Twitter, the kind seeking attaboys daily. “Hey guys! I wrote 5 million words to day on my WOP! Aren’t I wonderful?!? Please validate me, tell me how wonderful I am, Please, Please, PLEASE, someone #amwriting) The please, please, please part is implied, but it is there none the less.

Having written three unique manuscripts now and being in the middle of revision four of the second WOP, I can say without worry that begging for attention on Twitter about how many words you put in order that day doesn’t really mean a damned thing. Do they all advance your story? Do they make sense? Are they germane to your story or did you just throw them in there so you could say at the end of the day you had written 5 million words in one day?

To me, I’ve come to understand there is far more value if I get even one paragraph revised in a day’s time and found sound words, brought to life the passage’s heart, and fought for every single word in each paragraph. Only then have I accomplished something far better than a blitzkrieg to stoke letters onto a page.

Yet if you did a search under #amwriting or #writingcommunity today, you’re certain to find such posts, followed by an “Can I get an Amen?!”

DFWCon and Facebook

The DFW writing conference is coming up in June. They have a special group for registrants and members of the local organization. It’s based in Facebook. This group is helpful from April to the latter part of June.

The Voodoo Hill Explorer Club

My book two is about five missing teens during a blizzard in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, December 1977. They live on an Air Force base and were staying at their treehouse until they attempting to get home in the gale-wind snow. But instead they get lost in the storm and find the shack of a Russian spy who has been tracking the alert forces of B-52, KC-135s, and F-106s on base and reporting this intel to the USSR via shortwave radio. There is a Facebook  B-52 group, an I Survived KI Sawyer AFB group, and Fans of SAC group. I have culled these for nostalgia purposes but also to get research to plug in easter eggs that I’ve forgotten since my childhood.

Facebook is also good for seeing photos of family and friends I’ve not seen in many years, even decades.

But even then, it has proven as volatile as the vacuous and malicious anger and hate that is synonymous with the preponderance of the common Twitter user.

This past weekend, two sports organizations bowed to ridiculous pressure to cover up and then remove Kate Smith’s statue from having sung God Bless America because of some situation back in the 1930s.

Say one word in opposition to this on Facebook or Twitter and an avalanche of hate, words like bigotry, and anything else will be thrown at you.

Say you’ve read the Mueller report finding of no collusion, no exoneration of obstruction, (apparently James Comey is the only legal expert who can do that) and you are told to shut up. The anger and madness that CNN, MSNBC, The New York Times, Rep. Adam Shitf from California, and Jerry Nadler have promised was there, along with John Brennan and James Clapper spent almost day-in-day out telling us was thee has flopped. But those named about refuse to accept that.

I don’t watch TV news anymore and haven’t paid a dollar a day for 20-sheets of newsprint in almost $10 years when 20-pages of nothing went to a $1 a day. And then paywalls came about and why would I pay money for news organizations that are in cahoots with the Democrats?

I think somewhere in my archives I wrote about what would happen when citizen journalism became the thing. There is no such thing as news reporters any longer. Reporters take sides now adays. They don’t hide it either. Maybe I should go sit and audit some journalism classes around DFW to see exactly what’s being taught and what isn’t. But it seems that more and more reporters are relying on news sourcing from Twitter.

Even Fox News, where one of the producers has a hard on to bury Taylor Swift, she can release a new song, or make a statement, endorsement, post something on Instagram, and Fox will pull Twitter posts from people with 25 followers, which means they have as much influence as Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s cows farting do on climate change, and they headline the story, “Taylor Swift Fans Aren’t Happy with XXXXX.”

In the beginning, Twitter was a pleasant place to hang out. I remember when Sully landed on the Hudson and it took 20-30 minutes for the networks to get helicopters and anchors in place to go on air. Meanwhile the world could watch on Twitter as things were happening and from up close as people streamed their rescue.

When AG William Barr held his news conference last week to explain the Mueller report before its release, I watched the event from Twitter. Don’t waste my money on cable anymore. Wifi and an Apple TV with Apps is all I need.

So admittedly, Twitter and Facebook have their uses for me. I need them, but only in small quantities. Twitter has run rampant with outrageously stupid left-wingers. Dan Rather was talking about following the Rule of Law the other night and a crowd of lefties were chiming in right behind him about the need for impeachment for not having committed a crime. Not that a damned one of them understand what’s coming down the pike as far as the real investigation into the spying on the Trump campaign by members of the Big Five; American allies, at the behest of the American IC community that President Trump has been scolded for not believing.

When that door is opened by General Barr, maybe so many loonie left heads will pop and mental homes will fill to capacity and those who have sent nasty gram after nasty gram on Twitter these past many years will finally be given a set of Crayons to draw pictures.

In the meantime, for the most part, Twitter and Facebook have become liberal wastelands of anger, hate, and deceit. I am so close to closing my accounts and shielding myself further from the stupid that is so prevalent in that medium. So very close.

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The Book of Dust

Feb 7, 2019 by

I read Philip Pullman’s The Book of Dust: La Belle Sauvage:  last week and was told going in that there were things about the book that are not as good as his previous trilogy, but I’d seen a recommendation for this book regardless and had decided to give it a read.

To start with, Pullman’s fantasy work is not something I would normally read. It still is not.

The Book of Dust

Reading about Malcom and his daemon Asta was curious I will admit. The first few pages did, I must confess, however, draw me right in. But I have to say, from a writer’s stand point, at one point I began to wonder how burdensome the daemons must have felt–having to write about another character for every character–because in this version of the world, everyone living must have a daemon very, very near them and if they don’t, it’s supposed to be pretty draining.

My friend Tom at Interabang Books in Dallas said this book didn’t sell like publishers hoped it would. Not in comparison to the previous Dark Materials trilogy. Again, I’ve not ready anything else by Pullman, but I can say where I felt there were a few weaknesses in this story. I do not mean to be critical of Pullman. He’s published, I’m not, so there’s that. He also invested a lot of time to create, as have I, so I respect his work from that standpoint. This isn’t easy so anyone who gets their work on paper, heck, even into a computer from start to finish has made quite an accomplishment, so I refuse anymore to tear something to shreds. (Here are some thoughts that confused me, or I thought could have been stronger, how’s that?)

One happens when the baby Lyra is taken away by the Holy police to a nunnery that is supposed to be heavily guarded and damned near impossible for anyone to get in or out of. Malcom, Alice and their daemons float up to the place in their boat, find a drain with a metal cover, lift it, Malcolm and his daemon Asta float in, get past the second drain, waltz up a hall way, get stopped once, claim to have wet the bed, get sent to where they were going, lie down in an empty bed, wait for the head priest and nun to come in and argue about the baby, leave while the nurse in the room is snoring, and then sneak out with the baby unseen. What was supposed to have been impossible was done without any resistance whatsoever. Mkay.

There is a deluge in England and Malcom’s boat floats from Oxford to London, sometimes being able to float down specific streets, etc. That just seemed like too far a leap for me.

Then the book just leaves one sort of hanging with a whole bunch of characters. Yes, this is going to obviously be a trilogy, but there’s so much non-closure for so many of the secondary characters. They’re literally just left floating in the flood. I was always led to believe that even for a trilogy, you tied everything off, mostly, and didn’t leave things floating, pardon the pun.

I read the book from Sunday to a Wednesday. It’s 438 pages and all in all, it wasn’t a bad read. It wasn’t ridiculously hard to understand like Good Morning, Midnight or something like that, which the local book club has been reading. Talk about a nutty book…..

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Crime and Punishment

Jan 17, 2019 by

Crime and Punishment

Reading Dostoevsky’s classic novel Crime and Punishment last week has drained me. I didn’t realize it was taking so much out of me until, well, until I finished it and started trying to read something else as of Sunday of this week. Monday of this week. Tuesday … you get the idea. It’s Thursday and I have yet to get into another reading of fiction. I’m thumbing through Anne Lamott’s 1994 book on writing, Bird by Bird, but I’ve only managed to get about 50 pages into it even. 

It’s the middle of January, to establish a record, and I’ve begun to revise The Voodoo Hill Explorer Club once again. This will be the third? perhaps the fourth revision. I’m also working closely with Jen Manuel’s reimagining online course as I go. Right now I’m on the lesson where she’s encouraging me to understand reimagining the “heart” of my story. This is where I’m focusing on my lead character’s “wants,” but as importantly, his “yearnings,” and when you put these two aspects together: where Kirk Carson is clearly aware of what he wants and can’t quite put his finger on his yearning, well that deeply enriches the heart of the tale.

Looking at Crime and Punishment, Raskolnikov clearly didn’t want his sister to get married to Luzhin, but his yearning, as a mad man, ran far deeper. He learns in the end, in the very, very end that his pride and separation from society isn’t what he has chalked it up to be and in the end gives that up.

I am not writing the follow up to a Dostoevsky novel. But I have learned so much in having read the last 101 novels. So far I’ve read five of my next 101 books. I’ve said before all that reading has changed who I am as a writer.

Now that I’m revising, looking at what I have written before, I am embarrassed at what I have on the pages. What I have submitted to agents and said, “This is ready.” Because it is not. It wasn’t. I can see that now.

I’ve learned something important.

And that’s the good thing about writing and reading. We get better every day. Anne Lamott says she gets asked by students, “How do you get better at writing?” She says the best way to show students, and it often makes them frustrated, is to pick up a yellow writing pad, pretend she has a pen in her hand, and begin to pretend she is writing on the page. That’s how you become a better writer. You write. But just as important, you read. And read. And read. And read. And write some more.

And the way you make your drafts better? You revise. And revise. And revise. That doesn’t mean you change a comma here, and a word there. Fix the spelling on this page.

No, you reimagine what you’re trying to say, and you say something else entirely. That’s revision. Jen Manuel says, “Re Imagine.”

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War and Peace

Dec 26, 2018 by

My daughters gave me a copy of the 1,358-page version of Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace for my birthday in early December. I began reading it on Dec. 7 and finished seventeen days later on Christmas Eve.

Considered the best novel ever written, I shall not ever disagree with this assessment. War and Peace is the most profound book I have read in dealing with the human condition and with Tolstoy’s discontent and outright contempt for the oversimplification of journalists and historians. In fact, it was these parameters that he sought to overcome in writing this book. In his research and own experiences in battle, he saw that far too much was eliminated in the reporting and recording of journalism and history for them to be even close to accurate, so he set about to writing this book, which he did not consider to be a novel–for it does not really have much of a begining, middle or end–in an effort to tell the fullest story as possible about the Napoleonic wars.

The beauty in this book is in the depth of the writing, and yet the simplicity of it as well. As daunting as it may seem to pick up a 14-hundred page book, it flows like water flowing from a stream or a tap in your kitchen. And while there are in fact about one hundred characters within the work, once you lock on to Pierre, Natasha and Prince Andrey, all the rest of them essentially revolve around these three and then criss-cross because these three are intertwined with each other. Pierre and Andrey are best of friends. Pierre has known Natasha since she was little. Andrey becomes engaged to Natasha, whom she in part knows through Pierre. Add in support characters around those three and you have the other hundred or so, including Napoleon and Russia’s Emperor Alexander I.

There are descriptions of great battles from 1807-1812. There are love stories. There are stories of hardship and strife. There are stories of death and suffering. There are explanations about how historians got things way wrong. There are glimpses into the spectacle of Russian high society and its aristocracy. There is even a dual for honor. All are explained and told with the simplicity noted above so one who is reading feels immersed in the scene and empathetic to the characters looming large.

Count Pierre Bezukhov

Pierre Bezukhov, the main protagonist of the work, and I, seem to have much in common. Nasty marriages that left us in emotional and financial tatters not necessarily of our own fault, a longing to help others no matter the cost or consequence to our own selves, and the quest for knowledge, to right our own wrongs and to leave the world a better place.

Pierre was a trusting soul and got taken for a ride by many. He comes out okay in the end though.

Last week I saw my pain doctor. I’m down 26 pounds now since October, largely due to meds, but I’m also trying. As I was leaving, my doctor told me when he was younger, after one of his first heartbreaks, someone had told him that the most important thing in life isn’t money or property or anything of that like. “The most important thing in life is your health,” he said. “If you have your health, all those other things can get taken care of.”

That isn’t necessarily how Pierre lived his life, but as the war turns in 1812 and the French are retreating from Moscow, Pierre has epiphanies about life and living and he becomes a new man.

Two hundred years later, and a year or two plus, I’ve been learning as well, after so many hardships that the things I have had done to me, and the things I have caused or walked into, while they have affected me in ways that may never stop, they can only dominate me if I let them. And I am tired of giving others power over me when I should not. Even if it is just a memory at this point.

There are still those out to get me, those who think they can ruin me. I think that boat sailed long ago. The only way for me to go at this point in life is up, so knock yourself out trying if you feel so low as to try. You’re wasting your time.

I have recommitted myself to God and to using every day the rest of my life to working to his glory, to getting myself healthier. Despite my continued back and leg pain, Crohn’s, and whatever else is going on inside me, I’m still fighting. Yes, I go to Medical City of Dallas nearly five days a week it seems for one doctor’s visit or another, but I am doing so to get myself well. To find the cures to what ails me.

I am reading all the books I can to enrich my mind. I finished me goal of reading 101 fiction novels. Now it is time to start revising my novels again. But with more strength, more knowledge, more skill.

It is time to take back the life that has been stolen from me by others for whatever reason, to give back what is owed, to live out the remainder of my life on firmer footing and in the best health I can get to.

Sure, there are going to be those who seek to stand in my way. That is just human nature. I’m better equipped now than I was several years ago when so much of my world fell apart.

One of the greatest things I learned from Pierre in War and Peace is that while one is still living, there remains the chance to keep fighting for what is right, for what is best, and for the good of the world.

That’s exactly what I intend to keep doing.

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Reaching My Goal — 101 Fiction Novels

Dec 6, 2018 by

Heather Sellers’ 2007 writers’ guide Chapter After Chapter prods anyone interested in becoming a better writer to read 101 Fiction Novels. In December 2016, I set out to do just that, having suffered an injury that was keeping me from working like most, one that continues to plague me even today.

Heather Sellers’ Chapter After Chapter.

Other complications and illnesses have been added since, making working and concentrating even harder, but thankfully, I’ve been able to keep reading, and on Nov. 29th, I put down Javier Marías’ The Infatuations, book number 101, satisfied and fulfilled in a way I could not have imagined two years before.

You see, while I have been physically disabled the past two and a half years, I have been able to mentally travel around the world and through time through the power of fiction.

I’ve made a study of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and Thomas Wolfe, the three geniuses edited and managed by Maxwell Perkins. Through them I’ve been bullfighting in Spain in the 1930s, been all over Italy and Europe during World War I, and Paris afterward.

Then through various authors I’ve been in Paris as the Germans invaded it during World War II, and in many ways I felt what it must have been like, to have gone from such heydays after World War I with the Lost Generation to the starkness of the Nazi invasions, their lists, the killings.

But I’ve also been to Australia for a road race around the continent in the 1950s with Peter Carey in his book A Long Way From Home, and returned to experience the power of Big Little Lies with Liane Moriarty; experienced The Plague in Africa via Albert Camus, a non-existent war in Africa during Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop, and been to South America for a hostage situation via Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto. (I’ll read  anything now written by Ann Patchett–Commonwealth was so good, too.)

I have been to Tennessee and South Carolina to figure out the mystery of the woman who stole river children in the 1900s for adoption in Lisa Wingate’s Before We Were Yours. (Lisa is under the impression US senators ride around in limousines all the time. Reporters should know better.)

My thinking about trees was forever changed by Richard Powers’ The Overstory, one of the most incredible books I’ve ever read. To think about living in the canopy of a redwood in Oregon for nine months, 100 feet off the ground. Something I’d never thought of, but might consider, given the chance and with better health. A wonderful, wonderful book that haunts me now whenever I see someone cutting down a tree because I know how long it takes for a tree to grow, the history behind it and how we snuff out a tree with a chainsaw and don’t give it a moment of thought.

Gosh, I’ve forgotten how many times I’ve been to England. Ian McEwan’s Atonement. What a great story about the power of love. Don’t forget to also read his On Chesil Beach. If you want to read some of the first murder mystery genre setting books, don’t forget John Fowles’ The Collector, who kidnaps a woman he fancies and drags her off to live in his flat north of London. The Lodger is another prolific book that brilliantly explores the murders surrounding the mystery of Jack the Ripper. Warlight, by Michael Ondaatje was also one of my favorites from my journey.

Then there are the books about the States. The Summer that Melted Everything by Tiffany McDaniel remains a favorite, a story about a boy who shows up in an Ohio town the summer of 1984 claiming to be answering an ad in the local paper calling on the Devil to present himself. Steven King’s The Outsider was something new for me. It wasn’t scary, but definitely a different read. Tommy Oranges’ There There shed new light on the Native American culture I did not know about. A.J. Finn and The Woman in the Window, Ottessa Moshfegh and Eileen and My Year of Rest and Relaxation, as well as Lauren Weissberger’s When Life Gives You Lululemons all gave me new perspectives about the modern woman.

Celeste Ng took me back to Ohio in Little Fires Everywhere, a very good book, and Rachel Kushner seemed to have much the same thematic in The FlamethrowersFac Ut Ardeat (made to burn); perhaps that theme was also being explored in The Summer that Melted Everything as well. Even Stephen King’s The Outsider.

Thomas Wolfe intrigued me for days with his You Can’t Go Home Again. The language and writing is beautiful.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell. Funny, at times. But with an important message nonetheless.

Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin was strange to me at first, but I came to enjoy the writing once I got my bearings. The initial passages about the blind assassin himself, and the girl, were just strange, and I’ve found I’m not much for reading sci fi or dystopian nonsense.

I also flat out skip sections in books about explicit gay sex. Chloe Benjamin, Adam Haslett, take note. Your books were good, but I skipped large portions of The Immortalists and Imagine Me Gone and don’t think I missed anything, which means, those sections could have been left out (note to authors, agents and publishers). Those sections didn’t add anything. And in the case of Andrew Sean Greer’s book Less, once I learned that’s what it was, I’d actually ordered it from Amazon, I cancelled the order. I have no desire to read anything like that. Period.

I’ve read my share of spy novels: Daniel Silva’s The Other Woman, T. Jefferson Parker’s Swift Vengeance, Karin Slaughter’s Pieces of Her, and the over-hyped ridiculous Bill Clinton/James Patterson The President is Missing.

In Kristin Hannah’s The Great Alone I spent time in Washington state and Oregon, and then the wilds of Alaska. This was not a great book by any means, but people recommended I read Hannah’s The Nightingale and I honestly believe it is the best book I’ve ever read. Goodreads has it rated at a 4.65 or something close and that seems to be the highest rating I could find. I highly recommend this book above all the rest. It is the one I described above as helping me understand what it must have been like when the Nazi’s invaded France in World War II. Maybe you should read some of Hemingway and Fitzgerald and their antics in Paris beforehand to learn about how gay and charming the city was 10 years before, that way you may get the full impact.

WHAT’S NEXT?

I’m going to start revising my second novel once again, with new knowledge.

And I’m going to keep writing.

It’s my 53rd birthday today and I’m getting a copy of War and Peace. I’m planning to also read Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov as a study in the next few weeks. I also need to finish Anna Karenina. The movie version is good, but not good enough.

I also have asked my girls for a series of books that PBS and my local book store, Interabang Books put together this summer–100 supposed best loved novels–that I intend to read. Some of them I don’t think belong on the list and won’t read, but a good many I will. Some I already have and just have never read.

The goal in all of this is to make me a better writer, but what it’s also doing is making me a better person. Opening my mind and horizons. Making me think and relaxing my soul. My body is not in a condition to do what it once was able. I’ve been doing all I can the past two and a half years to get help from doctors to get it fixed. In the meantime, I’ve been getting my heart, mind, soul and writing ready for when I am free to walk normally in the world again.

Two years later, that’s the greatest gift I can give myself.

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Thanksgiving 2018

Nov 21, 2018 by

Thanksgiving 2018

My how the year has flown. Preparations are underway for Thanksgiving 2018. The Christmas decorations are already in place–three trees inside this year–four if you count the Charlie Brown tree–and the special Christmas City across the bar between the dining room and kitchen needs to annex another area, perhaps it moves to under one of the trees next year. Some say I should wait to decorate for Christmas until after Thanksgiving, but I never do anymore. I want to get the most out of what Christmas can be and decorating, particularly early, gives me hope.

Maycee, looking for Janet’s damned stray cats or Santa Claus, Thanksgiving 2018.

My three girls are coming tomorrow. This year Chandler, the eldest, is bringing a cheesecake. The elder twin, Reagan, has made dressing for her friends at work by having me FaceTime with her and talk her through the process. Haley, the younger twin (by seven minutes) has made a family favorite–chicken broccoli casserole. I don’t know if she’s bringing any with her tomorrow, but it has been a joy the past few months to see traits in me come bursting out of the girls that I didn’t realize I’d ingrained in them so deeply.

This is an unexpected side of parenting that I’ve not experienced before, at least not to this degree–not since they have become so independent as they have become. They are encountering the hardships that life has to offer and to break the pain or strain of a situation, they’re resulting to some of my jokes to cheer each other up, and doing so when I’m not there. “This is when Dad would say … ” and then they all chuckle and giggle and it’s funny to them because they know I’d be there to add levity to a situation that has none.

That gives me comfort as I grow older, as I deal with the pain that has been inflicted upon my body the past two and a half years and feels like it’s never going to leave. But things like what I’ve mentioned above, the cooking of my recipes, the telling of my bad jokes, gives me hope, courage and comfort. I’ll be missed when I am gone, but I’ll also keep on living through my girls–no sons.

And that realization is probably the best and truest blessing God could bestow on me this Thanksgiving.

It’s been another hard year of dealing with the pain in my back. The lumbar is still wreaking havoc. This summer and fall, the thoracic spine has been out of whack. Hopefully, before New Year’s and the out-of-pocket reverts to a massive sum on the first, a lot can be done to at least settle my thoracic down. Other ailments have cropped up I never would have guessed possible. My doctors are working on those.

But my daughters are growing up into fine young women and I’m more proud of them each and every day. My church family has stood by me even though my attendance, largely because of the fatigue from the Crohn’s disease and back pain, has been dismal. And I’ve met some great people in the medical field who truly care about the health and well-being of others.

And of course, I have to mention Maycee, my dog. Yes, she barks to ward off my next-door neighbor Janet’s damned stray cats, and she can’t stand the neighbor at the end of the building who owns the German Shepard, but Maycee loves me in a way I cannot describe. Anyone who says dogs don’t know how to love their owners clearly has cats.

I will miss lunch tomorrow with my three brothers, sister and Mom as they gather in Montgomery, Alabama. Dad will eat with family in Northern Indiana. I wish I could be in three places at once. Nonetheless, I am so thankful for the love of my daughters and dog, Maycee. I could not have made it through 2018 without the four of you. There is just no way. Thank you. Now God bless us every one.

 

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Passively Suicidal

Oct 27, 2018 by

Passively Suicidal

Passively Suicidal–That’s a new term I’ve learned, something I’ve become because of the pain I’ve been in the past two and a half years. Mental health professionals who are treating me say I am at risk.

I am not having ideations, I don’t have a plan, I don’t want to harm myself or anyone else. That’s what makes it passive. I’ve just been through so many surgeries, procedures to evaluate what’s causing pain in my back, had my hopes raised and dashed, had epidurals, rhizotomies, an ENG, a needle while I was conscious put into my Lateral Femoral Cutaneous Nerve, haven’t been able to walk 15 yards without wanting to cry out in pain, (I can go about 100 yards at present), can’t stand up without being in great pain, can’t roll over without pain shrieking around from my T9-10 discs around my rib cage making me not want to breathe, and then this week, after a colonoscopy last Friday–one I had to have again this year because last year I had a  large obstruction and we had to do it again this year to ensure I didn’t have cancer–my doctor found I have a new problem, Crohn’s Disease, one that explains the incredible fatigue and lack of ability to concentrate that’s been increasing in recent months–well, all that is what makes it passive.

That is what led me to get in the car Wednesday of this week and drive to a local psychiatric hospital in Dallas and ask whether or not I needed to be admitted. They decided I didn’t since I’m not having ideations. Since I have no plan to harm myself or anyone else. Since I just feel hopeless and helpless.

In February of 2017, a psychiatrist interviewed me before they put in my pain stimulator and said he was surprised I wasn’t depressed already.

“Welcome to the party, pal,” said John McClain.

So Why Should I Share This With The World?

Wouldn’t it be better to keep all of this private? Well, maybe. But here’s the thing. God has me on a journey. I’m supposed to be learning from all of this. And what good is all this knowledge if it is kept secret? The whole point of learning and telling stories is for them to have some meaning. For the person on the journey to have gained some knowledge and to share some secret elixir gained from his/her quest.

A few years ago I lost a brother-in-law who wasn’t passive when it came to suicide.

My precious sister still struggles with the mess of his decision. Her kids, too.

November 11, my sister Kim is having a walk in her neighborhood as part of a national program to raise awareness about Suicide Prevention. If you’re in Montgomery, Alabama you can sign up at AFSP.org/MontAL

Now that I have seen the light of this darkness, I feel obligated to share.

I am in a scary place.

I believe in God. But I have been so ill, sore, hurting, and tired, I’ve not been able to make it to church in months. My sleep schedule is shot to hell and back. Last Sunday I got up on time to go. By the time I was shaved and showered and ready to get dressed, I was still in the window of time where I could make it to first services. But I was exhausted from the exertion of getting ready. So I got back in bed. And slept. I got up at 11:30. Ate lunch. Read a little. And then slept another two or three hours. Read some more. Had dinner. Read some more. Then went to bed.

But here’s the thing. When I sleep, I don’t sleep for more than two or two and a half hours at a time.

A Hard Thing To Do

Getting out of the car Wednesday and walking into the hospital was hard. I kept hearing the voice of my father, a former Air Force instructor pilot scoffing at me. An Air Force pilot would, in his days, never have been caught near a hospital like that. When I came out afterward, Dad had seen the group texts and called me. Said he was proud of me for going to the hospital.

Regardless, it was hard to go in there. Would they keep me? What about my dog? Who would take care of her? What about all the other doctors’ appointments I have scheduled? How would I get to them? If they took my phone how would I schedule the mylogram (spinal tap with dye and then CT scan of my spine) I have for this coming Wednesday? I could think of so many reasons not to walk through that door.

But I knew the depth of the tunnel was getting further and further from the light.

Don’t Be Afraid

If you are in the same place, (maybe not in the same pain, but discouraged–not wanting to kill yourself, but wouldn’t be sad if you didn’t wake up tomorrow) I encourage you to be brave and take the step toward the light. The medical professionals whom I have met all have been kind and caring. I’ve yet to meet Nurse Ratched. They want to help. In my day program yesterday, even the other clients/patients were friendly and wanted to help. At first I had trouble deciding if they were patients or therapists they were so helpful. I was overwhelmed with kindness.

Take the first step if you need to. Please. Don’t live with this elephant on your shoulder. Get some help. Your family needs you. That’s what I have kept telling myself all along.

And somewhere in all of this, God has a plan for me.

And as my friend Kim has told me from Bible class, I have a biblical name I’m supposed to adopt from my trials. At this writing, it seems like it must surely be Job.

 

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