Transfer #8 from Blogspot

It all comes down to this?

 

My paternal grandmother was always a rather unhappy person.  She was unhappy mainly because she rarely felt well, and her list of complaints ran the gamut – sore shoulder, sore teeth, bad vision, bad tastebuds. Her most famous complaint, though, the complaint no one in my family will ever voice aloud should we suffer from the same because we so don't want to sound like my Grandma Bray, was migraine.  Many days during my father's childhood, my grandmother banished him from the house and went to bed with a migraine.  It is an exile my dad remembers to this day and hasn't been able to forgive, still haunted when he remembers practicing his trumpet on the banks of the Boyne River instead of in his room.  My Grandmother didn't allow him to have friends over, either – too much racket that could potentially trigger her headache. 

Of all the people in my family I never wanted to turn out like, my Grandmother Bray tops the list.  I swore I would never dramatically rub my elbow or develop a 'delicate' cough in front of company because we all knew, yes, we knew that she was simply BEGGING FOR ATTENTION. 

                                                                           segue

So I went to the eye doctor this week.  Some trouble with my vision, I explained.  Weird colors.  Probably I'm going blind, I said.  I can't go blind,  I pleaded.  My eye doctor was very reassuring and I sort of wanted to leave Sam and move in with Doctor Wong, who handed me tissues when my eyes stung from dilation drops.  Here's a man who'll really take care of me, I actually thought.  Sam's bedside manner is…lacking.  And the irrational health fears that practically strangle me with the cliched vice-like grips don't do me any favors – I probably see more doctors, dentists and optomologists in a year than any of you.  Seriously. That's a  challenge – I can throw down.  Anyway, lovely, single, handsome Dr. Wong responded with –

"Migraine. Auras."

"But I don't get headaches."

"Still, your eyes are very healthy.  You need to see a doctor with migraine expertise.  Or else you have a brain tumor."

Dr. Wong obviously didn't know who he was working with.

A BRAIN TUMOR???? IS HE KIDDING ME?  So since then every mistyped word, every lag in thought is symptomatic of impending doom.  Yep.  It's just me and my brain tumor,hanging out.  I called to get a workup but I can't get in for a month despite the fact that I explained, you know, about my brain, but apparently people call about brain tumors all the time but very few actually have them.  I am one of many hysterics, probably all victims of Dr. Wong's soft hands and passive aggressive diagnoses.

But see, here's the thing.  I know myself.  I know myself.  Lately I've had some anger directed at some people, but because I am just so nonconfrontational I can't bring myself take the steps necessary to disseminate that anger into the world.  And I'm receiving huge projects at work, with huge budgets.  And this is the year for me to succeed  as a writer, I can feel it.  And all of this adds up to my brain (and the tumor) trying to sabotage me, trying to force me to give up on my goals and just settle into tv and mediocrity for the rest of my life. Because for me, success has always been scary.  Scarier than failure,for sure.  And my body has never enjoyed change or stress or anything much besides sex and carbohydrates. 

Anyway.  The more I think about it, and the more I free-write about it, I realize I don't know one NORMAL writer.  One writer who sleeps the night through, every night, all the time.  I've since decided that people who never have trouble sleeping don't overthink as much – my mom is a perfect example of this.  I mean, I love her to death, but while the possibility of Iran's nuclear program growing is making me lose hair, she is obsessed with finding a new winter coat on sale.  And I wish I could think (ruminate? obsess?) a little less, and relax a little more.  Because I actually don't think I have migraines.  I think I work myself over so much, all of the time and that's just the way I am. That's it.  I don't sleep well every night.  I spend too much time in front of computer screens and my eyes sometimes hurt, not to mention my poorly healed pelvis.  And I no longer worry about buying  a house or settling down or my crappy couch or any of that because this is a year to DO GREAT THINGS, and if I have to overcome fake migraines and fleeting thoughts of cancer and obsession with heart disease, I will.

Well. This is more journaly than I intended.  I apologize.  But really, do you know any normal writers? Writers without some sort of obsession or compulsion? Sam thinks my overt attention to the physical is often the genesis for my best writing.  Interesting.

Are you wanting more public thoughts? You know, I'm so over our country right now, I'm not even reading the front page of the newspaper.  Really, I'm just biding my time until Hilary comes out swinging so I can hop on the campaign trail for her.  Love her or hate her, it's gonna be a great ride, and one I'm fully convinced will happen.  Until then, it's just gonna be bush lecturing us on being "supportive" of his tired war, and bunch of old white men shaking their fingers at us from the House and Senate.  It's all, oil and gas and gas and oil and abortion and murdering prisoners so there's not too much else to say, right now. 

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2 Responses to Transfer #8 from Blogspot

  1. very amazing stories here and your writing is great! thanks for sharing. nancy

  2. Nice site. very good information. I really like it, keepthe good job. You can also visit my site at <ahref=\\\\

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