State of the Ria

So I decide to phase out reviewing in order to focus on my own writing, and then, uh… don’t. I have written nothing. I haven’t had the brain-space for it.

I’ve made no secret of my ongoing health problems, but for those who don’t follow me on Twitter of Facebook and thus might not have heard my ranting and railing… In a nutshell, for a few years now, I’ve been dealing with worsening pain, which kind of came to a head last summer after a couple of nights of insomnia just sent me spiraling over the edge. Since then it’s been a non-stop rollercoaster of pain, of decreasing mobility, of continued insomnia broken up by periods of not being able to do anything but sleep, of fatigue that leaves me incapable of doing much beyond vacantly watching TV shows and YouTube videos that I’ve already watched a dozen times, because my brain has no space for anything new.

Which, sadly, includes writing. I’ve been plotting and planning a novella I want to write, to get me back into the swing of things before I tackle something longer and more complicated, but beyond taking notes, nothing’s been written. I sit down, I open a new document, and just… can’t focus.

Brain fog. Ain’t it grand?

Every day or night in which I don’t write something, I feel guilty. Right now, I’m not just a neutral presence in this household, but instead I’m one that takes but cannot really give back. I can’t work, I can’t earn money, and so we’re trying to get by on one income. One income which is keeping us afloat, because we know how to live frugally when we need to, but there are so many things that would improve our qualify of life and our health that we just can’t afford. And if I’m blunt, it’s mostly because of me.

Right now I live in that horrible limbo state of being too disabled to work but not so obvious disabled that I can get government assistance. The laws where I live are kind of bullshit in that regard: to qualify for government disability assistance (which would let me draw a monthly cheque of maybe $500-550, and that would help so damn much right now…), I’d need signed forms from a doctor stating my diagnosis and affirming that this diagnosis means I will never be able to work again, or else am going to die relatively soon. It seems that the government thinks that disability only ever comes from a sudden terrible accident, or is something that will kill you quickly. Nothing in between.

I do not yet have a diagnosis. I’m still waiting for 2 tests to be done: a muscle biopsy to see if I have something destroying my muscles (very unlikely, given other test results, but still possible) and an EMG to see if my peripheral nerves are dying. If either of those tests show anything, cool, I have a diagnosis. If not? …I dunno, fibromyalgia, I guess?

None of the likely diagnosis are curable things, either. Treatable sometimes, to a degree. Manageable, with lifestyle changes (such as ones I wish I could afford right now). But nothing I’d ever be able to face and say, “Ah yes, I know I’ll get my old life back at the end of this.”

And believe me, the stress of that hanging over me isn’t doing my attention span any favours, either.

I want to work. I want to earn money, to contribute to the household, to stop feeling like nothing but a burden.My partner’s pretty good about it, but I’m well aware of the reality of my situation. Unless I can do something at home, setting my own hours, then my options are practically non-existent.

Which bring me back to why I feel guilty for not writing. If I write, I might be able to sell. If I sell, I earn money. If I earn money, I feel like I’m worth something, because I can contribute and improve our lives. I might not be the best writer, and maybe I only have a snowball’s chance in hell at actually earning anything that way, but it’s something I can strive toward. I can try. Sometimes just trying makes me feel like I’m not entirely useless.

If only this damn brain fog would shift and let me actually do what I want to do!

But hey, maybe I’ll manage to pull myself out of these mental mists and put fingers to keyboard and in a few months, you’ll be critically eyeing my attempt at writing something with textiles and ghosts and sacrifices. Maybe it won’t even suck! Got to keep my fingers crossed, right?

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