On a day like today, I couldn’t make much progress in “The Story.” My spine is flaring up from pain too much and it feels so oppressive that I honestly doubt I will ever feel better. I don’t know what will happen. On days like today, having written “Novel 01” felt so far away, and writing “Novel 02” feels impossible. Even though my neuropathy is getting worse, I’ll still keep on doing my best to write something.
Spoilers?: Minor [thinking within thinking]
I don’t feel inspired to write anything today.
Were it not for my daily commitment to myself years ago, I wouldn’t even be writing at all, but if I didn’t write these daily essays, then what would I be doing with my life? Perhaps in some large way, these essays keep me on the right path. Without them, what would I be doing with my life? I can’t do much more in life than sit here at my writing desk and wait for my next doctor’s appointment. What will that next doctor say? He will want me to go back to work, and without giving me any time at all to help me understand how I can live with my pain, he’ll hurry me along, or, he’ll send me over to another doctor.
I don’t feel like I deserve to get better on days like today.
Having fought for as long as I have, through so many months and so many doctors as I have, I am at the point where each day is a challenge. I may feel good when I wake up but when I move around, my body starts its daily decline past the last into more pain and more agony. I constantly feel weak on days like today. I can barely push up my own body weight and my bodily functions tend to shut down on days like today, when the rest of my enthusiasm, too, shuts down.
Everything I do feels minor.
Whether that means everything I accomplish is insignificant or whether everything is insignificant depends on the perspective. In this map of Zeal, the fourth-wall-breaking area where I want to tell fiction that bends the traditional rules of fiction-writing – if my body doesn’t get overwhelmed by the pain and the neuropathy doesn’t shut down function to my left foot and my left hand – in several ways. I do have dreams and ambitions, mainly revolving around writing, and it’s the only thing that really truly feels real to me.
I am not excited by materialistic objects.
Maybe it helps that I don’t really find value in collecting things anymore.
When I buy things now, well let’s face it I haven’t been able to buy anything in weeks, and months if you exclude medicine and some fast food, it’s only out of utilitarian value. I guess I don’t feel like I want or deserve any high-dollar items. Why would I want something potentially envious? My life is not envious. You would not envy how I feel on a daily or hourly basis. I can barely do much of anything and my body feels like it’s falling apart.
It sucks continually fighting with no results.
Yesterday’s doctor’s appointment was mainly a waste of time. I would give him a C rating, or C+ at best, and that’s the best that the American Healthcare System tends to get. When I talk to others, they express similar experiences, so there isn’t really much else I can do other than gamble and put my life into the hands of doctors that refer me to specialists in the game of hot-potato to avoid specific responsibility. Twice now I’ve had physiatrists refer me to pain management doctors, and twice now I’ve had pain management doctors refer me to either a physiatrist or a spine doctor. I’ve seen a physiatrist/pain management doctor, but he referred me to physical therapy rather than giving me any particular recovery plan.
All the while, it gets harder for me to do much of anything.
My health has been declining over the past month. I don’t know when it’s going to be, but I think there will be a time in the near future where I won’t to be able to do much of anything. I might be able to get out of bed, maybe get some food to eat, maybe sit here and watch stuff to take my mind off of the constant pain I’m in, but I’m losing the ability to do significantly much more than that. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to row again. I don’t think there will be any chance I can do anything physical at all again. This is the life that was forced on me by the many doctors that saw me, maybe didn’t even consider my case much at all, and processed me along through the system.
How long until they make me feel like I deserve this?
The doctor yesterday said some people have to deal with chronic pain forever. I wonder… If he experienced chronic pain, how many months would he try his best to remove that pain that happens when he would move around – as he advised his patients to do? How long would he do his best to be as reasonable as he could to doctors? On days like yesterday and today, there isn’t much that I can do to write or build anything of value when I can barely do much of anything.
I feel hungry but I don’t really have the energy to make anything.
And what would I make? I have food in my pantry, but it’s highly-processed food that’s not great to eat. It’s just going to worsen the symptoms. I have to wait for the next doctor’s appointment now to find out that I’m being referred to another doctor, and then another doctor, and by that point, I probably won’t even have any sensation in my left foot.
But, hey, at least I made some progress to the cafeteria.
|Sources: The Story’s Imaginarium.|
|Inspirations: I guess I wrote more about my life but what could I really write about my fiction?|
|Related: Essays helping build “Novel 02.” This novel is formally called “A Story About Self-Confidence: Something About Anxiety,” and is a sequel to “Novel 01,” which is part of the Sammohini Arc of “The Story.”|
|Written On: 2021 February 02 [10:56pm to 11:24pm]|
|Last Edited: 2021 February 02 [First draft; final draft for the Internet.]|