“Writing Paralysis”

I’m writing like someone might read this and it’s paralyzed me over the past week. You’re probably thinking, “Well, isn’t that the point?” I suppose but it’s like a ticking time bomb I want to drop off and run from. Essentially, “Here are my words -  now forget who said them.” It’s completely bizarre and should explain my writing style as I tried to explain to my son that after the past two years of recovery, I am learning to write again. He pushed back, saying I was learning to write a new way for this phase of my life and it is that gem and the others that casually fly out of his mouth that just bowl me over with how truly special he is. I didn’t lose anything, I am merely going through a new phase of life. One in which I’m foggier, slower and less sharp. A girlfriend of mine said that the world couldn’t handle me at my normal 111% and a slower, gentler version of me is welcomed.

The problem with this is that I have lost my wit. The quickness with which I could crack a joke or say something wry made me great as a bartender and when meeting new people but this slower, softer less caffeinated version who bird watches? Eh, she’s okay, I guess. Most folks would be happy they survived a stroke but not me, nope. I see the version of me that is gone and I’ve grieved for her and the life she thought she would live, the new chances that would come. I struggle day to day and sometimes doubt this second chapter my therapist keeps selling me. Because I did think I would have an opportunity to grow my career in this next phase and that is hard when you come across as a dullard. I mean, a writer with no wit?! However will I manage?

When I first pitched my radio show to the local programming committee meeting, one of the programmers took me under his wing saying, “I thought you were like me.” Like him? It was incredibly kind of him but I was also confused - was it noticeable? But I still hadn’t had proof that I had a stroke. I knew something had happened after my surgery, as I was doing fine and then could barely walk after the chest incident but I didn’t push with my healthcare as I was so grateful just to have any to heal. In this country and probably most of the world, once you cease to labor for money via your body, you feel like you are inconsequential and don’t even deserve care. My doctors would glance at me and assume I was fine inside because I looked fine on the outside. I still run into this problem and dread flying for this reason. Even with my cane, people can be so cruel when you need a little bit of extra help or time to get to your seat or just make your way through the airport. And I have no room to talk because I used to be one of those monsters, speed walking around people, getting in their blindspot and possibly upsetting their own PTSD.

I’m different now and it’s difficult to explain that to those closest to me because I am still trying to understand myself and this new body. I hope the writing gets better but it requires I practice it and this outlet helps me keep myself accountable, regularly producing something as I slowly feel braver to tell the story. Everyone has a story and I’ve always been fascinated by that but this has forced me to look at my own and see how it has affected me, especially in regards to the pain I carry around. I continue to work at releasing the weight of it but it is so much more than all of that. It’s the emotions stifled every time I swallowed my true feelings; every time I said “I’m fine,” even going as far as to make myself believe it; every time someone touched me without my permission, even just a casual brush of my shoulder, as men do; every time I laughed at the jokes my ex-husband would make at my expense, to the point that I stopped noticing it — there are so many instances of anger and resentment I swallowed to appease other people’s feelings over my own. I was taught that everyone’s comfort was more than mine and whether that was by patriarchy in general or my own family unit, I believe that women are forced to do that in order to get along with men, even men who love us.

My own father lived to a ripe old age of 78 and I feel envious of that although the last few years of his life weren’t the best but I’d take 78. I don’t see that being likely for myself or for a lot of us. Chronic illness due to trauma, pollution, epigenetics, COVID and other factors are aging us rapidly, some of us faster than others. In a weird way it makes life more manageable for people like me who battle such severe chronic, intense pain in our poor bodies when we realize we most likely don’t have 30 more years of battling our bodies. My mother died at 55 and my maternal grandmother passed away at 62. When we’re young we just assume that none of their issues necessarily affect us. I know I felt indestructible even though underneath it all I am not tough. I know I am after everything I’ve gone through but one doesn’t feel so tough when they’re randomly crying because only now are we feeling our emotions fully and not turning them down or trying to mute them. It’s 2026 and we’re feeling our feelings if we’re going to get off of this crazy train. Hang on tight — we’re all we got.