Self confidence gets me through the first draft. Self doubt gets me through the revisions. I know I have something important to say. I just don’t think anyone else wants to hear it. The constant back and forth is what keeps me writing. I know I can only become a better writer by writing. I just wish it wasn’t so hard…personal…scary…anxiety producing…time consuming…full of rejection. But if it wasn’t any of those things would it mean as much to me as it does now? If it was easy, would I lose the sense of accomplishment I feel when I fill a page with words?

After much hesitation and tinkering I finally sent my first short story out. St Martin’s press was running a contest for previously unpublished authors and I needed to start somewhere. I followed the submission rules and sent it off a few hours before the deadline.

The next night I dreamt the phone was ringing and when I answered it I heard “This is St Martin’s Press. Congratulations on being our…second place winner.”

Second place? It’s my dream and I still can’t win?

The hospital called today to schedule my next ERCP for October 19th. The plan is to put in two stents (in the pancreatic duct and the bilary duct) that will stay in place for 2-3 months. If the ducts remain open and I don’t have any pancreatitis attacks during this time then we can be certain that the narrowing of the ducts is causing all the problems and develop a plan for moving forward. I doubt we will ever know why this all started in the first place. If I’m still feeling good next week I may cancel the ERCP and wait until I have another attack. I don’t want to mess with a good thing.

I still haven’t been able to start running again but I actually pulled my bicycle off the wall and aired up the tires last week. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit but I never rode a bike that much growing up. I bought this one after my first half marathon when my foot was hurting. I figured that when I couldn’t run I would ride the bike. Needless to say I’m a runner at heart so that bike has hung on the garage wall for the last three years. I’m up to eight mile rides twice a week. I’m trying to get my but accustomed to the seat. The other days I’m walking on the treadmill for 2-3 miles while I watch TV. I’m doing what I can.

The dictionary definition of depression is: sadness greater and more prolonged than that warranted by any objective reason

So I can’t be depressed if I have an objective reason to be sad? What’s a good enough reason to be sad?

I don’t know if I am depressed but after fifteen months things have changed.

I’ve been taking more medication because I can’t handle the pain anymore.

I’ve been leaving work more often instead of sticking it out at my desk.

I’ve been going to bed early instead of hanging out with Cory at night.

I no longer expect to get better. I don’t look forward to tomorrow.

 I don’t know if these things point to depression but if I’m not there yet, I’m getting close.

In the past I took my pain medicine when it got really rough. This past attack has been going on for three weeks now and I’ve resorted to taking the pills on a schedule. Small ones during the day, so I’m not too stupid at work. Bigger ones when I get home. Staying on top of the pain is so much easier than playing catch up.  I’ve also been going to bed around 8:00 lately which is severely limiting my abilities to be a good wife and friend.

I feel like I have lost 20 IQ points over the past few weeks. I have a tendency to rattle on and on about subjects that nobody else cares about. I’ve drifted off during meetings unable to follow the conversation. My legs are covered in bruises from bumping into things. I feel stupid most of the time.

Today, thankfully, has been a good one. I’m waiting on the results from the MRA I had on Monday and keeping my fingers crossed that they find something on the scans. For some reason bypassing broken blood vessels sounds better than rerouting intestines.

The pattern has continued. I’ve been sick since 9-1.  After the ERCP’s I usually feel better for two to four weeks. The pain is there but manageable. I don’t have to take the pain pills and I start looking forward to the future. Then I have another attack and the future is put on hold. Usually the attacks last for three to five days but this time I have been sick for twelve days so far. I need it to stop.

I saw the doctor last Tuesday. She explained what they found during the last ERCP and we talked about what happens next. She used a few words that I wish she hadn’t.

Failing – as in – “You’re failing all the standard treatments and therapies we use to treat this condition.”  

Extreme – as in – “You’re what we call an extreme case because you’re not responding to treatment.”

Surgery – as in – “They bring up a section of your small intestine and attach it directly to your pancreas, bypassing the valves and ducts that are causing all the problems.”

Nationwide – as in – “I think it’s time that we look nationwide for a pancreatic surgeon that has performed hundreds of these procedures.”

WTF – as in – Why has this happened to me?

In summary, I have a rare condition that causes the valves in my pancreatic duct to malfunction, causing scarring and narrowing of the duct which in turn causes the enzymes that are supposed to digest my food to back up into my pancreas and digest my pancreas instead. Most people with this condition are helped by the standard treatments. I fall into an even smaller category since I have experienced only short term relief from the ERCP’s. My current doctors are at a loss and recommend I see somebody who is among a handful of doctors in the country that have experience treating people like me.

Again…WTF. Self-Pity has moved in to my guest room.

I don’t do happy.  I tend to create more serial killers than princesses. My characters are more apt to be seeking revenge then to be looking for love and I find sociopaths fascinating.

Cory doesn’t like my writing because he thinks it means I could be damaged or depressed or just plain crazy. Why would a happy person want to delve into the mind of a psychopath?

When I show my work to those outside my writing group will they see me differently? Will they be hiding the knives in case I snap?

What does our genre of choice say about us? Can happy people write about horrible things?

Do non-writers look at horror writers differently than those that write fantasy? Are all romance writers sex crazed and all science fiction writers geeks?

Maybe…maybe not.

I feel like the persistent spider (or was it an ant) using all her available energy to climb up the wall only to be knocked back twice as far.

I felt pretty good for five days or so. I even managed to get in two four mile walk/jogs this past weekend. But then Monday came and I had to break into the Percocet stash.

All I want is consistency. The doctors have told me not to expect a cure but to aim for a 60-80% reduction in pain and symptoms. I’m fine with that, I really am. The problem is that I have a few of these pain reduced days and my mind starts pretending I’m not sick. I make workout plans and running schedules. I look for races to run and beaches to visit. I think about working full time and how nice it will be to make money again.

The highs and lows are wearing on me. I’ve always been the type to have a plan, make lists and set goals. I used to have more control over my future.

I allow Oscar (Oscar is that which causes us physical or emotional pain-more on him later) to make me feel like a loser because I can’t do the things I want to do. I know it’s not fair to get so down on myself but I do it anyway. Sometimes I think it would be easier to always be sick and doped up because at least I would know what to expect everyday and I could plan accordingly. I know I shouldn’t think like this but sometimes I do.

 I started this blog with the sole intention of getting over my fear of public humiliation one short post at a time. Writing is such a private part of my life that I’ve only recently begun to show my work to others. The critique group I belong to, Denver Fiction Writer’s, has given me the confidence to share my fictional stories. They offer constructive criticism without making it personal, critiquing the story not the writer. They’ve been a blessing.

 But now I have this crazy idea to put together a book of essays and it’s freaking me out. Do I have the self confidence to reveal my innermost thoughts? Will people think I’m crazy? These thoughts and many others are constantly running through my mind trying to knock me off track.

 A third of my readers have already commented that I am too guarded. That I need to open up and share more about myself. How much is too much? Most of us learned at an early age that it’s impolite to talk about ourselves too much. It’s better to listen to what others have to say.

 Many days I’m lucky if the pain pills can get me through the day. My daily trials are insignificant compared to what others are facing. Does that mean I’m being selfish, whining about how unfair my life is when I know it could be worse? Do I have any right writing a book about navigating the emotions we face everyday when I’m still trying to figure it all out for myself?

 I want this book to be honest. I want to be able to talk about emotions, the real ones not the cleaned up versions we’re used to sharing. We know anger is a real and necessary emotion but we glance over it, refusing to really feel it within ourselves.

 We want to believe that we have it all under control. Sharing our anger makes us feel guilty. We should get over it. Deal with it. Quit being such a cry baby.

 Bullshit. If you’re angry, be angry. Feel the emotion. Learn how to control it and make it work for you rather than against you. Anger is just one example of a ‘bad’ emotion. The majority of us like to pretend these negative emotions don’t exist, but they do exist and my goal is to bring them out in the open one essay at a time.

I have a much greater respect for time now than I used too. It’s probably a combination of growing older and getting sick. Cory says I try to do too much. He may be right but I can’t give anything up. I have been thinking about my goals lately and have tried to come up with a schedule that will help me accomplish them. But I can’t squeeze enough time out of the day.

How can I choose what is most important to me?

Sleep keeps me happy.

My day job is a necessity.

Family time feeds my soul.       

Running is my stress releaser.

Writing is my psychotherapy.

Reading is my relaxation.

Being sick is my constant battle.

I am fortunate that Cory takes care of laundry and yard work. He makes it easier on me. Children would be impossible. I don’t know how parents manage to get anything done.

Being sick has hampered my ability to accomplish my goals as quickly as I want. I need to accept this and quit feeling guilty if I need to spend a day or two or three in bed. But it’s a fight. When you lose so much time to something out of your control, the hours you do have are much more important. I need to allow myself time to be sick without feeling like I’ve wasted the time I have left.

Work when I can. Rest when I need to. Stay focused  and grow

 When I decided to work on the new book I started out like I always do. I made lots of lists and notes in my notebook. I estimated chapters and word counts coming up with a brief outline of how I wanted it to flow. But when I sat down to start writing nothing came out. I would stare at the blank screen at a loss for words. Self doubt and bad thoughts were getting in the way.

 So I did what I normally do when I’m stuck, I went to Staples. I don’t buy shoes I buy office supplies. I found yet another notebook and some new pens. I stuck that notebook in my bag beside my netbook just in case. One day at my favorite writing spot my netbook battery was dead and I couldn’t get a seat close enough to an outlet. But instead of packing up and leaving I sat down anyway and pulled out the notebook.

 I flipped it open and started to write. My words were coming so fast my hand had a hard time keeping up with my brain. I sat and wrote for hours until my hand ached too much to continue. I have written every chapter so far in that notebook.

 Why is this? My first novel was written during the last NaNo entirely on that netbook. All the editing and reworking has also been done electronically. But this project is different. It’s personal. I’m not hiding behind characters to see what they think and feel I need to write about what I think and feel.

 The words flow from my brain, down my arm, through my fingers and onto the page. It’s a much more personal way of writing. I’m connecting with my inner self quietly and without all the pounding on a keyboard. Get in the flow and it feels like it could last forever.