Six days shalt thou labour, and shalt do all thy works. But on the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God: thou shalt do no work on it, thou nor thy son, nor thy daughter, nor thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy beast, nor the stranger that is within thy gates.
EXODUS 20:9-10 DOUAY-RHEIMS
Sunday is my writing day. I am not feeling like writing at the moment. I have ambitious things I can work on, but I don't have the energy for that today. Someone once said that if you are suffering from writer's block then you should write about writer's block. I am going to write about writing. I may write about some other things along the way.
The great mystery of my accident is that God spared my writing ability. He was not so kind to my working ability. I would trade this writing thing for the working thing in a heartbeat. Work puts food on the table. Writing just keeps you from blowing money on frivolous toys, hobbies, and pleasures.
I could write every single day of my life, but it would be the only thing I did with my life. I have to use my energy wisely because I have to keep living and not be a burden on my already overburdened wife. During the week, I do not write except to jot down notes for writing ideas. Before my accident, I would just start writing whenever I had an idea. I tried to do that after the accident and discovered the foolishness of that strategy. Writing is exhausting work, and I have daily chores and errands that need tending. I can barely do those at my present energy levels. A day job is out of the question because I would be wiped out just trying to get to that job.
I hate my life. I can't beat around the bush on that. This is not what I wanted for my life. Work gave me dignity and purpose in my life. Now, the bulk of my day is spent in a dark room with my eyes closed trying to destimulate and build up the energy to do an hour of yard work. I was walking almost daily, but I hurt myself this year because of my poor coordination. Both the walking and the yard work have suffered. I go into screaming fits if I think too much about it.
My priest gave me acceptance as my penance at my last confession. There were no Hail Marys and Our Fathers. He just told me to learn acceptance. My brain damage is my penance in this life. I have to accept it.
I am exhausted now and need to stop writing. I don't know when I will get back to this post. You, Gentle Reader, do not know what is going on behind the scenes. You get a finished product to read with no clue as to what it took to get it written. Many of these posts have taken weeks, months, and even years to complete.
I am now back to this post except I find that I don't have anything to add to what I've already written. I try not to whine about the TBI, but I find that not talking about it leads people to think I am normal or miraculously cured. A few minutes in person with me dispels that pretty quickly. I am exhausted now, and I am abandoning this post where it is now.
