Notebooks

Drench yourself in words unspoken.

Live your life with arms wide open.  

Today is, where your book begins.  

The rest is still unwritten.  

-Natasha Bedingfield

I've sat down to write so many times I've lost track.  I get started then stop.  Something was always missing. Wittiness. A lesson. Humor. An ending that made sense.  Something!  I would always leave that writing for another day.  Another day never came.  Time after time, I'd go back to it, then scrap it and start over.  

Starting over.  What a funny notion.  An empty piece of paper, a blank slate, always clean and new.  Always. I mean, who would argue the best part of school starting was new notebooks.  No writing or markings, just waiting for fresh knowledge.  Ok, so I still love a new notebook.  

Losing someone you care for always makes you reflect on things, on your own notebooks of time; your blank pieces of paper.  The truth is, I'd been doing that for weeks.  Ever since the facial pain that didn't stop.  Ever since the immense fear of what would cause pain of a magnitude I never thought I would know.  Ever since the diagnosis.  

My pages suddenly seemed old and worn, like they'd been written on time and time again.  I had no humor.  I had no smile.  Only anger.  Plus, a brain that suddenly couldn't remember simple things, like numbers, actresses in movies, names of my daughters' friends.  It took so little time for scorn to creep into my notebook, like charred pages from a fire.  It took hold and didn't leave.  I was disappointed and frankly, pissed.  Plain and simple.  I even thought of not buying notebooks ever again.  Was that part of me forever lost?

With the diagnosis came a warning, "Take care of yourself and keep your stress level as low as you can."  Unfortunately, it's like mothers become wired to ignore their own needs.  I can't just drop everything, rely on others and take care of myself. How selfish! Even worse, asking for help somehow seemed like a sign of weakness.  A weakness I always viewed like that dead animal in the road that the crows consistently peck at the flesh until there is nothing left but bone. Everyone needed something from me and if that stopped, where would I be?  An old filled notebook with no room for new pages, discarded in a desk drawer?

The terrible part of having a health issue where you don't look sick, is the judgment that gets passed.  There are days I don't talk because the numbness and tingling sweeping across my cheek leaves me knowing pain isn't far away.  "Wow, she must be pissy today."  There are social events where I simply don't want to be with other people and pretend to be normal.  "She isn't any fun anymore."  There is panic over forgotten names, simple passwords you've known for years, words that once came so easily that don't come easily now.  "She is so ditzy sometimes."  I sometimes retract into a shell of what I once was, hoping to find that person once again.  “Wow, she is so standoffish.”  These aspects are not me and I'm learning people close to me have a hard time understanding these sudden changes.  I’ll let you in on a little secret.  Writing about me has never been easy just as talking about myself has never been easy either.  You should see the way I toil over my writing, always trying to find the perfect balance between not too much me but just enough of me.  Some days, I want to write silently in my pages, but then the words don't come.  My inner turmoil is brewing pretty severely. 

I realize there are far worse diagnoses and far worse diseases.  I couldn't shake the frustration that crept onto my pages day, after day, after day.  I know there were people saying, just focus on the good, forget the looming question marks, what ifs, fear.  Be happy for what you have.  Don’t focus on the torn pages or words that never come.  I couldn't just let it go.  I kept trying time and time again. 

So here I am, my notebook different than it once was.  Worn, tired, wrinkled, yet begging for a story.  And this story is inherently my own.  Just as no two notebooks are alike, no two stories are alike. Some are ho-hum, boring, left unread for days until someone returns, giving it a second chance.  Some are read, poured over, tears are shed; they just simply can't be put down.  I started this blog to be relatable.  Today I just feel burnt out, no energy, lost on my endless pursuit and coming in a very solid dead last.  So today, I write in my worn pages with eraser flakes invading the spiral binding to feel whole again, hoping to find a balance somewhere in the middle.    

So if you see my notebook lying around, as I tend to be forgetful these days, kindly return it to me like the heart of someone you love, given to you for a period of time to shape, mold,  and embrace.  It may look different than the last time, but it's still mine.  Buried in its pages are stories that led me in some way to this point and that I hope will help me find my way back.  I don’t know where “back” is as I know it doesn’t exist as I once knew it, but the shell of it remains. 

So here I am, starting over.  It is a funny notion.  Staring at that blank piece of paper before me; clean and new.  No one else can write these words, nor speak the words on my lips.  Today is where a new notebook begins, so very much unwritten. 

  

*In January of 2016, after being stricken with pain and numbness on one side of my face, I was diagnosed with Trigeminal Neuralgia (TN).  Wikipedia describes TN as a neuropathic chronic pain disorder affecting the trigeminal nerve (also known as the fifth cranial nerve: a three-branched nerve that carries sensations from the face to the brain and controls facial motor functions such as biting and chewing). The classic presentation of TN (type 1) is characterized by episodes of sudden, explosive severe pain along the trigeminal nerve, with periods of pain-free remission between attacks.  The atypical form of TN (type 2) presents with the paroxysmal pain of classic TN, but with the addition of a constant pain that fluctuates from a dull aching to an excruciating roar.  Trigeminal neuralgia is considered by medical experts to be one of the most painful conditions known to humankind.

I am lucky folks and I know it.  Mine was caught early and by medical professionals who cared.  Through medication I remain mostly pain free, so long as I do keep my stress level low.  And if you know me, that's hard for someone so high strung.  Thank you to everyone who has shown their care and concern.  For those of you who didn't know, please don't be angry at me. There never seemed an appropriate time to talk about this.  For the rest of you, forgive me for talking about myself for a bit, it honestly isn't my style.