One of my biggest writing fears is that my day job will zap out all my creative energy and I will be void of ideas or feeling. Another of my fears is that my pain will return and I will be bed bound again, left in a writhing agony from the waist down, unable to obtain the four or five hours sleep I take each morning, told that the Doctor does not know, the Psych team cannot help and slowly losing my fingertips grip on reality as everyone else goes about their business whilst I wonder what goes on inside me.
Both fears dangle precariously before me. My invisible illness is stress induced. Pre-Menstrual Disphoric Disorder – or whatever. I casually toss the whatever remark in as I list fifteen suggested different diagnosis’ in my memoir, BabyCakes – fifteen.
I lie here, I would say unable but really un-wanting to get up. A pelvic pain sends tremors through my body. Forked lightening striking arbitrarily at unknown moments and locations around my body. A seeping, searing, snaking pain. A painful poisonous pouring out of acerbic acid across my abdomen.
Head in hands, how did it come to this?
My invisible illness is stress induced but I did not see this coming. Over the last few weeks I have written less and less. The ideas escape me, my despondency thwarts any attempt to produce the very words that spur me on.
Work is pressure, work is unyielding and unsatisfying. I try to ‘man-up’ whilst the woman in me brings me down. I don’t feel much like writing. I plod along. I moan some and moan more. Each day is the same yet different. I stay awake and try to ‘feel’ something, nothing comes; until now.
I cannot stay in bed. I develop a new fear, one of living in a pained, creatively zapped world, void of happiness.