I’ve been hunkered down since the end of February. It’s now June. More than 3 months of not going anywhere, doing anything or seeing anybody is getting seriously old. But of course I’ll keep doing it because I do want to actually get old: I want that more than I want to see a friend smile and share a hug, more than I want a pint of Guinness (and, oh, I really fucking want a pint of Guinness), more than I want to get new blinds to replace all the ones the kitties have destroyed, more than a latte and croissant, more than to beat the shit out of a heavy bag at the boxing gym (and, oh, you have no fucking idea, none, how very much I want to hit something right now). And on and on.
The last week has been the hardest so far. First, all our technology broke at once: the lights on the stove won’t turn off; the van battery failed and took the SureDeploy ramp system with it; the wheelchair lift keeps getting stuck; and even the fucking electric kettle stopped working. Then right next door we have heavy construction machinery grinding away from 7 am to 9 pm. Our house is like a sound box but I can’t get away from the noise that rumbles through my bones and sets my teeth on edge. On top of that we’ve had thunderstorms and torrential rain that have driven the kitties crazy which of course means they’ve driven me crazy. Our city—like so many US cities—is going up in flames and wreathed in tear gas, and I see and hear of so many people trying so very hard to help each other and being fucked over by the small-minded, mean-spirited, selfish white gits who just want to burn it all down and/or shoot it. None of this is being helped by being unwell, absolutely wound tight and flattened at the same time by bizarre histamine responses despite being on double and triple doses of every antihistamine known to human kind. My body has gone into inflammatory overdrive: I can’t sleep, all my joints and tendons are swollen, and I hurt. My head aches. I can’t think, and when I look ahead all I see is personal and global stress and uncertainty.
But, eh, I’ve been through that sort of crap before. So what will I do? I’m going to try figure out some jury-rigged punching bag. I’m going to dutifully attend my telemedicine appointments. I’m going to set Freedom first thing every morning (which is something I’ve let slip since mid-February) so my day doesn’t start with terrible news. I’m going to sit on the deck and read already-published fluffy adventure novels and cheap thrillers. If it rains I’ll head inside and watch crappy TV of the arealistic variety (spaceships, sword-swangin’ fantasies, save-the-world-from-existential-threat thrillers, you know the kind of thing). I’m going to tend my flowers—which I just started, a week ago, so everything’s at the tiny, tentatively-unfurling stage (see above)—fire up the grill and put some Champagne in a bucket to chill. And, most importantly, I will start ignoring requests from other people. While in general I do of course care about various writing nonprofits, and disability advocacy, and other writers’ careers, and libraries, and bookshops, and every other damn thing, I care more about my need for stepping off the merry-go-round and about my long-term emotional health. In other words my watchword for June will be SELF-care.
So if you email me and I don’t respond, it’s not personal. If you think maybe I didn’t get your email, feel free to resend, but I’ll probably just ignore that, too. If I owe you something—a blurb, a reading, an interview—and you don’t get it, it’s not personal. It might feel personal but, hey, it’s not you, it’s me.
With self-care as my mantra, I’m heading for a June that promises to be better than May. I wish the same for you.