It’s been a little over two weeks since I underwent GRS out in Montreal. It’s an experience I’ll hopefully be relatating elsewhere in the next little while, so I won’t dwell too much on it here, but I’ll say it’s easily one of the biggest things I’ve done, definitely one I feel good about, and GRS Montreal was a wonderful experience from top to bottom.
But since then, I haven’t done much.
Typically, I’m the kind of person who’ll walk something like 10,000 steps a day or more. I’m not a gym rat or anything, but I like to be active. I like having things to do: going for walks, hitting the thrift store, taking a drive. Surgery changed all of that for me. Instead of being on my feet all day, I’m in my bed. Instead of walking around, I’m sitting on my duff. Instead of taking the time to write, I’m relaxing and concentrating on getting better.
Needless to say, this is a big change for me.
At the best of times, I don’t exactly think of myself as too active of a person, but I think I do alright. I work hard, but think I could be working harder. I write here and there, but I could be pitching to more outlets. But lately, I haven’t been doing anything. I haven’t written anything since my last post, I haven’t done much pitching and I know I could be working harder. My mindset is that of a workaholic, or at least someone with self-esteem issues. Someone who’s hard on themselves for not meeting unrealistic goals. This is why I’m seeing a professional, someone who can help me get past this attitude.
The other day, I was talking with them and told them it was hard not to compare myself to other people, especially other writers who went through similar experiences and still seemed to be productive. One, for instance, wrote a short story while recovering from surgery; another was able to work on her freelance obligations while recovering. I look at them and I think: what are they doing that I’m not? What makes me think I’m so special that I can just sit around all day, read WH Auden and fool around on Twitter?
The truth of it is, I’m not that special. If anything, the people mentioned above are the special ones, people with an uncommon amount of zeal and work ethic. I’m just a regular person. I can’t expect to be super productive at this point. And maybe not even just productive.
I went through a major surgery. It was invasive and limiting. I have trouble bending over and I’m not supposed to lift over ten pounds. I have aftercare: dilating, cleaning and icing, four times a day. It’s a process that takes about two hours from start to finish, and there’s only about three hours between sessions. I’m literally planning my days around these sessions. They’re hard, they’re awkward and they’re painful. And yet, there’s a part of me that’s like “Why aren’t you doing more? Why are you being so lazy?” But I’m not being lazy, I’m just focused on self-care for one time in my life.
I think the worst part of all this has been the painkillers. I was taking Tramadol, and while it helped me manage the pain, it left me feeling drowsy and foggy all the time. It was like moving in a daze all the time, a feeling that no amount of coffee was able to snap me out of. Believe me, I tried. It kind of sabotaged my plan: I brought the thickest book I own to Montreal (William Gaddis’s novel The Recognitions) because I figured I’d have a lot of downtime. But instead, I would read a page, not grasp anything on it, then have to read it again and again. Maybe that works for something that’s a tight 192 pages, but Recognitions weighs in at something like 950 pages, not counting the introduction.
The same thing happened with writing, too. I’d draft out an idea, then struggle to get the words on the page. It felt like something was clogging the pipes, a feeling I really hated. Stuff that usually comes pretty easy to me was a struggle, like squeezing icing out of a bag into a neat and tidy line. I did manage one thing, but it was on something easy: myself.
At the same time, this feeling of doing nothing has been pretty good in other senses. My anxiety has plummeted: the feeling of dread I usually have on a daily basis has vanished, and my sleeping is less disordered. It feels pretty good, if I’m being honest. Maybe it’s a sign of something? Could it have anything to do with me taking time off my day job? Who knows?
I’ve also been lucky in the help I’m getting. My girlfriend has been staying with me, helping in more ways than I can count. My parents have grabbed supplies and food, taking a load off us. And the support I’ve gotten online, from friends and strangers, has touched me deeply. It means a lot when someone takes time out of their day to wish me a good recovery or to say they’re proud of me.
As I hit the two week mark, I’m a mix of emotions. Some of them are good, some not so good. I’m happy and sad. I feel like a creep when I tweet too much, but I also value the connections I’ve made over Twitter. I think I could be doing more, but I’m doing a lot in other ways. It’s hard and sometimes tedious, but I’m happy I made this decision and I know it was the right one.