I think about writing many times a day. That is to say, many times a day I find myself thinking about writing. During my evening walks, I look around my neighborhood and think about all the deep, meaningful things I could say. Of all the wry observations I could make. Of all the silly commentaries I could provide to entertain myself.
But when I get back home again, I don't write. I've neglected my blogs, my letters, and my journals. I've neglected my email. I just haven't felt like writing when actually presented with the chance.
The angel on my shoulder encourages me and fills my head with stuff and nonsense: Janet, you're not writing because you don't yet know how to express all the deep, impressive, and wonderfully moving thoughts you're having. You have a Master's degree with a focus on creativity theory: you know that you must incubate before you can produce an original idea, an original creation! You're just incubating!
The cynical, self-deprecating part of me has different thoughts all together: You're a scaredy cat. From the moment you learned to put pencil to paper, you've thought--at least glancingly--that you'd become an author. You are a good writer but will never have the guts or the willpower to be a great one, the one you know you can be. So you just rest on your laurels, write nothing, and tell yourself that you'd be great...if you were in the mood to try.
Of course the truth probably runs somewhere between those two extremes. I definitely know that elements of each argument hit a little too close to home--this suggests to me that both my kind and evil sides know a bit of what's going on inside my mind regaring my self-motivation (or lack thereof).
Writing this blog has helped me in ways I could never really describe. I have a sense of community with readers and with other folks whose blogs I read. There's a whole community of us out there, a community I tapped into at just the right time, right when I was feeling most isolated about my disease. Telling my friends and family was a big step--an important one that has improved relationships and opened lines of communication. But it's also hard to post about pain and suffering when you know your mom or sister or aunt or boyfriend could be reading. Strangers out there may sympathize with our migrainous plight and wish us well, but family and friends can be hurt reading about how much of a struggle it is to live with this illness day to day.
But back to the matter at hand. Since I've been back from Buenos Aires, I've not had one migraine. Not a one! I've relished the mere thought of being able to eat my meals in my own house. I've eated two meals out in two weeks. (Well, three meals if you count that very necessary 3 AM snack at Huddle house with Christa last weekend.) This is not like me. I tend to eat out a few days a week. But now the thoughts of rice and stir-fried vegetables trump any desire for pizza, heretofore desirable cream sauces and pasta, etc. I feel remarkably better when I eat well, and the truth of that was emphasized by the month in Argentina when I couldn't stick to my diet rules. Now I'm feeling no migraine pain and have no tummy issues. Whew.
However, something else is afoot. I'm exhausted, achey, tired, and more all the time. The list goes on and on. I've a sneaking suspicion something else is going on with my body. Next week I see the doctor again and will figure some more stuff out. Maybe results from yesterday's blood work will yield some answers.
All in all, things are going well and I'm confident they'll keep getting better. Hope you're feeling similarly about your own lives.