Today I have spent most of my time in the bathroom. Suffice to say I’ve felt better. I am not sure if I have a virus/parasite/bacterial infection/absence of vital digestive flora/food allergy or if I’ve developed IBS. I am contemplating going to the doctor as I have had this problem on and off for almost 8 months. And no I haven’t lost any weight, in fact, this year I’ve put on weight!!! I used to have a very slim waist line but now I find my midsection is very strait and sometimes painfully bloated/hard.
I’ve had a hard time concentrating and find that when I write my ideas are being cut off before they can fully develop. I am not sure if it’s the physical strain of my illness and the resulting seizures or if it is a more insidious psychological issue. It’s like every one of my muses has undergone elective amputation. Each time I regard them I sense that something essential is missing. Perhaps they are simply unformed or disfigured such that I cannot decipher their orientation or intentions? I don’t have enough wool to make a sweater or even a sensible pair of gloves. My head is tragically, disconcertingly overflowing with amorphous microscopic fibers. I am proud of the writing I’ve done and more so of my commitment and discipline but I can’t help but feel that there is, inherent in my work, some unforgivable vacancy.
In the past year I have learned so much about myself and I have found a contentment which I had not previously known but there is still within me a fatal disconnect. My brain is full of dark rooms and faulty fuses. It seems to me that every thought/sentiment is a pair of nylon stockings ripping on ingress. I am exhausted and motivated at the same time. I am producing but not to whatever, most likely nonsensical, standard I’ve set.