Where have I been?
In hiding. In pajamas. Outside your window. On your Facebook, probably.
In the last six months I’ve spent more time on Facebook, YouTube, and following the life of Gordon Ramsay (he’s eating in Dubai! he’s cycling freakin’ everywhere; what an asshole) than on my own creative work.
Do you do this too? These periods where television and the internet are more appealing than actually making shit?
Does it make you depressed, yet you keep doing it? I call it my zombie life.
Sure, I’ve done some stuff. Since I last wrote I went whitewater kayaking, ran the Portland Half Marathon (what an asshole), and was diagnosed with an ovarian cyst.
There. So 3 interesting things happened in the last 6 months.
But then Doc said I needed an operation and to stop running. There was a small chance of cancer, so I had an MRI and a freaky week waiting for results. The results were: thankgodnocancer.
A week before my operation he said the cyst was shrinking. And now it’s entirely gone. Poof! My expensive disappearing problem.
So no operation and no clue why my pelvis still feels like a tiny lumberjack lives inside it. So that’s lovely.
Also, I got a little pudgy over the holidays from all that non-running I was doing and from overeating chocolate.
I got depressed. Because winter. And because I live in Oregon, where the sun hates you at least half the year and the sky looks like the underbelly of a whale.
And now, here I am. Attempting to pull myself out from under the enormous sky-whale. Is it springtime yet?
Quick. A story about a whale. I promise not to get all Moby Dick on you. It’ll be quick.
So when I was a child, my family went to the beach and we found a whale washed up on shore. It’s guts were hanging out. I remember the smell – so putrid you could hardly stand it. But I was so curious. So fascinated by this creature I’d never seen so close, or maybe not at all in real life. I had a disposable camera (Google it, kids) and I took pictures of the dead whale. Was it cruel, to document its death? I was a kid. I wanted to explore everything, every dark moment, to record and remember it all. But I lost the camera. Now all I have is my memory of it.
This is why I write, blog, document.
If I’m being really honest, in my darker moments, lately I’m afraid I’m losing this part of myself. That curious little girl who wanted to explore, to learn everything about the world.
I hope I’m on the path to getting it back, but I don’t know. What I do know is that writing is often my way forward. It’s why I’m here again.
So where have I been?
A bit lost. Stuck. Bored.
Yet here I am–poking, prodding, recording. Still standing. Maybe I haven’t lost that curious part of myself. Let’s see.