End of the Week

 Friday ended with me going to the doctor.

Thursday, I went to work, and got through it well enough. CC picked me up. I have decided to have her type for me. She needs work besides cleaning apartments. I need the help. I still have not heard from the woman who has part of the "Love Stinks" manuscript. One that looked trustworthy has not been so; I have called, sent emails, sent text messages without any response. What money I have needs to be spent well.

CC and I talked about my stories. She thinks I need to stop thinking about the stories of the Muncie lowlifes. Like E, she thinks I might be tempted to repeat those experiences, I told I felt the need to be a witness for those people's lives, that there are people like her whose lives need to be known, I do not see this as voyeurism, but an explanation, a demystification, a dive into reality rather than perpetuating stereotypes. I should mention here the only fictional excursions back into those days has been one novel and one short story. As for these notes, there will be a few. I think she understands, just as I think she will be watching me like a hawk for any recrudescence of old behaviors.

What I have not gotten across is the lack of desire on my part for my old lives. This I keep writing about here, that I did kill myself off in a way. I cannot think of anything I want back. It would be like a prisoner walking back into prison. E emailed me yesterday that I could do a book on aftercare. She thinks these notes here show a talent I did not know I had for recovery. This is not something I feel competent to do - tell others how to live - when my own experiences, my own education, feels rather singular. Pick out what you want, whatever you find relevant to yourselves, but here is what turned me around: when I realized that I would have to go on living, I looked back on my life, saw that what I had thought made sense was unprofitable, and decided to go a different way. I was lucky in having friends who supported me, as well as the knowledge and imagination to see alternatives to my previous life. I see no reason to repeat the fruitless. Instead, I will write about them.

Harping on the same old theme: we are creative creatures, and when stymied in our creativity, we will to do things that alleviate the pain being blocked.

I did little enough for the rest of Thursday. About seven, I walked down to McClure's and got two bottles of Coca-Cola. This was after I ate dinner. I did some looking at places for submitting my latest stories. No real writing, just toddled off to sleep.

Friday morning started off almost as bad as it ended.

I was late to work thanks to the 6:15 bus breaking down. Then I got lucky and the $12 dropped me off at work instead of my walking over from Cowan Road. The cold was coming in, the wind was still atrocious, and not having to walk the quarter mile, or so, made me happy. We had a Regal truck - big packages but light, a rush job - that we finished in a little over 2 hours. I thought things were going good, even in the afternoon when on a different truck I got chilled and could not throw if off for the longest time. Whoever packed the other tracks had them packed high and very tight. We were beating on the boxes to loosen them. Since I am the tallest on this crew, I was hitting them on the top row, which is just short of the ceiling.

About 1:30, I hit one box and I felt a pain up my arm. Well, that happens. I ate three ibuprofen before the break, and kept on going. Then during the break, my right upper arm began throbbing and throbbing and throbbing. I thought I had twisted something. I had been thinking of leaving early thanks to being so damned cold, but now I wondered if I could use my right arm. Finally, I said something to my supervisor. I got whisked off to see a doctor. This was not a thrill. Like I told the doctor, used to be I would not see a doctor and now when I know I should, I feel like I am mollycoddling myself. He worried about my wrist, I guess he thought there might be a break. While I wondered about the upper arm. No fracture, no surprise. He thought I had hurt a nerve and that was why my arm throbbed an hour and three ibuprofen later. He gave me a cold compress, some Tylenol, and sent me home.

While there, I had the opportunity to meet one loud fellow who liked to call me partner. I was trying to rest, to not move my arm, and he liked calling me partner. He was not quiet. Also, he liked to talk about the persecution he had been under, he thought he had been tricked into the care center so that someone could get into his house. He had issues. There are many here who do. It is disconcerting to see how one's own mental health issues pale in comparison.

I caught the bus for downtown. Seeing that I was late and out of smokes, I stopped at Reserve and University for two pieces of chicken and fried mushrooms. This is the only place I knew of selling mushrooms, and I had not had any since I started using the on-premises laundry. I caught the bus downtown and then $5 for home. Two more examples of Muncie mental health rode to Muncie Inn. I got back here close to six.

I paid my rent. Ate some popcorn. Tried reading my email, and then gave up, took a Tylenol, and went to sleep. That lasted about 4 hours. I have now been awake for a bit more than an hour. The arm is just a little stiff. It seems like nothing happened. I do not know what I will do next. Probably go back to bed. I cannot say I have the energy to fix anything to eat, let alone walk to McClure's.

I am signing off here.

sch