On Writing When I'd Rather Not

I'm in the midst of a dilemma.  I want to write, but I don't want to write.  I think perhaps it's because I don't know what to write.  So, I'm just going to blather along for awhile until something profound (or not) strikes me . . . or I get a grip on myself.

I had a frustrating day, and a brain numbing evening.  In between, I had a good session with Terry, who made me look at the bazillion changes that are going on in my life, most of which are out of my control.  Yet, nothing frustrates me more than that feeling of impotence, and being out of control.  Dang it!  I want to be in total control, of my life, and anyone else's life who I think I should be controlling.  Unfortunately, there are very few (that would be none) who appreciate my control fixation.

So, I clamored on tonight about being frustrated today, and was brought back to whether I was going to do something for myself to help me gain a bit of control.  I didn't want to do anything, Mostly, I just wanted to whine, and moan, and be irritated.  Which I'm pretty good at.  Finally, just before I was leaving, I said that maybe I should do some writing, but I threw it out there begrudgingly, hoping Terry would let me slide.  Humph.  Not likely. Though I gave it a good try.  I played solitaire until I was fairly sick of it, in fact, I was unhappy that I kept winning, no matter which game I tried.  Finally, after over an hour, I lost and could put off this task no longer.

Thinking about the list of stuff that's bugging me lately, they all bring me back to the inescapable (for me, apparently) trappings of aging.  In the last couple of months I've been diagnosed as having a hearing loss (so I'm trying out hearing aids, which basically just makes me ticked).  Even if they did help me hear, (which they do) they are bugging me, mostly just because they're there, not that they're uncomfortable (they're not), but just the idea of wearing them.  I'm the first person in my family that's ever had hearing aids.  I just can't believe it's happening to me.  My 83 year old dad couldn't either!

Then, I've decided to go for a partial knee replacement this summer, and my CT appointment is tomorrow, and it feels like the point of no return.  Like it's really going to happen.  I'm going to go under the knife, and have my knee bones torqued around, reshaped and put back together and supposedly I'll still be able to walk . . . and hike . . . and whatever.  The thought of the surgery simply scares the you know what out of me. I'm just sure I'll be the one in a million that never wakes up from the surgery, or walks around with my knee pointing backwards, or some other awful consequence.

It doesn't matter how unlikely it is that anything disastrous will happen, I'm a fatalist by nature.  I worry about the most ridiculous things, and my imagination is way too vivid for my own good. My poor daughter can attest to that.  A few months ago, after getting a phone call from her one morning, all I could hear was running footsteps and what seemed to be heavy breathing.  I screamed her name into the phone.  Not only did she not answer, but every time I hung up, she'd call back.  I panicked, called 911, and had the police in Bellingham go check it out.  I was certain she was being chased and would be raped and murdered on her way to class.  Turns out it was a series of accidental calls, and she was running, to the bus.

Fortunately for me, she was willing to forgive me the embarassment (she's 22, not 12!) and probably makes sure her phone is locked these days!

I don't know whether writing changes my perspective on growing old, but I do feel a little better.  Maybe that's just because I'm tired enough to go to bed and read awhile.  Maybe it's because writing about my hearing and knees (and re-reading it) makes it all seem pretty silly.  Or, maybe it's because hearing aids and old knees are really pretty minor . . .  things could be so much worse.

And, maybe, writing really did change my perspective, as I look back at the last sentence I wrote.  Things can always be worse. So, perhaps I should quit whining and be grateful.  Now, there's an idea.

Time to put my hearing aids, my computer, and myself,  to bed.