Survivor Mode

It’s been a few weeks, I know.

July *Out of Office*.

I’m currently out of office with limited access to email. Please defer all creativity until I return. 

Regards, 

Your muse

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COVID has added an unwelcome layer to an already dense and bitter cake, a culmination of sweet and sour notes condemned to a never ending daily loop that promises stagnation. Safe repetition is encouraged when my risk tolerance is next to nothing as a member of the high risk populace – potentially, expectedly fragile and vulnerable.  I’m living in a world in the midst of a political, racial and socioeconomic insurgence – opinions are plentiful and emotions are volatile. Its almost as though this pandemic has inspired “free thought”, heavily influenced, perhaps even cajoled. Competing opinions swarm at one another, aggressive and intent on silencing the opposition. Seems as though the added noise is compensating for the lack of normalcy, an uncomfortable experience for most pushing us close to or beyond our sanity limit. 

Outside of my home (heart), my life is mostly engrossed by hospital visits and the all too familiar state of survivor mode disguised as living. The scarlet stains on my sheets and clothing remind me of my never-ending blood war. My stomach looks like a mine field with varying hues of purple, a multitude of bruises signed with bidaily injections of enoxaparin. My nose is brittle and highly susceptible to epistaxis, untreated and unqualified for specialist intervention in a pandemic setting. Regardless of frequency, it appears as though uncontrollable bleeding is the tender for an ENT (Ear, Nose and Throat) admission ticket. I digress. 

I seem to be on the cusp of my new normal, what you would assume to be a welcome and highly anticipated milestone -the capper to the pharmacological systemic assault. Apprehension buzzes in my ears, and lingers in the pit of my stomach leaving me nauseated, unsettled and on edge. I can remember feeling this way before the sky fell and sometimes I wonder if this was in part, instigated by my optimism- offending the powers that be. A naivety that suggested that the battle was won and that life could resume, when in fact I had only been initiated, a survivor of the prelude. I dare not set the stage for a similar outcome and so I feel inclined to suppress my ambition which can stifle progress -frozen by fear. Sometimes I wish I could day dream like I used to, flash forward 5, 10 years with a high degree of confidence in the direction of my life. It’s as though I’ve been conditioned to not look beyond the day or week with graduated downtime between hospital visits. An experience that I would liken to returning to prison after a brutal and isolating incarceration. Par for the course of recovery.

As my body begins to feel like I remember it, when I could count on the agility of a sprint or stability to descend a staircase without a railing – I am confronted by a different reality than I left. Not that this is unexpected though life seems to be viewed through a different lens, not good or bad, just different.

It seems as though the strategy behind this head game is to stay busy though distraction is temporary. When the noise fades, it invites the silence – a playground for thought anarchy to run rampant. Here, I am busier, expending all of my mental energy to sort through the chaos and extinguish the dooms day narrative. It can be tiring but Marquesa keeps me energized.

Standing on the edge of normal almost feels like the edge of a sky scraper and it is becoming clear that the plunge is forward, the only direction I want to move in.

Hoping to level up from survivor mode.