I’m typing this from my bed after two steroid shots, three painkillers, far too many tears and less than one paragraph of valuable writing to be proud of today.
The thing about writing that everyone will tell you is it’s unreliable. Unfortunately, the warning often falls on deaf ears—especially when directed at people like me, people who feel they’re writer before human, people who, even at their worst and even when they’re in excruciating pain can only think of one thing: I need to write. About this. About what I’m feeling, right here and right now.
I have coccydynia, or tailbone pain, but the chronic kind. The kind that I have to be actively preventing lest I have more days like today.
I woke up energized to write this morning. I had so much in me, in my mind, itching and scratching to become ink. I could’ve written about anything. Ugly curtains, even.
But my body was angry with me, I suppose. After a painful walk from the car to my Starbucks seat, it took less than an hour for me to realize just what was on the horizon. The sweat was building, the tingles ensued, the stiffness spreading like disease, feet up.
I tried to stand and couldn’t. My legs—they just wouldn’t budge. My spine, my tailbone, fuck. I can’t describe coccyx pain without using words like fire and arrow and bullet and ice pick and unless you’ve experienced nerve pain yourself, I’m not sure the combination of those descriptors will make much sense at all.
The pain would only get worse as the day went on; it led me to yell at my sweet mama who helped me get from bed to toilet to bed to toilet to bed to shower to bed at least five times, me in tears and wanting to give up after every pathetic excuse of a step, ready to faint, sweat dripping down my back. Mama will be sleeping in my room with me tonight.
I did not write much today. I wanted to. With every nerve-shattering step and rapid breath I took, all I could think of was how far my pen and my notebook were from my pillow, how these moments of sheer ugliness must be remembered and captured and documented. They are as much part of my word work as are editing, drafting, publishing and reading.
Go easy on me, if you can. And remember to go easy on you, too.
—fiza
So much love to you ❤️❤️❤️