What Can I Say About My Writing And My Thoughts
Friday, April 13, 2012
I became interest in writing about thirty five years ago. My wife, and I had come to realize that our baby probably would never walk because Rebecca's spinal cord was not fully developed, and the doctor who delivered Becky , said that Becky was like and infant born with a stroke. My wife Joann, and Becky were not expected to live because Joann's blood presure rose too high, so high that the doctors could not lower it during the delivery of the baby. Joann's blood was poisoned by something called toximia , and the baby was in trouble . I often talk about what happened repeatedly on Hub Pages. It was just so dammed traumatizing to Joann, and I. I could not imagine my wife, and child dying, so I fell to my knees praying for the help of Christ in a hospital Chappell.
It is thirty seven years later now, and once in a great while I think about that day of almost losing my purpose for living.
As time went on I wanted to write. I decided to pick up a pen, and paper , and write what came to my mind because maybe if I write about our lives I would somehow deal with everything better. I needed to be the kind of man that could work, pay bills, provide a home, keep milk, and bread in our life. If I was beginning to have any type of mental problems I felt that I needed to talk, and maybe writing could serve as a form of self therapy. Something about my mind was not leaving me alone. It was like living in some sort of constant nagging mental confusion that kept me in a restless mode that was constantly seeking that I solve our problems so that they could go away. I kept breaking down because of mounting internal presures. We were supposed to have normal lives. We were supposed to have a baby that would be healthy, and well. My wife was supposed to be her beautiful wonderful happy self. I needed everything to be back to normal. I went to my university library, and checked out books that I thought might help me learn more about the baby's condition. I just wanted to know what could be done for her. I had a world of medical books. I could not carry them all. My mind was racing through pages looking for answers. I studied photographs of crippled children in hundreds of clinical settings. I studied cables that were part of studies showing how they were used in experimental ways to try to help cripple children move their arms, and legs. I saw children with deformed bodies, and children with spinal deformities. I studied behaviors, phase by phase behaviors of children that had mental , and physical disorders. Opinions, medical opinions, studies. Some photographs were just simply very unpleasant to say the least, and the faces of the children seemed so empty . and blank.
Why did this happen to us ? Why were we being destroyed like blind natives in a promised land , like when Columbus came to the East Indies where savages would choose death rather than live on to be hunted like savages ? Joann, and the baby lived, but all our hopes, and dreams just did not seem possible anymore.
I suppose my mind had it's limits. I tried to study a little at our university. My last class was in economics. I could not understand anything the professor was talking about. My mind was somewhere in a lost world , racing for solutions, seeking , and seeking some impossible cure, and then I could not understand what I was reading anymore. I kept reading sentences, and nothing registered. I could not remember anything from one second to another. It was like I had done something horrible to my mind. I lowered my head to my desk, and cried, and cried, and cried, until I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my professor's hand, and I told him later what happened to us.
I lost my ability to remember many things for what seemed like eternity. I picked up jobs that did not require any brains. I met a police captain at a job in a bowling alley.
This world is unusual. Maybe it was destiny. I was never really afraid of anything in life except for one kind of insect. I only know what fear is because of that insect. I am afraid of a wasp. I could hold a rattlesnake in my hand , and sip on a cup of coffee, but if I am in a room with a wasp I have to leave it , or go mad , or call someone to kill the cursed evil thing. Maybe I was in a bath tub with a wasp when I was a baby, or five, or six years old. They look gruesome, and evil in their cold black horrible bodies with black wings , and with black stingers hanging like taunting weapons . They most definitely had to be conjured up on earth from hell itself by Satan. I am not afraid of bees, or bumble bees, or honey bees, only the wasps.
My dream was to totally secure Joann, and Becky financially with a successful book. I was not looking to create a perfectly well written manuscript. I wanted my book to more, or less describe how , and why I was becomming unwell , and why my memory, and why I was so emotionally troubled. I just wanted to stop thinking, and to stop flooding my mind with thoughts because I needed our lives fixed, and of course that could not be done. You see my mind was accustomed to solving problems, and I could not solve our situation. I lost even my strength as a man in a way. Men are supposed to be strong, and to be capable of surpassing moments of weakness. I was failing as a man. I should have been stronger. If I would have been stronger, Joann would have had a stronger shoulder to depend on.
I only expected to write from a father's point of view. I did not want to be considered a writer, only a plain average man, or father, or average guy.
I wrote about dark emotions, and feelings, and I felt something un natural wanted me to experience terrible stagnation, and was badly trying to facilitate my end . I felt something very dark, and very old from ages of long long ago, that seemed to be a master in it's intentions that desired my end.
I felt that there was something terrible down in the depths of all human souls that awaited to be brought to life by pain, and great suffering. I really did feel that deep in all humanity there is a great saddness , and it is of course lost hope.
Now I write for all kinds of reasons. Maybe I still write to cope, but there is no coping with something that can not be solved.
For the most part I guess I am a man of many moods, seeking destractions to buy my mind time , and moments of relief. This really is not about me. This is about everything that I hold precious to my heart.
I hold my family, and good people precious to my heart. I do love to write, and escaping to fantasy is kind of a simple , and easy joy. Writing about little stories, and angels, little yellow birds, bird detectives, it all entertains hopefully, myself, and others.
God Bless Everyone.