is my back broad enough, sir? | sick and tired - Page 3

I used to write every day – an article, several poems at least. Even if it was shit, and some of it was, I wrote, and even if this is shit, it is my attempt to try to regain, to get back to some semblance of order, of something good, because the truth is, I do have that file for story ideas and some of them may be damn good. The problem: I just can’t seem to wrap my mind around them – they seem to complex in the moment, in the now. This is how epilepsy toys with the brain, either that or I’m too tired, or the medicine is affecting the way my synapses fire and so my thinking is dulled, short, slow. I feel an idiot. As Lewis Carroll, himself an epileptic, on seeing an epileptic in the village called him “A mouthing idiot…” Is this what I have become? Or is this what is to become of me?

Christ, I know this is absurd. that there is no reason at all to think I’d become an idiot, that in fact, it has always been the reverse – that epileptics were capable of great artistic expression and so on, and yet… those were epileptics who went largely unmedicated and who refused their medicine and who were noncompliant and who contrary to what the doctor’s orders were, went on to do their own thing and though yes, many of them wound up committing suicide for the correlation between epilepsy and depression is a strong one, they still managed to do great, great things in their lifetime and things that will not be forgotten.

Would I, not on medication, be capable of the same? Perhaps, though I find it doubtful. On medication? Impossible. I find it difficult even to stay awake and I write this now as a means to an end. As a way of coming home again, because I miss writing here every day, or almost every day as memory serves, because I still have that file of ideas and some of them are good and while undoubtedly, some of them do suck, I know that I could, perhaps, find my way back. That although it’s medication every hour on the hour and although it is mind-numbing and I am so full of fatigue and I am tired of this, I also know in some ways that I am still relatively young and while these days, I feel like an eighty year old (or more), a shut-in, an introvert, a shy old lady, an unproductive sloth – this from someone who used to be of the most productive people, or so I was told – I am tired. I realize this article, perhaps like my thinking, may be dull and boring in which case I simply ask that you not read or not comment because I already know all of the catty, nasty things that can be said because I’ve already said them to myself. I do every day.

Article Author: Sadi Ranson-Polizzotti

Sadi Ranson-Polizzotti is a published writer in both the United States and Europe. She is widely known for her music commentary, particularly her writings about Bob Dylan about whom she runs a highly-trafficked site. …

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