The Universe Made Me Do It

Have you ever felt pushed, no prodded--no FORCED--wait, no, (double caps if they existed; wait, is double-caps just a bigger font?) COMPELLED! YES! THAT's THE RIGHT WORD!-- to do something that you don't want to do, and will bring you perhaps an undisclosed amount of mental anguish and also, no one is actually forcing you to do it but yet here you are doing it anyway at your own peril?

Rhetorical question. Because really, when I ask it, not only am I not expecting you to answer it. I'm not even expecting you to understand the question. That's not a reflection on your intellect. It's a revelation of my crazy.

I am going to end up writing a metric ton (that is officially 1000kg, which I believe is also the equivalent of a shit-ton) about my medical adventures. I have tried so hard not to write about it. So very, very hard.

There is a lot to say. There are quite a few people you should know about. There are miracles happening that will blow your mind. None of which I want to write about. Not really. But I think I have to. The universe is conspiring to COMPEL me tell the story. The stories.

I will try. I don't really know how it will come out. It may not sound like me, but I'm going to force it out anyway because again, it feels like for some reason the universe thinks it's important.

Here's my dilemma, why this particular subject is so difficult (beyond the obvious idea that writing about it kind of has me re-living some crap that is, well, crappy). Normally, it's cathartic for me to release words from my brain onto the page and create the exact picture, the exact emotion, the exact thought that I'm trying to convey. For me, writing is full of colors and shapes and feelings and images and impressions that swirl together perfectly.

Here's the crazy. (Again, no worries if you don't understand this part. I'd be worried about your mental state if you do understand it.) Writing about my... I don't even want to write the word, honestly... it's not a color or shape or feeling or image or impression that I can identify. That word, that awful C word... I don't know what color it is. At first I thought gray. But no, it's not. And surprisingly it's not brown. Or black. And until I can identify what color it is, I can't fit it into my picture properly. The words are pieces that, as they fall onto the page, have to fit together perfectly to recreate the picture in my head. If just one piece doesn't interlock exactly right, the picture, for me, is distorted. And currently, the words in my head relating to telling the stories of this experience are a jumble. I can't see the shapes. I can't get a clear impression of the feelings I want to convey.

But I'm going to give it a go anyway. There are tales to be told.

So buckle up and prepare for some disjointed, but necessary, storytelling. Get ready for some puzzles with a few pieces missing (perhaps the most apt metaphor for my brain right now).

The Universe is making me do it.