The Prostitution of Words
Thoughts that Won’t be Pimped
I won’t force the words, regardless of how much they may be worth. I won’t pimp out my thoughts. Not here. Not now. Not with you. Not anymore.
Should I write every day? Could I write every day? Can I get paid by the word? I can. I do. But I won’t in this space. You and I both deserve better.
Getting paid is nice, but I’m not here for your money. I’m here for the space to scream. To reach. To syphon energy.
It’s been a week of trying to outrun myself but it’s not working. I’ve made every appointment I could think of — dentist, doctor, hair, nails, bloodwork, x-rays. I’ve chomped down on freelance articles — the real estate ones that I can use AI for but still consume my time, energy, and mental functions. I’ve read three books this week alone. Gobble, gobble, gobble. If there was overtime available at work, I’d have snatched that up, too.
Meanwhile, in a far, drastic, dramatic contrast to my OCD perfectionist lifestyle, there are dirty dishes in the sink. I haven’t cleaned the floors. I didn’t make my bed today. Quite frankly, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. Nothing is pretty in Wendiland right now, in spite of the $300 I spent on beautification.
Speaking of spending money, I also just spent another $300 for a Tempurpedic mattress cover. Why? Because when I went to the doctor this week for a pre-infusion exam and mentioned my back hurt, she sent me for x-rays to see if I fractured my back without realizing it. While there are no fractures, there are signs that the osteoperosis is affecting my back bones. There is degenerative disc damage. None of it can be fixed. It can only be held at bay with physical therapy and pain management medication.
I said infusion. I have to get them twice a year. It’s a 30-second shot in the tummy that takes the calcium out of my bloodstream and forces it over the course of five months into my bones. Three days after the infusion, my brain tries to claw itself out of my head. My eyes double in size and shrink at the same time and get more dry than the Mojave desert in August. Every muscle and joint in my body stretches and contracts, and my everything feels like a bruise. A week later, it subsides.
But I don’t have to think about that yet; that infusion isn’t for ten more days.
And why the darkness? Why the dirty dishes? Why the over spending? Why the heaviness? Why the sadness? Why the tears? Why the extra medication? Why a forced focus on manicured self care?
The kids leave Sunday. The grandlittles will get to come spend the day Saturday for their last breakfast at Grandma’s house. Homemade pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, sliced strawberries and bananas, orange juice, and fruit smoothies. They’ll have one more spin of the soft-serve ice cream machine my sister bought for them last Christmas. One more set of snuggles on the sofa. One more “tickle play.” One more set of temporary tattoos. And then they’ll be off.
I had coffee with my son yesterday. He picked me up at 7:30 to take me to my doctor’s appointment, then we went into Omaha to Zen Coffee for doughy treats and caffeine in a cup. I told him I was seeing things in my apartment. I’m not scared of them. They’re not here to hurt me. But I see them. One is short and bright, glowing white — about the height of the doorknobs. The other is tall and stocky, built like boulders and made of shadows. Light and dark. Neither have faces or hair. They’re just… here.
When I’m working at my desk, I see the little one poking its head out from my bedroom to look at me. When I’m moving from the living room to the kitchen, I see the big one barreling through the same doorway. When I’m laying on the sofa reading, they pace the hallway behind me.
It’s not new. I’ve seen things my whole life. I’ve always shared them with him.
My son told me to look up upsight vision. I did. I have more to learn. Much more to learn.
One of my goals once the kids and grandkids leave is to take myself on a Barnes & Noble date. There’s not one here in my Omaha bedroom community, but there is one in Omaha. I’ll take an Uber, buy myself a cup of Starbucks, a slice of glazed lemon cake, and people watch. Then, I’ll find the “romantasy” section and purchase a hardcover copy of Zodiac Academy. I’m in the third book.
What you need to understand about that date with a book is that two years ago, I would not leave my house. At all. Not without a chaperone — someone who could buffer me from the world. I was afraid of everything. Afraid of life and the people in it. I’m not afraid anymore. I have just as much of a right to live as anybody else does.
Not all books make it to my bookshelf. I vet them in the Kindle first. If they make the cut, I buy the hard copy. I pre-ordered a copy of When The Moon Hatched. If you’re a reader and haven’t tickled your fancy with that one yet, I recommend it.
I do not know what to do.
I want to cry. I want to bawl. I want to sob. I want to scream and rip at my hair. I want to throw dishes and slam doors, punch holes in the walls, and yell fuck off, even though I don’t really want to do any of those things.
I want to hyperventilate and curl up in fetal position in my bed and not come out for days. I want to ignore the phone calls I never get. I want to not shower for days, let my hair tangle in a rat’s nest, and refuse to eat while over eating.
But I won’t. Those things don’t serve me.
Breathe.
Five things I can see, four things I can hear, three things I can touch, two things I can smell, one thing I can taste.
Breathe.
Wiggle my toes. Tap, tap, tap my chest. Drink water and feel myself swallow.
I’ll wake up, shower, style my hair, put on nice clothes, do a makeup video, go for a walk, do the dishes, clean the floors, produce a few more real estate related freelance pieces, and read my book before work.
I’ll put on my big girl panties and pretend that I’ve got a solid grip on this situation. That I don’t *need* anyone. That I’m *perfectly fine* all alone.
I have three more days, then my life turns inside out and upside down.
But it’ll be okay. I’m okay. It’s always okay.
Even when it’s not.
