Drowning the Life-Sucking Bastard (for a Moment)

Meeting new pain management physicians is always… a sort of interesting, unease-fueled experience. You just don’t know what kind of person you’re going to get. And when it comes to the doctor who is supposed to help you deal with the not-cool-at-all monster that eternally threatens to shatter your bones (and sanity), the personality attached to the medical wisdom matters.

I think I got lucky… again. The doctor I’ve seen for the last few years was excellent, so I was anxious about someone new. My apprehension was put at ease, when after discussing all the physical and administrative aspects of my treatment, the new doctor asked, “Why do you think that writing helps you manage pain?” I began to snarl—anyone who tries to get between me and writing will end up seeing the sharper side of my teeth—but the doctor raised a hand, smiled, and said, “Don’t kill me yet. I just want to know.”

My explanation was quite extensive, it went on and on and on and on… but it can be summarized like this: “I’m not mad enough, in that sense, to think that writing can rid me of pain. But it can certainly distract me enough not to spend my days screaming while agony steals my life away.” Also, words make the coolest of weapons, so it’s a win-win situation—my doctor agrees.

I know ink
can’t kill pain, but
heart-fed torrents of words will
drown the life-sucking bastard
for a sweet, sweet moment.

So… what’s your weapon of choice, when trying to drown what ails you?

Of Blacking Out The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, and… a Skull-Full of Chili

I wrote a letter to Freud’s ghost, inquiring about his stance on ink. Freud’s ghost didn’t respond. But I received replies from his superego, ego, id, and… a wraith, named F. Slip, who follows Freud’s ghost around, moaning, “Are you my mummy?” The superego letter included a discount coupon to the Pi circle of laser surgery hell. The ego sent a 1001-page essay on how I hadn’t been properly potty-trained. The id wants naked photographs of my deepest inner self… in color (the word color was underlined and italicized). F. Slip wrote sex, anger, dreams, angry sex dreams, dreamy angry sex, blacked out the initial attempts (not very well), and ended with, “Are you my mummy?”

After all this, I’ve come to the conclusion that Freud’s ghost is probably too busy to care about me turning The Psychopathology of Everyday Life into blackout poetry. So, it’s getting inked… along with one of his biographies, and a half-drowned copy of Lady’s Chatterley’s Lover. It felt… appropriate.

some wee notes…
– for my dear Y, who asked for something hysterical that included Sigmund Freud, Doctor Who, and food that tastes yummy, but “looks slightly gross.” (Y is having stomach surgery in a couple of days, and she wanted “a riotous belly laugh” while she can still feel it in the tummy she was born with).
– I’ve always thought the superego is way too sanctimonious to actually pay attention to what’s going on. The ego is probably a mad scholar so focused on research that it can never see people. And, let’s face it, the id is a pervert. If a Freudian Slip was personified, his eternal confusion would make him a great companion for Doctor Who’s “Are you my mummy?” creepy kid.

scripts on autumned leaves
waiting for my muse and ink
to spring them anew


And, the slightly gross bit…

woman needs not be
a zombie to crave what lies
luscious in a skull

Y, I hope you laughed.