Busting Writer's Block

I have been dealing with the worst case of writer's block in recent memory. Usually, what helps me bust past it is to write whatever is on my mind. Unfortunately, writing-but-not-publishing isn't doing the trick. If you're really wanting to know what's been on my mind, keep reading.

I don't recognize myself anymore. I don't know if it's the medications for my DDD and FMS, but I'm really starting to wonder how much of the stuff you can take before it really starts to mess with not just with your thoughts but your identity. Then again, I usually go this way when I'm under stress. Yeah, and I'm stressed right now.

This month marks the second anniversary of me being laid off from my job. I guess you could say that it's been a rough couple of years, but amazingly, we're mostly okay. No one has been really sick, at least apart from me and my chronic condition. We still have a roof over our heads, a car that's insured and food in the pantry. It hasn't been easy, but I've learned so very much in a short time. By the way, those reports about government bureaucracy being incredibly inept, even in the computer age...they're true. My wife is incredibly organized--she would disagree--and her determination to document everything is paying off, not for the first time, and we're able to tell the government's left hand what the right hand has been doing. More amazing is that we need to tell the left hand what the left hand did five minutes ago. Oh, the stories I could tell!

My thoughts dwell a lot on my wife lately. She carries a lot. First of all, she's a mom of three homeschooling children. Second, she's a wife, nurse and cook to me. She also helps me with our ministry, our two groups we help lead and manages all the accounts. Perhaps the most frustrating is that I find myself increasingly required to depend on her. She mowed the lawn this week when we couldn't find someone to help out. I hated that. God, how I hated that. Yet I'm powerless to get out there and do it myself because of my condition. I think that's a lot of where my frustration lies. I can't care for the house like I used to. I was the mower, trimmer, painter, maintainer and gardener. I have had to surrender these things and it is excruciating. No, I mean it. That's the right word. Lay me down on a cross, folks. It would be as painful as what this whole thing has done to me. I'm not going to douse myself in self-pity here, but I have to be honest too. I hate the fact that I can't do the things that I was needed to do. I used to be needed and respected for what I did and now I miss it. Perhaps that's the most painful part, at least psychologically, of a disability.

You hear of stories like firemen being closet arsonists (ref: Backdraft). It's an odd paradox, the need to be needed. I'm not going around poking holes in the roof or flicking the lights hoping one will burn out, but seeing needs and not being able to meet them is torturous. Now I in turn need someone else to do what I can't. It begs the question, "What's left for me to do?"

I can be a great father to my children. I can't run a pass play or even walk to the park without some help, but I can be there for them. Maybe that's all they really need. God, I hope so. It's so troubling to know that you can't give your kids what you would like.

I can be a great husband. Yet, I'm not as good as I could possibly be. You'd be surprised how little you can see of someone and yet still be in the same house. I want to get better at this. I want to be near her more, yet we don't have the structure to facilitate that and when she's schooling, I feel quite like the fifth-wheel. I can get involved, and I have been, but I have trouble teaching in tandem. Besides, I know that she does better when I don't chase bunny trails...every other sentence.

I can be a great Steve Walden. What's that look like? I'm not sure. It has something to do with my Maker and His instructions for life. ... Stay tuned.