Yesterday, I cut myself when I was shaving. It was one of those ‘Ah, shit!’ moments that I’ve experienced a zillion times before. Carelessness or bad luck or a blade that needs replacing. The fact that I wasn’t looking in the mirror didn’t help.
Jenny noticed when she got home.
— What have you done to yourself?
I’d forgotten what happened till she poked my cheek.
— Nothing, just a shaving cut.
— Why aren’t you more careful?
— It was an accident.
— You’ve got to look after yourself. Please.
My wife worries about me. She thinks I’m clumsy and hasty. She’ll rush into the room if she hears me puffing too loudly on the Peloton. She’ll nudge me if I don’t seem to be breathing in my sleep. She’ll call out from the other room if I drop a book.
— Are you okay?
She’s not wrong. I cut and bang myself, I break things, I have holes in my sweater, untied laces, and gravy stains on my pants.
But she’s also protective of me because I had cancer. Because her mom died this spring. Because we lived through a pandemic.
Because she loves me.
Things are bound to happen. Things you can’t protect yourself against, no matter how gingerly you move through life. After my first wife Patti died, I had to face this fact and figure out how to proceed. I decided that the solution was to do my best to be prepared. Not revert to denial. To deal with the many things I’d been pushing under the rug.
I got a physical. I got a financial advisor. I started to see a shrink. To eat more vegetables.
I knew that when I woke up at 3 am, I could quiet the monkey by pointing out that I was really doing my best — and mean it. I was being a responsible adult. I was taking care of business. Bad things were less likely to happen because I was on it.
This defense helped some — but ultimately it wasn’t enough. Because, while I was taking steps to protect against anything in the bad Outside World that could threaten Jack and me, I didn’t do much to protect me against my biggest assailant.
Me.
I’ve had bad things happen to me — who hasn’t? But I’ve also let me do many bad things to me. And the weapons I use aren’t fists or bullets or fast cars. They’re anxiety and stress and worry.
I beat myself up. I discourage and demand me, I tease me, scare me, pack the shadowy corners of my bedroom with monkeys and monsters.
My skin is thin. My nerves are raw. My imagination is overactive.
As I ruefully probe the scars this abuse has left, I see how I have slipped, regressed even since the horrible days after Patti died. The most potent tools I had found to give me balance and perspective — drawing and writing — I have often neglected to gather dust.
I draw, but not like I used to when I first discovered how drawing showed me the beauty around me.
I write, but not to shine a light on my darkness, to find humor and meaning, to understand.
I have neglected too long the creative joys that brought me meaning.
I have to look in the mirror once again.
Your pal,
Danny