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
So much of this resonates with me. Thank you for sharing, you do so much for so many people. You're touching lives in ways you will never know. Thank you for being you.
Seems to me like you're lonely inside, even though you receive plenty of love and care from outside. Something is missing, something that only you can find. I've been there. I know how it feels. I hear the same things you're telling everyone and I think yeah, I remember that feeling. I know it well. My wife currently has memory problems, it's worrying. But life must go on. I have to learn to adjust. I have to deal with all the things she usually deals with but doesn't remember how any more. But I can still smile. I still enjoy a couple of hours out every Wednesday, Walking for Health with a local group, supported by the Rambler's Association. I take photos, publish a calendar every year of the places we've been to, the scenery of the month. I only sell it to members of the group but everyone loves it. We have great conversations while we stroll around the local areas. Satisfaction. I'm now learning to draw in the hope that next year, or the year after, I'll do a calendar with my sketches instead of photos, or maybe as well as photos? Who knows. I'm only 73 so I've got plenty of time. Your wonderful essays are what drive me on each week, give me drive and new ideas. I'd be lost without them. Thanks again, Danny, Keep up the great work. You're driving a huge bus here.