In March I did not finish any books. I don’t feel particularly bad about this. I did start and stop reading several, but have now settled into A Death in the Family by James Agee, A Field Guide to Getting Lost by Rebecca Solnit, and The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma by Bessel A. van der Kolk. I want, someday, to talk about why I’m reading the last one, and what I hope to gain from it, but that someday is not today. Maybe, too, I’ll talk about the Solnit book. I get the feeling my intentions with that one are related to my intentions with the book on trauma but that’s not something I’ve thought about seriously enough to suss out any real answers yet, so.

I did, however, listen to music, but I’ve posted plenty about that.

Television, too. I watched all of Orange is the New Black, as well as most of House of Cards, and for the first time since re-watching Alice in the Cities last year I finished (two) movie(s): Mulholland Drive and Clouds of Sils Maria.

All of this is a slant way of saying I was couch-ridden for awhile after surgery. The recovery was supposed to be easy. It was not. Still isn’t, sort of. I’m on a third course of painkillers and antibiotics. I gave in to another trial of birth control after refusing, initially, as adamantly as I always have because what adding bonus hormones into my bloodstream does to my mood isn’t fun for me or anyone who has to listen to me holler. I left the doctor’s office yesterday and went straight to my psychiatric nurse practitioner to beg for a preventative increase in the mood stabilizer I’ve been taking for years, just in case.

I have feelings about this, too – about the parallel medical journeys I’ve been on for most of my life. I remember the first time I felt the pain I learned a few years ago was likely the beginnings of endometriosis. I was ten, or nearly ten, and months away from my first period, and it ruined the party my fourth grade class was given to celebrate our transition to middle school. It was only a brief downward slide from there into a similar pattern of repeated misdiagnoses and various emotional traumas that characterized my adolescent mental health that culminated…

is culminating…

is still always influencing the way I treat my physical body.

Again, though: this is something I’ve only recently decided I wanted to process, and I’m not sure what I have to gain from it. Maybe nothing, and maybe I won’t get anywhere.

Right now, though, I am using this blessed Percocet fog to google anti-inflammatory diets and I am learning that there is such a thing as french maritime pine bark extract that I can supplement my grains with, and maybe it will help. Maybe I can heal myself with holistic mud therapy.

Maybe I can move into a hut woven from enchanted sticks.

Maybe I can wallpaper my kitchen with tinfoil, too.