Visions of Bill Murray danced through my head this morning as the resumption of now-familiar drilling and clanging noises kicked off day three of pier-digging.* If things are less cacophonous tomorrow, I might be able to finish my next movie review, but since there was no peace in the valley today this is the best I could do. My intention is to post either here or at Cranky during each day of the basement project since I’ll have more free time than usual.
As I considered the Groundhog Day repetition unfolding in my home, my thoughts turned to repetition in my writing at these two sites. Do readers ever moan “For the love of God, not Loni Anderson again!” or roll their eyes at another tennis rundown? For better or worse, there are only so many things that bring me genuine joy or profoundly shaped who I am. That means I write a lot about movies, tennis, books, humor, music, cultural Judaism and childhood illness. And there are only so many people I’ve loved with any ferocity, which means you’ve heard a lot about Crankenstein, Muriel, my grandpa, my brother and my ex (or rather, my regrets about things we messed up together; I’ve told you very little about who she was as a person).
My best friend also belongs on that list, but I struggle with how to discuss him. After months of consideration, I haven’t even settled on a title for the inevitable post about our friendship, though I’m leaning toward “I’m Your Man.” Why is he trickier to write about than almost anyone but my parents? For one thing, he’s the only person among my friends and family capable of editing me.** But it’s mostly that our bond is almost as complicated as it is uncomplicated, a description that would make sense to him while confusing anyone else.
At Existential Despair in particular I repeatedly return to the same people, events and themes because this isn’t just about recording memorable bits of my life for posterity, it’s also therapeutic. After the Parkinson’s diagnosis, I thought “Time to look for a therapist who specializes in disability issues.” Again and again, Google served me train wrecks whose professional websites made me run for the hills: dubious qualifications; hair of garish clown wig hues; facial piercings that unwittingly double as diagnostic codes.
They overshared in ways that made me sigh like a disappointed parent. If you call yourself “neurodivergent” or “neurospicy” on a professional profile, I assume you’re a pandering doofus. Letting me know you’re “queer” in the 2020s tells me you’re ostensibly straight (or maybe “heterospicy”). Volunteering to potential clients that you’re a “spoonie” or grapple with trauma yourself makes me wearily rub the bridge of my nose between my thumb and middle finger.^
I wouldn’t trust these people to walk my dog, much less guide me through something as consequential as YOPD. Muriel would be accused of committing a microaggression for peeing in the wrong spot; I’d be told “I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for your negativity” as I bitterly ranted that Chips Deluxe is a misnomer because there were only two chocolate chips in the entire cookie. Though there are limits to what I share here, I can mostly cover the basics and feel better afterward while occasionally making people laugh. Apologies, though, if it seems like Groundhog Day. At least you can ‘x’ right out and move along to the next site — I’ve been stuck here longer.
* I almost called this post Dig Me Out, but that and Call the Doctor, The Hot Rock, and All Hands on the Bad One were the soundtrack to my teens; their titles should not be used lightly.
** Imagine the mortification if he stumbled upon this site one day and immediately recognized my voice and the absurd circumstances of my life and found my portrait of him lacking. I should also note that Crankenstein took umbrage at my editing remark, but at the risk of digging a deeper hole, I’m not talking about comma placement. No one knows my voice, abilities or influences like my friend, who has read my writing almost daily for a quarter-century.
^ You can call me many things, but please not “neurodivergent,” “queer” or “spoonie.” There’s also potentially danger in seeking mental health services from someone whose pitch is “My brain is just like yours!”, but I would hope the implications and nuances of that are obvious.