Flat

Posted: December 18, 2015 in uncategorised

Today I feel as flat as a pancake, as flat as a poorly drawn circle on paper. Like a long garment after being ironed.
You’ll have to excuse me if I sound depressing or down, because that is what I am.
About a month ago I damaged my upper back somehow, tweaked the vertebrae in-between my shoulder blades, but it was rather minor, and not all that noticeable. I figured it would just go away, so like a brainless ox I continued to go to the gym (a wholly futile exercise) and work as a labourer/removalist without ceasing.
Needless to say, the day after I went to the gym I could barely get out of bed, nor could I turn my head sideways or up/down. I took a few days off work and a week off of the gym, until the pain was minor again.
I had another visit to the gym, taking it easy this time, but the next day the pain was worse than before.
To cut a long story short I’ve been attending a physiotherapist and am still unable to return to manual work.

In fact, the physiotherapist has forced me to consider that perhaps I am not best suited to manual labour/removalist work. It is something I have always pretended not to know, as if it weren’t a fact. I am tall and slim, making me prone to injury and putting greater strain on my back than a shorter/thicker person. It’s pretty damn obvious really. I should have known, at how clumsy I have always been, that perhaps I should not be moving delicate things for a living. It is borderline stupid. I can only describe my attitude as blind, belligerent and destructive.
A complete reluctance to work at something I am naturally gifted in. Namely, writing. Of course you may disagree, and are welcome to.
It is like I woke up one day and decided that manual labour is the only way to prove you are a man (to the ever present mob of ethereal witnessess, the council of great dead men, vikings and generals, who watch from the skies to judge the worthy and the weak), so I should work until I am the only one left.
I did enjoy it though. I like working really hard, as fast as I can, and beating the clock. But to be honest, manual labour is not at all difficult. I would find it much easier to dig a moat than sit down and write a blog entry like this.

My spectral evil twin, armed with grim abilities and powers beyond the realm of the living, faces me at every turn. Hiding as a part of me, when in fact depression is an intruder, not welcome to dwell and grow, like a parasite, on failures, fears and regrets.

Before I moved to Australia I was confident in my writing, but at some point that confidence was replaced with doubt, and that doubt grew to become a great wall, towering over me, telling me that what I write will never be good, will never amount to anything, will never be finished.
I hope this does not come across as a request for some kind of affirmation, I am just thinking aloud.

I do not know what will happen now.
I long to be back in South Africa at the orphanage I stayed with. Every day not spent with the children there is a loss.
I even contacted virgin airlines and asked if they would sneak me out there with suitcases full of presents, just for christmas day.

I hope you have a Christmas that counts, don’t waste your time on things that don’t matter.

Jaaaammmmesss

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