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Pick Up. Dust Off. NEXT.
Down and bloodied? Been there. Some thoughts on quitting.
This evening, an editor of one of the publications that was kind enough to start looking at publishing my stuff (as George Carlin used to say, if it’s mine it’s stuff, if it’s yours it’s shit), wrote a heartfelt piece about being low.
Feeling lost and empty and done with it, and what’s the point? Is it indeed time to quit?
She’s my age, at 67. We’ve been around the block a bit. Which only goes to show that it doesn’t matter how old or young you are, there are going to be times when the bottom of the barrel is your current living quarters.
Oh. Boy. Do I get low. Well, maybe I do.
Anyone who has ever spent four decades staring at their face in the toilet bowl understands low.
Anyone who has ever been gang raped understands low.
Anyone who has been repeatedly laid off understands low.
Hands up. Mine is. This is the short list.
I’ve smashed my pelvis and broken my back and beaten the holy shit out of my body. I’ve starved it and injured it and abused it. Lost all my teeth and almost died multiple times. I’ve hated my body and exercised it nearly to death. I’ve been raped repeatedly…