For 30 days, I will share the
joys, pains, and dirty little secrets of my life with multiple sclerosis. My
goal is to find a reason to convince you to support/share my fight against MS.
Please donate today: http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/eleanor.
This is Effort Number 9…
Let me start with an apology.
This blog post is laced with obscene and foul language — that is kind of the
point here. I probably get my message across, though to less of an extreme,
with the censored version. You can find the clean version here: https://neverstopneverquit.blogspot.com/2019/09/the-constant-noise-of-profanity-censored.html.
Last warning. You can find the
clean version here: https://neverstopneverquit.blogspot.com/2019/09/the-constant-noise-of-profanity-censored.html.
I generally don’t curse or
swear. In the past, my vocabulary was rife with less than choice words. A
whirlwind of factors combined to reduce the opportunities where shit and
fuck are considered acceptable, or even tolerated. “Salty language” has
its place, just not in where my life transitioned. It’s fine, really, since I
was never very good at it. Ranting and raving about that, “goddamn, son of a
bitch, piece of fucking shit,” whatever-it-is-you’re-talking-about is less
effective when you always have a dopey look on your face as the words spew out.
Then, Eleanor was born. Motherfucker
became Motorscooter. Shit became Shoot. Fuck!
became Oh, Man! and life went on its merry little way. There is probably
only one person right now I will refer to as, “a fucking piece of shit.”
I guarantee no one knows who I am talking about, and that sentiment will
probably fade away soon. I just don’t have it in me…
For the most part, the words don’t
cross my lips anymore. Maybe one or two will slip out if I am rocking along to one
of my playlists on Spotify or trying to enhance my point using a single fucking
adjective. Beyond that, I’m only comfortable with selected profanity in an
intimate sexual environment – where a two-way conversation laced with the
perfect words only strengthens our connection…
Anyway, where was I?
If the words went away, I
would be fine. I can make my point, express my emotions and desires, in a way
just as effective.
If the words did not exist, my
life would be a whole lot better!
If the words did not exist,
they would not flood my goddamn mind every time another fucking
multiple sclerosis issue surfaces… Every. Fucking. Time.
I was at the gym this morning,
thinking about my blog post and what the topic should be. I pushed hard today.
The conditions were perfect; part of the gym is closed for renovations, I was
able to focus the selection of exercises, and my time was at a premium. A 40-minute
midsection/core regimen and an hour on the elliptical machine, 30 minutes hard
and 30 minutes reversed. This was a compact way to get my exercise, and focused
time to plan my writing; the constant noise is usually simmered down while my
body is under stress and strain.
Picture the scene, if you
will. It’s a fucking riot.
I’m on the elliptical cross-training
machine, legs and arms are flailing away as I’m trying to best my previous
distance record in the cross country, heavy resistance: 3.34 miles in 30 minutes.
About 22 minutes into the course, I needed to wipe the sweat from my brow. Most
normal people would have no guide them problem, just reaching over with one arm
to grab your towel without breaking the stride. For me? Fuck, no. I’ve
got hold onto the thing with the goddamn death grip because my MS-balance is
so ganked up, I’ll go flying off the machine and do some real damage. Slowdown?
Take a pause? Well, that’s just quitting to me. There is no way I will beat my
record — my multiple sclerosis shit show would win again.
[OK, just grab the right with
one arm while you hold onto the cross trainer with your other.]
Well, thank you very much Mister
Fucking Genius Inside Voice! Why didn’t I think that? Oh, I know why.
Because I can’t reach across and grab a towel with my left hand, and can’t let
go of the elliptical with my right hand and leave my left hand trying to hold
on.
[Well, that blows. What
did you do?]
I chose the shitty option with
a higher probability of success. Holding on with my left hand, the constant fucking
noise in my head cursing away, I grabbed my towel and wiped the sweat from my
brow.
[Did it work?]
I’m here, dumbass, am I?
[Why didn’t you to slow down
for a bit?]
Just read the blog and quit
your side-seat thinking, Asshole.
***
And then it happened, my story
wrote itself.
I just don’t feel comfortable
expressing the constant noise of profanity in my head. As you can tell, I’m not
very good at it either. Suffice it to say that noise is constantly there,
creating fear and doubt, inciting anger and rage, and grieving with hopes of
despair as my MS rages on. My only saving grace is, out of sheer fucking
stubbornness, the noise attributable to my MS constantly drives me to Never
Stop… Never Quit… The hope is my story will inspire your donation in this
fight.
Because it is a fight.
The fight is not over and it won’t be over until a cure is found.
It will never stop…nor will we
It will never quit…nor will we
This is why we ride!
Please
donate today: http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/eleanor
100%
of the royalties earned from my books go to the National MS Society, to support
our fight: http://neverstopneverquit.com/books
Never Stop… Never Quit…®
Kevin
Byrne
Portland,
OR
Never Stop…
Never Quit…
Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off.
No comments:
Post a Comment