A friend who writes and knows I like to write told me about Steemit. I've written creative fiction and poetry for most of my life for pleasure - that and contributors copies. As times became more political so did my writing. Mostly, since Bush 2, what I've been feeling in the political realm is outrage.
I am 65. I've gone through a lot of changes recently, some, like leaving a moribund marriage, beneficial. Others, like having a wound that won't heal, not.
The wound that won't heal is the result of something I kept secret for decades. Something I lied about to doctors. "Why do I have scars on my feet? An auto accident." They often said they were surprised, that the kind of damage they saw looked more like something you'd see from a motorcycle accident. "No," I'd say, "I hit a car."
This was not a lie.
I hit a convertible.
I hit a convertible and bounced.
I hit a convertible and bounced after I jumped off a building.
I was in the hospital for six months. I died once, by the old standard of no breath and no heartbeat. They brought me back.
I did not want to come back.
They put me in casts. Casts over my shattered feet and broken legs. Casts over my broken arms. In the casts my feet became infected, infections so deep they went into the bone.
They managed to get the infection under control. It briefly resurfaced over 20 years ago, and then again this year. This time it's putting up a fight.
There's a hole in my right heel. Today a doctor was cleaning it out and tapping on the bone with a steel implement. It had a distinct, almost wooden sound.
I attempted suicide at 17. I'm still paying for that long ago attempt to escape.
But at least now, at 65, I am finally able to talk about it.
I'll keep you posted.