Today I got a rather unsatisfying massage, a rather satisfying haircut, and a lesson in exactly how much time I’ve wasted playing “The Secret World” when the little “doo-dooty-doot” Achievement sound went off and I was informed that I have killed over 1,000 Cursed Cultists. Over 1,000 pixelated monstrosities slaughtered by none other than little ole’ me! Let it not be said at my funeral that I never accomplished anything. What can I say? Other than an occasionally hair-ripping solo instance, TSW is pretty low-key, and playing it quiets the monkey-chatter in my brain. So I’m trying not to feel guilty about the fact that I spent far more time gaming than writing today. Besides, I was working on a rather gloomy poem and I just couldn’t work up the gumption to feel all the feels and write all the sads. Tough luck for the Cursed Cultists.
I got a massage because I’ve had this persistent knee-iliotibial band-hip thing going on in my left leg forever. It’s like a war is in there, all three vying for supremacy and sabotaging each other. My left leg is Game of Thrones! It still hurts even after the massage, which I suspected it would. The bottom line is that I just need to suck it up and get orthotics. Luckily, I’m not vain when it comes to shoes. I’d wear plaid bedroom slippers seven days a week if I could get away with it.
While I was lying there today getting somewhat inadequately rubbed upon, I was thinking back to my career as a massage therapist. For a long time, being a massage therapist was a key part of my identity, and it took a number of years after I had officially left the field for me to let go completely and sell my massage table and chair. I have enough distance from it now that I understand it as a critical time of growth for me, but I have completely lost my attachment to the identity of being a “healer”. I’ve had some other identity attachments I’ve had to let go of over the last few years, and I’m only now starting to come into full acceptance of them. I don’t like admitting it, but I’m not a person who lets go of things easily. Oh, boy am I not. Part of it is based in beliefs and fears around scarcity, but I’ve also realized that despite my life-long self-perception that I’m mercurial and capricious, I have a very deep and pronounced stubborn streak. It’s a quiet and well-concealed stubborn streak, but it’s formidable nonetheless. I used to think stubbornness was a negative trait, but I don’t believe that anymore. In fact, I’m pretty sure my stubbornness has been my saving grace more than once.
For some reason, I keep avoiding writing the last two scenes I need to officially wrap up the final draft of my novel. Maybe I don’t want to let go of that either. Maybe I worry that I’ll miss my main character. Maybe I fear the void that will occur in my life once I don’t have this Herculean project to work on anymore. Maybe I’m just being way too introspective tonight and need to chillax with my Jurassic 5 Pandora station while I get my Cursed Cultist death count up to 2,000. After all, those guys are bad news and it’s my moral obligation to put them out of their misery.
While I figure out whether to mope, introspect or game, here’s a Portlandia clip mocking jewelry-making. I myself have pondered such a move. Going from massage therapy to non-profit work to jewelry-making would bring the Seattle cliché circle to perfect completion.