I’ve started another push on my brain book.

Tentatively titled Where Are My Shoes or Stroke Boy, it’s been a labor of love and hate. Love because I need to get this story out. Both to, well, get the story out and to prove I’ve got my writing chops. I’d love to do that.


Hate because it can be so damn painful.

The pain is emotional — every time I revisit strokey moments I stir up  baggage and pain. But it also hurts physically. My brain works really frik’n hard writing past the damage in my melon.

There’s just so much more effort involved in the process now.  The cheats I use to get around my stroke-caused reading disability simply requires more effort with each tap of the keyboard. I turtle read sentences I just wrote, I employ my reading device to replay passages and to do full edits. I can’t just skip back a sentence or two without having to finagle my reading device. When I try to free bird it pains my brain and slows me to a near standstill. My noodle just has to work so much harder to do everything that it drains the brain.

It sucks. But it’s better than not being able to read and write, so…

I don’t mean to bitch, but there’s so much that slows me down and befuddles my noggin. Virtually everything takes additional effort. A little here, a little there and by the end of the day my brain is bushed.

I have a device to read emails for me, but on my mobile phone I need to turtle read texts and emails. Slow and painful by the end of the day. Ahead of Mothers Day, checking out cards for my bride took 45 minutes and frustrated my fellow shoppers who seemed to wonder why I gazed at each card for so long.

Bank machine visits, some new road construction sines and trying to make my way through some hand written notes all play head games on my over worked noggin.

There’s nothing I can do about this. There doesn’t seem to be a way to get my old speedy reading skills back and the attach on my brain could have been so much worse.

But still…

The trick is I need my brain and me to stay friends. I need to push it enough to do my job, do my writing and all of the other stuff it’s so handy for. But I can’t burn it out in doing so. At all costs, I can’t send it over the edge again.

What’s my point? I just needed to bitch.

And for those who are wondering where that damn book is after all this time, well, now you know some of it is still locked inside my head. But I’m hoping to unlock it soon.

BTW, I often get my bride or one of my girls to proof read for me after I’m done with all of my device readers and spell check cheats. But today none are available. Hopefully my bugged brain caught enough typos to make this make some sence. Or is that sense? I’m sure it’s not sents….



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