(Yesterday, day 14 for writing the novel. Click on the link above my userpic to read the pages. To start at the beginning, click on "View Archives," and then scroll down.)

I've posted two journal entries from 1998 at once because of their brevity and opposition.

19 Dec. 1998

A letter from the Chesterfield Film Company, which I was reluctant to open, revealed that I am now a semi-finalist in the evaluation process of the Writer’s Film Project. Amazing! Fantastic! Wonderful!

Though it will be ten more weeks before I learn if I am a finalist, this news is a great shot in the arm. When I didn’t receive anything on the fifteenth, I assumed my application didn’t make the grade. Now I know better and this news should embolden me.

21 Dec. 1998

What a down day was yesterday. I got up early so I could avoid a caffeine headache and to take my medication on time. My body’s desire though was to return to sleep. I ignored its wishes, deciding to venture out to run errands at Copy Co. and Dillon’s.

A dusting of snow streaked the streets. Winter had finally arrived. Copy Co. wasn’t open and neither the Dillon’s on 23rd nor on Mass. had almond croissants.

I briefly scared Ercilia when I called her from the Mass. Street Dillon’s. “The news is not good,” I began. She thought the worst and chastised me for alarming her when the purpose of my call was to tell her Dillon’s had discontinued the almond croissant.

We decided on breakfast at home. She suggested French toast and I bought Pain Ordinaire at Wheatfield’s [sic]. My arrival home felt like the culmination of a months long journey.

I collapsed on the couch and was barely able to get up fro Ercilia’s deliscious [sic] breakfast. After two thick slices of toast, glass of milk, and coffee, I stumbled back to the couch and was asleep before Ercilia left to meet with Gerry. Eventually, I made my way to the bed, sleeping until 3:00.

This lethargy is another indication that I’m building a tolerance for the 50mg dose of Zoloft. Saturday evening, while showering to get ready for an evening out, I experienced another crying jag. Ercilia was sympathetic and reassuring. “I like it when you cry.”

(Okay, seventh day of my self-imposed challenge. Though what I posted, today--click on the link above my userpic, is not much, I continue to write the novel and to share the results with you. When you have a chance, let me know what you think.)

Another journal entry from 1998:

 Another jounal entry from 1998. I'll share entries written through the end of this year. Later, after you've had a break, and after I've located entries from the spring of 1999, I'll share again. Nineteen-ninety-nine, after all, was the year when things started to make sense.

Another journal entry from almost ten years ago. Please remember these entries occur about five months before a bout of optic neuritis, which led to a diagnosis of MS,

While opening boxes to find books to sell, I've run across many other things, including journals. I want to share a couple of entries. I wrote them about five months before a bout with optic neuritis, which led to an MS diagnosis. And, my reason for doing so? To offer a sense of how MS is at work long before its presence is determined, and how MS is sometimes misdiagnosed as something else. In my case, depression.

12-8-98

Today is my first day on Zoloft (which I keep calling "Zoltoft"). I used a steak knife to cut one of the blue tablets in half. I had it with a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee.

The headache I woke up with was still with me after my morning walk. It stayed with me until late afternoon. This punctuated a day of drowsiness and listlessness. Though I finished a query letter to Seventeen (about a proposed article on study skills), I wasn't able to do much else.

A concern of mine is that I'm expecting too much from this medication. That it will somehow turn things around & I'll be able & willing to finish a degree I no longer want.

(Tired this morning. The numbness about my hips and legs remains but is diminished.)

The following may seem like a digression, but come with me and I will bring us back to MS and Adult ADD.

"I still think you have obsessive personality," my ex-wife said after she learned I do have ADD. "You need to talk to somebody about this."

"Can you give examples of obsessive behavior?"

"Keeping your shirts tucked in and your journals."

Uh-huh. I reminded her about the large, crater-like scar at my lower back. Tucked-in shirts minimized irritation. (The scar is now gone, but that's another story.)

"Well, I'll give you that one," she said.

What about the journals? She knew I was a writer, with the awards, produced plays, and publications to prove it. Writers keep journals. Marcel Proust, Dorothy Wordsworth, and the Happy Hooker come to mind.

As a way to manage MS, I increased my journal-keeping--journals for work, school, creative projects, my son, and my health.

This turned out to annoy the two most important adults in my life. One revised events so she wouldn't come off as the "bad guy." The other didn't want to be reminded of his failures to follow through on our collaborative efforts. The immediacy of my journals was in opposition to their selfish, or flawed memories.

I did speak to my psychiatrist about my ex-wife's concerns.

"If a behavior has a positive effect on one's life, can it be considered as obsessive/compulsive?" I asked. "No" was the answer. Then I explained why I asked.

The good news was that my management of MS dove-tailed into the management of ADD. Unknowingly, I practiced behaviors that benefited me. An ADD diagnosis allowed for further, specific treatments.

During the past three years, I have lived on my own, completed my doctorate, remained gainfully employed, and cared for my son half of each week. How do I know this? My journals continue to be a record of my missteps and my successes.