JOTELL: J oy O f T he E rratically L ived L ife

Reading Time approx: 5 minutes

7-20-2020 – I have pulled my original essay on JOTELL off of the , and reposting it here as an article:


I recently activated a Twitch video-streaming, videoconferencing channel, and I am slowly learning the Twitch software’s intricacies. I’m primarily interested in broadcasting episodes and tales of the JOTELL concept on the Twitch channel.  I’m not ready to divulge the channel name, however.   I float around, all over the Internet, to various sites and platforms to which I am semi-addicted (much like I’m semi-addicted to TriggerWarning), so I have not dedicated a lot of time to Twitch. But my heart’s in the right place. I’m slowly learning how to get up and running with streaming content.

I’m writing this essay with the intent to encourage persons who have had issues with behaving erratically. I have had issues with my own erratic behavior, all of which is under the tolerance levels for criminal or civil law problems; well, after 1977 anyway, and I’m not “beyond the pale” on any “spectrum” of psychological evaluation. However, regarding myself, I have operated in a universe of chronic pain, for decades, and have escaped the grim specter of dissociative isolation. I am EXTREMELY fortunate to be as well-situated and well-adjusted as I am, and, for that, I am enormously grateful.

The online world is vast, and there are countless good-hearted, well-meaning persons who depend on the anonymous nature of the Internet to mask their problematic personal issues. May favorable winds always be with those among us who sustain their good characters through the disabling and sometimes fearsome medical and other issues that force our erratic adaptations to those maladies and conditions. I’m with you. I get it. I’m one of you. And I do find joy and happiness amongst the sometimes horrors of simply being a human being who is afflicted with extremely hard to solve vicissitudes. Be well, my erratic brothers and sisters. Our lives can often be the oceans of joy and love that come from the courageous overcoming of that in troubled human nature and in the negligent lack of human nurture which suppresses and encumbers us. Cheers (or not, if you’re sober).


So, this is what I literally found out on June 13th, 2020.   I had some X-ray imaging done of my right hand (my writing hand) by a hand surgeon specialist, on that day. Left-right comparisons were made. Before June 12th, 2020, I had never before had my hands and wrists X-rayed.  Apart from the site of my actual recent injury that I sustained, and for which I was seeking medical evaluation, he pointed out an abnormality on the outside of the right wrist/forearm articulations, and told me that I had something called Pseudo Madelung’s Deformity (This abnormality looks really weird on the X-ray, like with a partially missing ending of one of the forearm bones (the ulna, if I remember correctly).  It was called “pseudo” because it was not congenital, but was the result of the trauma of breaking my wrist. Over the decades, medical providers had been evaluating joint and neurological problems about which I complained, but my wrist and hand were never considered; so close (X-ray imaging of my right elbow and nerve conduction tests of my whole upper body), yet so far away from getting relief from the condition.  My doctor is now recommending a wrist surgery, 53 years after the initial injury,, in order to correct the Pseudo Madelung’s Deformity in my right wrist.  I am still processing this new news. It is somewhat disturbing and slightly surreal.

I thought briefly, at the doctor’s office, and then knew exactly when I broke my wrist, causing the painful condition. I was thirteen. I was jumping a clay mound beside baseball fields, and peddled my bike one push too far beyond the mound’s surface, turning my bike sideways. So, there I am, going 20+ miles an hour, 7 feet in the air, and then landing on my right wrist, breaking it. Well, I pushed my bike home, cradling my arm, to my blind drunk alcoholic mother, who medically “evaluates” the injury, makes a sling out of a little purple scarf, puts my arm in it, and viola, lo and behold, that was my medical “treatment” for my broken wrist. Alcoholic parents, even functional alcoholic parents, oftentimes really suck. And they most definitely should not ever practice medicine.

Despite having done hundreds of thousands of loving deeds for me, this blind spot in my folks’ ability to protect me, their small-town roots giving them total ignorance of all things medical, resulted in basically putting me back into the fray of life with a seriously deformed and deficient wrist. They just didn’t *get* emergency medical situations, God bless ’em. The nature of our family was to then sternly move on to the next thing. So that injury got buried, as did about 3 or 4 others, one of those being a relatively serious neck injury, all before I was 18 years old.

And a’fuckin Sally, I muscled on and spastically tried to academically compete and transfer my intellectual output into academic performance, with a wrist that pretty much said “fuck you, take the pain”, every time I tried to write or type anything over about 500 words. My physical life became the life of a very smart and determined brute, muscling my way through decades of waxing and waning pains, always wandering endlessly through the mysterious and intense pain syndromes of the spasticity matrix that was inside myself, always searching for relief from unknown torment. I have already had three major surgeries to correct three other pain-generating medical problems:  Two surgeries for spinal and shoulder joint injuries, and one surgery for an internal medicine problem that I may discuss with all of you at a later date. In short — Madness; sheer elemental, intellectual and physical torture.

Joy, however, always hovered within my periodic grasp, and the promise of the grace and integrity of a healed body and spirit always beckoned to me and whispered to me, “Do not give up. Do not despair. You are loved, and you belong; you belong to and in the pluriverse, and you have a right, privilege and duty to play your part in infinite consciousness.” (Well, “the voice” said something like that to me, anyway.  LOL)

Now it’s not that I’m complaining (for those of you who are still reading). All these 6+ decades of my life, I cherish. I’m seriously delighted to still be six feet above ground, rather than 6 feet under. And I could not ask for a better current outcome, all things considered.  But I would ask you to do this little psychological exercise. Imagine someone of great authority coming up to you when you were a teenager, and saying “you’ve been selected to have your wrist broken. After we break your wrist, we are going to send you into the competitions of life without helping you to heal your wrist. You’ll be judged as though you’re completely whole and healthy. Good luck — We’ll be judging you harshly, motherfucker…LULZ”.

My belief is that there are literally hundreds and hundreds of thousands of people throughout the world, millions upon millions of people, without a voice, who have similarly unrecognized injuries that impair their abilities to perform and compete to their best ability (consider just two groups, for instance: skateboarders and American-style football players – the actual total of vulnerable groups is almost beyond counting).

I believe that these “erratic” people are legion. A legion of millions upon millions of erratic (get it? …JOTELL…the “Joy Of The Erratically Lived Life”) but mostly good-hearted people. Believing this makes spiritually loving difficult, problem-afflicted people easier than un-spiritually hating difficult, problem-afflicted people. It is certainly true that nobody’s perfect, and that not everyone is spiritually loved.  THE END     LOL…..                                                     — Cipher This —


What do you think?

Written by Cipher-This

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