I woke up this morning with an itch. At first, it was just an annoyance: Taking a shower, itch; making Cole breakfast, itch; standing in line at Starbucks, itch itch; sitting down at my table to write; itch itch itch. I tried over and over, to caress my faithful keys, find something worthy to say, but all I could type was…………itch.
The itch wasn’t on my head; I shampoo daily, thank you very much! It wasn’t on my arms, legs; nor between my toes. It was in a place I care not to mention. As the morning turned to noon, the itch became invasive, violating, all consuming. I decided to see my doctor. I drove recklessly and skidded into the office parking lot. I ran into the office, stopped to catch my breath and walked to the sliding window. The nurse asked me to have a seat. I waited with trepidation, squirming in my chair. I picked up “They” magazine to see if “They” had anything relevant to say; nothing.
“Ms. Terry, Doctor Johnson will see you now.” What an incredible sound; a well crafted sentence – my hope – my salvation – my desperate need. The doctor smiled and greeted me sooner than expected. Thank God, I was beginning to lose my mind; frenzied by the relentless itch.
“What seems to be the problem Jill?”
“I have an itch that won’t go away. It’s driving me insane; more insane than usual.”
“Let’s have a look; get undressed please.”
I undressed and held my breath, waiting for the prognosis.
“Hmm, yes, interesting; typical actually.”
“What is it Doctor Johnson?”
“It appears you have Klingons on Uranus.” I gasped,
“Klingons? What the hell are they? Is there a cure?”
“What are they? Desperate little creatures really; in truth, parasites, sucking the life force from you so they can exist. It’s pathetic, if you want my honest opinion.” The doctor stood up and sighed; “A cure, well, yes and no.”
“What do you mean?” I blurted. He looked at me in silence for what seemed an eternity.
“Well Jill, it’s quite common among female published authors. Ericka Jong never got over hers. I’d rather not mention what it did to Sylvia Plath. Funny thing though, Jacqueline Susann loved hers and refused treatment.”
I held my head in my hands; on the verge of tears; distraught, filled with sorrow, enraged by the irony of it all. I only wanted to share my words; possibly help someone find solace through my experience.
“What can I do?”
“Well, you could stop writing all together, but I know how much it means to you. You could write for television, or you could just block the emails, which is how they find easy access to your system. It makes me wish for the good old days of snail mail. Too bad, it’s not feasible in today’s world; although, you have to admit, no ones going postal any more.” I felt tears running down my cheeks; at a complete loss. The doctor handed me a tissue and a script for sedatives. I smiled weakly, thanked him and walked out.
I drove straight home, digging and scratching the whole way. I made it home without crashing, ran inside, turned on my computer, found my preferences, moved the curser and hit block-block-block-block-block, over and over – a mad woman on the verge of collapse. When it was done I leaned back in my chair and breathed a sigh of relief. The itching disappeared. I silently thanked Doctor Johnson, lit a cigarette and began typing with impunity; free from the needy parasitical Klingons, my life once again my own.
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