There’s a weeping deep – a disquietude. No tears for something lost – not even for fear of losing what morsel of humanity I may have gained. I struggle with who I am at this one odd second.
It is 2:58 am on the last Sunday in May. Mayhaps that is what is struggling within, arguing with yesterday’s coffee. Why must coffee taken in early morning only work to awaken me at this ungodly hour?
Is it the poetry? Am I loosing what I have needed so long to hold to so tightly that I have prevented myself from recognizing why I no longer am who I thought I would/could/should be?
In less than two weeks I shall reach the grand attainment of age 60 – how and when did that happen and why even should it occur? I tangle myself in my jumbled patterns of thinking myself wise.
Fibromyalgia has me gripped so tightly I want to tear something apart - but lack the physical strength. I am enshrouded in Chronic Fatigue. I feel like I am screaming from the dark chains of a coma…someone HEAR me!!!!!!
Changes have rapidly altered my comfortable beingness. My mirror is not so friendly - I look in to it and see my Mother - and sometimes my Grandmother. Both were very lovely in their younger years - but I see them now, in that dratted mirror - reflecting the age they were shortly before they died. I will not have an "Extreme Makeover". I do not seek to recapture youth not so fondly remembered.
I write prose. I once naively believed that prose was a “good” thing. Checking the dictionary – I find it to be rather dull. Prosaic is a lovely sounding word…just the definition is soooo boring, I want to lash myself for believing I was sooo good at penning it.
My hubby is struggling with sleep – this is the first time that I can recall arising before he does. He wants me to write. Do I want me to write? Once upon a time I did…thinking that I had so very much to share with the whole wide world which would welcome every golden drop of prosaic prose that dripped from my ballpoint. Computers are wonderful critters – they rush ahead of your thoughts and encapsulate a great nothing.
Sounds to me like I’m a trifle depressed. I could slap my cpap mask back on my face, sweet-dreaming amidst yellow foam rollers and over 100 pounds of excess weight stifling my breathing.
Wow! I am on a roll! Better date this epistle – June 4th, 2003? So why even date this? A start of a diary I was always too lazy to maintain in former years?
Retired. Wonderful. Now I can do all those fantabulous things I promised myself to do! Sell my jewelry on Ebay! Write the “great American novel” (IS THIS IT?????) In the inimitable words of my dear departed Mama…”don’ wanna.” Is it the Fibromyalgia? Is it the great accompanying Major Depression?
Why should I be depressed? I love our Lord and serve HIM with my whole heart – or at least I try to. Some days I feel if I serve him with my little toe I am doing good. I let HIM down more than HE could ever let me down. Is it Jim? Is Jim the great unfinished work of my life? I let him down – he let me down – we let each other down and we let GOD down.
Mike is my life now – has been for almost 30 years. I will NOT let Mike down – and I know he will not let me down, and working together for YHWH we pray that we shall never let HIM down. Never again. So why so glum, chum?
Mike wants me to write. He wants me to not burrow deeply into my self – feeling sorry for the “me – me – me – me” that I sometimes become. My sister is Bipolar. She has a title that makes sense. She has not had an easy life. I have had a fairly easy life, because unlike her, I did not allow life to slap me around so much.
I have a wonderful hiding mechanism. I used to call it “mirror-imaging” – becoming whatever anyone expected me to be. Cannot do that well anymore. Ooops – more self-pity – got to stop that!
Refinancing the house again – trying to keep the house while waiting for Social Security and/or Long-Term Disability to kick in. This is horrifying to someone who always wanted to care for others. Had to be the best and brightest. Had to be the most dependable. Now I need.
I feel my mind has gone into some nether region – I wonder if this is what Alzheimer’s feels like? Trapped in a functioning (somewhat) body with my mind traipsing off in all different directions.
I refuse to fall into the trap that my job defined my “beingness”. It was a wonderful source of self-esteem, granted. And my entire social life. I must have truly craved the approval of so many people – I worked hard for it, sometimes not even realizing it. Now no one calls from work. Oh goodness – was it all so superficial? The commaradarie? The glad-handing? The “Let’s do lunch” routine? Of course it was. Of course it is. Out of sight – out of mind.
Mike loves me. I hang onto that. I joy in that. I weigh 100 pounds more than when we first met. He never puts me down for how I look – just worries greatly about my declining health as a result.
Did I choose to truly become “Sister Fat” as I once threatened, as a result of Jim’s rejection? Why cannot I shed that image for Mike who loves me? Who am I hurting? Punishing? Ding! The answer, Mr. Trebek – "Who is mineself".
I spend hours playing Monopoly on the computer. It is easy with the Fibromyalgia…brainless and not requiring much range of motion. I have a game going now where I have the score of Judi at 8,000.00 vs computer at 4,000.00 – the computer wouldn’t have gained such an edge except that I felt sorry for it early on and gave it the Railroads, Utilities, and lots of $$$ to keep it going in the initial stages. Now it gloats. Let it.
This is weird…now I may be getting sleepy after all! Mayhaps taking all these racy thoughts and reading them outside my head is corralling them into some semblance of order that I can deal with? Interesting!
Mike says I have no trouble writing. Hmm. I always struggled with writing letters. Bored to tears. I sometimes think I just vomit out the words. Like when I overate as a child…literally eating until I threw up all over my slippers. I tell him that it is easy to write when one is superficial – to write as he does takes a great more thought and self-flagellation.
I try to play computer Solitare. It hurts my shoulders and arm too much. Must be played too rapidly. I used to play it before going to work to see if my brain was still active enough to pay claims. The Fibro I could deal with – the fatigue devastates me. And why can’t the Chronic Fatigue kick in when I need it, such as right now, at 3:41 a.m.?
One great thing about the fatigue…I forget so much when I watch movies! So every movie is like seeing it again for the first time! (Bright spot for Pollyanna!) But the zzzz’ing off in mid sentence is disconcerting.
When first separated from Jim – I would fall asleep without a moment’s notice – there is a medical term for this which escapes me now. It was most embarrassing. Mayhaps it was an escape mechanism to hide me from life’s unpleasant realities? Yup. Musta been. But I don’t need nor want it NOW!!!! Well, maybe right now so I can get some sleep! Ok – a little more Monopoly and maybe I will bore myself to sleep? Later, gator.
Mat. 7:21 "Not everyone that saith unto Me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father, which is in heaven."
Although your pain comes through loud and clear in this article, and your attempts to deal with it, your sense of humour and your obvious gift of writing shines through as well. I pray that you will find rest, and when you can, continue to write. Mike is right in encouraging this. Wishing you blessings, Mary