I’m not ready for this week to be over. Makes no sense but little does … to me … in this moment. I’m having trouble explaining the morose feelings about getting back to “normal”.
I’ve got writer’s block. Right when I most need to expel the demons. I’ve got physical symptoms too. I assume the mental is manifesting itself in physical ways yet in the back of my mind I think “what if this time I’m right?”
Next I move on to “girl you’ve got champagne problems” as I itemize the atrocities in this world. The list is mind boggling. A coping mechanism I’ve used my entire life. And I realize I’m beyond blessed yet I still hurt. Why? why do I hurt?
Queue the guilt. I’ve no reason for this … this whatever this is. And I’ve had enough therapy to know that’s the absolute worst thing to tell someone. Equivalent to saying “snap out if it” or “why can’t you just get over it”
I do this all the time. I minimize myself … my feelings … disappearing into emptiness. Floating away into nothingness. Aching and powerless to change. Unable to stop thinking. Obsessing.
Of course I know all the rhetoric and platitudes. Always the A student; I know just the right thing to say … to do. I’m in control of only one thing. ME! My reaction. But I’m tired. So fucking tired of holding it all together. I’m having trouble wishing myself well.
But wish is what I continue to do. And Pray. I don’t want to end it all. As bad as it gets, it has never been that bad. Though I understand or think I know how that can happen. Empathy and all judgments removed. There but for the grace of God go I.
When one of your very first memories is sickness, death and dying … the sounds and smells of disease, the fear can be overwhelming. I was supposed to be too young to remember and my memories may be false.
Yet in my mind’s eye, I see it. Woolworth’s. Mothers Day gift. Skipping down the aisles in a red gingham dress. We get a pitcher and 4 juice glasses with cherries on them. Back home, running around the bed. Oxygen tank is knocked over. We’re in big trouble! We could have caused the whole house to explode. There are tears. Nerves are screaming. Then he died a few weeks later. In fact, I think this memory is why the “big sleep” scares the hell out of me.
As always, more to come.