Moira
Moira,
It has been a year of being alive. Ed's birthday was a few days ago.
Last night I was visited by flashbacks, and a sense of regret. Because there is a part of me that thinks, well, It would be easier if I had not taken another breath, then. Oh, I was anguished at leaving D bereft, and dying stupidly and suddenly, at a birthday party. And I was all, and all and all gratitude at finding myself breathing as I hear voices exclaim that she's pinking up.
But this past year has hurt so much.
And I am tired.
Ill.
And I want to quit, or I want to have quit, or I want to be, not. Sometimes. Just sometimes. I forget the joy. All I can see is the pain. Blinding it is. The exhaustion. The despair.
I consider that drowning, my mother's nightmare because her brother drowned when he was 17 and she was four, would really not be that bad. Because when the oxygen leaves the brain, the brain goes quiet, and says, Well, oh well. And really doesn't mind so much.
But then. I realize that I am just ill, a virus no doubt. And the first washes of menopause that can't come too soon, and the pain, and the strange fey nostalgia, is all whispering at me, and I know I don't mean it. Just like I didn't mean it when I fantasized every morning of nursing school shooting myself in the head. Not wanting to die, just wanting to lie down a long time. A respite, a refuge, a retreat.
And I know you understand perfectly.
Z
It has been a year of being alive. Ed's birthday was a few days ago.
Last night I was visited by flashbacks, and a sense of regret. Because there is a part of me that thinks, well, It would be easier if I had not taken another breath, then. Oh, I was anguished at leaving D bereft, and dying stupidly and suddenly, at a birthday party. And I was all, and all and all gratitude at finding myself breathing as I hear voices exclaim that she's pinking up.
But this past year has hurt so much.
And I am tired.
Ill.
And I want to quit, or I want to have quit, or I want to be, not. Sometimes. Just sometimes. I forget the joy. All I can see is the pain. Blinding it is. The exhaustion. The despair.
I consider that drowning, my mother's nightmare because her brother drowned when he was 17 and she was four, would really not be that bad. Because when the oxygen leaves the brain, the brain goes quiet, and says, Well, oh well. And really doesn't mind so much.
But then. I realize that I am just ill, a virus no doubt. And the first washes of menopause that can't come too soon, and the pain, and the strange fey nostalgia, is all whispering at me, and I know I don't mean it. Just like I didn't mean it when I fantasized every morning of nursing school shooting myself in the head. Not wanting to die, just wanting to lie down a long time. A respite, a refuge, a retreat.
And I know you understand perfectly.
Z
Posted by Zhoen on Thursday, September 28, 2006
9 comments:
(((zhoen)))
(o)
Oh yes, I understand. Rest, rest and be well.
Oh Zhoen. Sending you lots of love. And lots of appreciation. You're a precious person - hugely talented as well as hugely useful, most of us can't say that. And I think you need some time off to deal with this, the backpain and the trauma. And some of whatever care/attention/therapy you would feel comfortable with. You know what a big deal it is, you can express it wonderfully, but you don't seem to be acting on that.
Jean,
How can I act on it, more than I already am? I am getting treated, I have taken all the time off I can afford, I do my therapy. I will get a massage when I have healed enough that it will not irritate the damage. This is not a quick fix, but an incremental process. I am not letting anything slide. Crap just keeps cropping up.
Dear Zhoen. (o)
Selfishly, I look forward to the next year of you being alive, Zhoen.
Lots of good wishes, Zhoen.
Good Health to you...and the peace that accompanies the lessening of pain...
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