Chaos: Into the flow...

The last half of a journal entry...

with some edits/redactions.

~*~

As I type, I feel a dissatisfaction

I feel my self wanting to physically shake it off

"It" being this feeling

What is this feeling?
Is it of neediness?
Desire of wanting to be wanted?
Desire of wanting to be special?
Desire of wanting to be beautiful?

Desire of wanting to feel beautiful and loved and appreciated and wanted and the most special person in the world?

And I feel alone...

I feel resentment...

And anger...

And I want Other to hurt...

To emotionally hurt like me....

And I wish I didn't feel this way...

And I take a deep breath...

What can I do to help myself?
How does this tie into the pain of entering my memory into that era of murkiness?
Making my way through the corridors and rooms and levels....
The meandering pathways...
Through the gardens...

Into the cellar...

How can I enter that time?

How can I hold the pain?

Honor it?

Allow it to be honest with me?

Letting me know what it is that I am afraid of...

What do I fear from the pain?

Will I discover my deepest flaws?

My own arrogance...

My own narcissism...

These parts of me that I don't want to believe were ever my motivations...

But perhaps they were...

Perhaps they still are?

My own hypocrisy, in bold...

Flashing lively colors...

Streaks...

Not peaceful or calm or harmonious like a sunset...

But loud, sharp, blazing, disturbing....

Angles, not curves...

Rigid chaos...

Not purposed, flowing chaos...

With swirls and curves and meanderings of beauty...

Chaotically organized into lush scenes... 

That lead into wonder and tranquility....

I think for 2022, I will spill words...

However disorganized they may come out....

Take the pitcher...

And pour, Carol...

Pour...

Arise again...

 Rest...

O' wearied soul...

Rest...

O' wearied body...

Ride upon the flickering flames...

Of love, warmth, light...

Arise once again...

Like the Phoenix...

With the Phoenix...

You are the Phoenix...

"But Carol..."

How can I convey

the utter fatigue?

"But, Carol, you can ride a bike.

You can drive, even at night.

You have a husband who comes home almost every night.

You are taken care of materially. 

You have so much good in your life.

Don't you see it?"

Yes, god damn it.

Of course, I see it.

But what you don't see,

and I feel you have no concept of understanding,

is the drain and the life sucking toll 

that 24/7, 365 

selfcare 

gavels.

Pound!

Mrs. Welch, your sentence is....

Every day for the rest of your breathing life, 

you must concentrate in order to function.

Winters will be extremely hard.

Not that the cold will worsen your symptoms.

But the labor of pulling on two pair of socks? 

It will drain your energy. 

Dressing will be an even more laborious task than it is in the warmer months.

You must rest and recuperate after each round of winter layers.

When you succeed, remember to give your self credit

for getting clothed. 

To whomever wants to give me an earful of their coping wisdom...
I'm so tired of hearing it.

Tired of letting your supposedly good advice roll off me.

Tired of responding with a simple, "Thank you," so as to be polite.

When inside I'm screaming,
"That is not what you say to a chronically ill person!"

I want to shake you,

wake you to my reality.
At times I think maybe I should try to explain more, try to teach about it.

But I don't have the capacity to do so.
And to what end? 
I simply don't have that energy to give.

This unsolicited advice of yours,

of what I should be thankful for,

of all the blessings in my life...

Why do you think I'm not thankful for these things?
I am.

Why do you deem it that I'm not aware of them?

I am.

Do you think I am ignorant of the deep suffering of the world?

I'm not.

Do you project into my words?

That because I express my frustration and exhaustion

that for some reason that negates the gratitude in my soul? 
It doesn't.

I don't think that way. 

Just give me some fucking space to be human.

I know how to maneuver and navigate this maze.

I've been at it a long time.
I don't want, I don't need, your words of supposed "wisdom." 

And I can't help but wonder how well you would fare

if you hobbled a mile in my sandals? 
365, 24/7...
Year after year after year after...

In response to your unsolicited suggestions,

I internally endeavor to calm my self.

I tell my self that I cannot expect you to understand.

It seems to me that if you did

you would not reply with the "Yeah, buts..."

So...fuck you. 

(Carol, now...don't say that. 

But it is how I feel at the moment.)

I'm so fucking tired of living a life of concentrated effort 

to accomplish what should be the simplest of tasks.

Sometimes I think I'd like a caregiver.

But I don't have one.

I am my own caregiver.

I just wish I'd get some cred for that sometimes.

A little praise?
A dribble here or there? 

The other week I read that if cobalt poisoning isn't addressed in its early stages,

the damages it exacts are seldom reversable.

 

I read it and thought, Well. Shit.

 

Then I thought, I'm not going to believe that. 

Cobalt leached inside me for eight years before it got corked...