Journal Entry (adapted), 9/08/20, 1:40 AM
If I just keep writing, will it eventually help me?
Where do I turn when I feel my resources are exhausted?
When I am the broken toy tossed into the reject pile.
When there is no silver lining in the story.
When the heart has become so deadened, it is unable to respond.
When the heart feels a desperation, a silent scream, to which no one, not even the heart's owner, responds.
That is where I am.
And I'm having great difficulty finding a way out.
A dearth. A despondency.
A less than hollowness.
Not even an emptiness.
More like nothing ever existed there before, so there is nothing from which to be empty.
The space always was.
That is what this feels like.
I beg of the invisible-to-my-eye listeners, please, please give me something to hold onto.
Something so I know I'm heard.
I need more.
I need to know I matter.
*~*
And then...
9/08/20, 3:15 PM, just before leaving the house for my 4:00 neurologist appointment to receive Epidural #31:
Hubby hands me a card that had arrived in our mailbox. Normally our mail doesn't arrive until 5:00 PM or so. The card is from a long-distance friend in Chicago, just checking in and letting me know how much I'm valued. She even put a cycling postage stamp on it. (I'd like to get some of those stamps.) The Listeners had perfect timing.
Wednesday, September 9, 2020
Dark AM
Journal Entry (adapted), 9/08/20, 12:40 AM
God, Universe, Whatever...
Please hear my request
That I can help myself
That I can think clearer
Set some goals and achieve them
Acknowledge what I accomplish
And let my self know how well she does
That she is a caring person
That she does give her all
To the best of her ability in any given moment
On Sunday
She cleaned up the public bathroom at Mt. Mitchell
She picked up trash two different times on two different trails
She only bought one thing: a bag of Cheez-its
She took her own food and cups and water bottles
She thinks of the person that will come after her every day
Who is coming to this place next and to help that place be a blessing
Not only in the immediate, but also for future generations
So, go easy on her
In spite of the good things she does and thinks
She is hard on her self
So, go easy on her
Sunday, she spoke up to the drone-guy at Mt. Mitchell
But then got on herself for not doing it well enough
Instead, think of the fact that she spoke up
And that, if something like that comes up again, how she can do it better
The internet doesn't do it for you anymore Carol
As far as giving you something to let you know you matter
But nature often does
Or happenstance, when you don't go a-clamoring for the attention
Or being something or someone you're not
Or trying to impress but not realizing it until after the fact
Notice those flash thoughts and feelings
And wait before acting on them
Look to John for support
And to the kids
And to a couple friends, selectively
It's now 1:01 AM
I think I'll drink some tea
And turn on the TV
God, Universe, Whatever...
Please hear my request
That I can help myself
That I can think clearer
Set some goals and achieve them
Acknowledge what I accomplish
And let my self know how well she does
That she is a caring person
That she does give her all
To the best of her ability in any given moment
On Sunday
She cleaned up the public bathroom at Mt. Mitchell
She picked up trash two different times on two different trails
She only bought one thing: a bag of Cheez-its
She took her own food and cups and water bottles
She thinks of the person that will come after her every day
Who is coming to this place next and to help that place be a blessing
Not only in the immediate, but also for future generations
So, go easy on her
In spite of the good things she does and thinks
She is hard on her self
So, go easy on her
Sunday, she spoke up to the drone-guy at Mt. Mitchell
But then got on herself for not doing it well enough
Instead, think of the fact that she spoke up
And that, if something like that comes up again, how she can do it better
The internet doesn't do it for you anymore Carol
As far as giving you something to let you know you matter
But nature often does
Or happenstance, when you don't go a-clamoring for the attention
Or being something or someone you're not
Or trying to impress but not realizing it until after the fact
Notice those flash thoughts and feelings
And wait before acting on them
Look to John for support
And to the kids
And to a couple friends, selectively
It's now 1:01 AM
I think I'll drink some tea
And turn on the TV
Monday, August 31, 2020
Don't box me in...
I think more nuanced than I speak
Words are often hard to come by
Words that convey the nuance
So instead of finding the words
Or admitting I can't find them
I bypass or short cut
And words come out that don't authentically convey
What I think or feel
Is it because of fear?
Fear of how the other will judge me?
Perhaps as being too ambivalent?
Too milquetoast?
Or is it because of the other's labels of me?
Of the box they put me in?
Due to the human trait of projection?
Due to assumptions made on those projections?
Due to lenses through which the other views and interprets?
Do I not care enough to correct the assumption?
Is the energy expenditure to yet once again explain myself to draining?
Am I projecting in this "other" analysis?
Or does it mostly boil down to symptoms of my disability?
The physical and cognitive and emotional toll?
To carry out what should be simple functions?
Due to nerve damage?
Due to long-term steroid side effects?
Perhaps I don't speak up and explain
Because it takes more words to convey gray
Between and within the gray is where the nuance exists
Like the silver streaks within the hoary head
When the wind blows, the hair rearranges, exposing the shades
Or depending on the angle at which the sunlight shines, tones differ slightly
And may even display colors other than silver, white, and gray
It takes more words, more thought, more feeling
To convey nuance
My favorite conversations, the few I engage, are not about
politics or relationships or analysis or philosophy or academia
My favorite conversations are about peoples' stories
Listening to what an individual has lived
Without trying to analyze or judge or appraise
Analyzing, appraising, judging the other
Tires my soul
Sometimes
Often
I am the other
Words are often hard to come by
Words that convey the nuance
So instead of finding the words
Or admitting I can't find them
I bypass or short cut
And words come out that don't authentically convey
What I think or feel
Is it because of fear?
Fear of how the other will judge me?
Perhaps as being too ambivalent?
Too milquetoast?
Or is it because of the other's labels of me?
Of the box they put me in?
Due to the human trait of projection?
Due to assumptions made on those projections?
Due to lenses through which the other views and interprets?
Do I not care enough to correct the assumption?
Is the energy expenditure to yet once again explain myself to draining?
Am I projecting in this "other" analysis?
Or does it mostly boil down to symptoms of my disability?
The physical and cognitive and emotional toll?
To carry out what should be simple functions?
Due to nerve damage?
Due to long-term steroid side effects?
Perhaps I don't speak up and explain
Because it takes more words to convey gray
Between and within the gray is where the nuance exists
Like the silver streaks within the hoary head
When the wind blows, the hair rearranges, exposing the shades
Or depending on the angle at which the sunlight shines, tones differ slightly
And may even display colors other than silver, white, and gray
It takes more words, more thought, more feeling
To convey nuance
My favorite conversations, the few I engage, are not about
politics or relationships or analysis or philosophy or academia
My favorite conversations are about peoples' stories
Listening to what an individual has lived
Without trying to analyze or judge or appraise
Analyzing, appraising, judging the other
Tires my soul
Sometimes
Often
I am the other
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