Most of the time I'm holding my own. Perhaps not swimming but at least drifting rather than sinking. Things really aren't as bad as they were in January. It's easy to forget that they have improved because, well, they're still very far from good. And every so often there will come a day which is a nightmare, everyone gets those, it's not unusual. They seem more intense somehow, as though it's a personal insult for the universe to throw this at me on top of everything else. Feel like an ant being pursued by a kid with a magnifying glass. Yesterday was one of those days.
It started badly, of course, all days start badly now. The pain was more intense than usual, requiring crutches and a brace which always inspires a bright and sunny disposition. The benches in the tube station had been varnished (at 0500? As though I'd slid into an alternative universe in which council workers are fresh, chirpy and feverishly wielding brushes before dawn.) and fumbling crutches, myself and my bag of stuff onto the train meant I couldn't choose an empty carriage, no chance of a seat. These were all minor frustrations compared to the gathering darkness, no reason for it, but for some reason everything felt grey and the hole in my chest was aching more than usual. Spent long periods staring at the wall, woolgathering.
It started badly, of course, all days start badly now. The pain was more intense than usual, requiring crutches and a brace which always inspires a bright and sunny disposition. The benches in the tube station had been varnished (at 0500? As though I'd slid into an alternative universe in which council workers are fresh, chirpy and feverishly wielding brushes before dawn.) and fumbling crutches, myself and my bag of stuff onto the train meant I couldn't choose an empty carriage, no chance of a seat. These were all minor frustrations compared to the gathering darkness, no reason for it, but for some reason everything felt grey and the hole in my chest was aching more than usual. Spent long periods staring at the wall, woolgathering.
Had to remove my wedding ring to finagle my hand into a cabinet for fear of losing it in the damn thing. The tan line caught me by surprise; it shouldn't. Not after all this time, but it still stole my breath away for a long moment. Too long. I know that it takes time and I know that it hasn't been long enough to get any kind of distance (emotional, I've at least managed geographical) and I know all too well that I expect too much, too fast. I know all of this and tell myself these things daily. Doesn't stop me shattering a coffee mug against the wall or slamming my hand onto the counter. Have to hold it together at work, no time for this shit, this shaking and losing of time. Check my watch to see how much time has passed, too long, almost an hour. Fuck. What use am I now? Like this? What use is this? What is the point? Rage, again. Everything boils down to it now. I'm quietly appalled by it, such a completely inappropriate, explosive response to a fading tanline under a thin silver wedding ring.
A voicemail from my Mother in law (ex?) rounded out the day nicely. I have no problem with her; it's hard to have any of the stereotypical family issues when you live thousands of kilometres away. She wants to talk. Worse - she says I need to talk. My first thought is that her daughter would never have said that. But then her daughter had the misfortune to get to know me and learn to deal with my ridiculousness. Need to talk, do I? Well that's not going to persuade me to call her. That and the guilt. That's the heart of the matter - the hot, tight knot of guilt that I'm carrying around. I wasn't there, wasn't with them, shouldn't have let them go, shouldn't have let her drive, should have gone with them. If I really want to twist the knife I remember saying goodbye, warning her to drive safely. But remembering that is dangerously close to remembering the hospital and those are the nightmares that wake me in the dark of the night and lurk in the quiet corners of my mind, just in case I get the mistaken impression that I'm moving on.
It's days like these that leave me in a boneless heap on the couch, staring at the wall. Keenly aware that everything I cared about has gone. Not everything; days like this make me over-dramatic as well. Convinced the world has ended. It has not. I am here, pressing on. Bloodied but unbowed. Friends reassure me that it's ok, fine, healthy (probably) to give in, to spend listless hours sitting, staring at nothing. It isn't. I'm miserable, not stupid. Force myself up, away from the cocoon, back to the present. Off to the basement to stare blankly at something else and baptize myself in sawdust.
She's calling again. Immaculate timing. Her daughter was always late. For our wedding, even. She hasn't said a word about the hospital, doesn't blame me. She should. I do.
A voicemail from my Mother in law (ex?) rounded out the day nicely. I have no problem with her; it's hard to have any of the stereotypical family issues when you live thousands of kilometres away. She wants to talk. Worse - she says I need to talk. My first thought is that her daughter would never have said that. But then her daughter had the misfortune to get to know me and learn to deal with my ridiculousness. Need to talk, do I? Well that's not going to persuade me to call her. That and the guilt. That's the heart of the matter - the hot, tight knot of guilt that I'm carrying around. I wasn't there, wasn't with them, shouldn't have let them go, shouldn't have let her drive, should have gone with them. If I really want to twist the knife I remember saying goodbye, warning her to drive safely. But remembering that is dangerously close to remembering the hospital and those are the nightmares that wake me in the dark of the night and lurk in the quiet corners of my mind, just in case I get the mistaken impression that I'm moving on.
It's days like these that leave me in a boneless heap on the couch, staring at the wall. Keenly aware that everything I cared about has gone. Not everything; days like this make me over-dramatic as well. Convinced the world has ended. It has not. I am here, pressing on. Bloodied but unbowed. Friends reassure me that it's ok, fine, healthy (probably) to give in, to spend listless hours sitting, staring at nothing. It isn't. I'm miserable, not stupid. Force myself up, away from the cocoon, back to the present. Off to the basement to stare blankly at something else and baptize myself in sawdust.
She's calling again. Immaculate timing. Her daughter was always late. For our wedding, even. She hasn't said a word about the hospital, doesn't blame me. She should. I do.
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