Glimmer

Reaching for my ankles as I do yoga again, I reach down into myself. I feel my muscles stretch, and the shackles of a crippling depression start to loosen. I’ve been held prisoner in this hell, for what seems like forever. I’m still afraid to completely hope for true freedom, but against any better judgment I still hope.

If you asked me to tell you 100% honestly what I thought my life was like three weeks ago, I would have said I was not alive; I existed. My very best days were shit, and I fought _so_ hard to get them, and they were becoming so infrequent that I was forgetting what it was like to have a “good” day.

You see, I am a complex mishmash of problems. A medical conundrum, my doctor has told me. A wreck and a headcase, what I call myself.

But now I have this glimmer of hope, and it’s wonderful, and terrifying, and overwhelming, and uncertain.

Yet so is everything else in life.

sickening purple prose

happy or sad — angry or glad
it matters not tonight
still I am here
dark and eternal
melancholy lingers on me
like cheap perfume
or a bad taste in my mouth
constantly hovering
somewhere near the dismal recesses
of foreign unbegotten thought
brought on through self-reflection and
dismissed by Dionysius’ tears
the sun won’t shine
the moon won’t show for me
so I’m left to sit staring
at this blue-green ping-pong ball
around me
neither being hit nor hitting
rather sitting idly
in some bleak atheistic limbo that
never was never will be
only is
sitting solo on the doorstep of the universe
without the keys or even reach enough
to the door handle
(which was broken off eons ago
to my unfortunate misinformation)
listening to the falling of my futile tears
of sorrow and remorse
for a condition neither ascribed
nor achieved but
only is
mine
and mine alone
as all has been until now
and may always be
who can know tomorrow?
or yesterday?
no one knows today
(or at least no one is sharing)
selfish greedy bastards
mistaken in thinking their truths
lie secret in their adulterous bosoms
whilst whores and gigolos sell them
for a quick hot meal and shelter
or an evening’s escape from now
everyone’s an entrepreneur
in today’s mercenary escapist market
of denial
so pity the poor!
they face it all with straight heads
and pure hearts…
should we pity?
or envy?
or rather kill them all —
will that solve the problem?
pity the rich and envy the poor,
condemn the solemn man and
praise ye who worship gossip
and burn books of astute grandeur
of life beyond mere stimuli
action-reaction grows old
in this realm where youth reigns supreme
full of floating nobodies
all are everybody
bearing bridles and saddles
not fit for royalty
but the lowly troubadour
the troubadour who seeks the last
of valiance and chivalry
tell him not that he seeks in vain
and neither grieve him your best wishes
simply let him be whilst
ye sit atop your self-made thrones
seeking the same celestial orbs
that once graced the skies
of this horizon for you
and I
in our untenable bliss
and self-reprieve.

© CSM

wrong number

The thoughts go racing ’round my head
Exhilaration and guilt, fascination and disgust
Of you, of me, of all the memories
Most of which I truly don’t recall

Though the security of your devotion was real enough
and it lingers there still
On the corners of your mouth
Tainting all of your words sickly sweet
Making me cringe, yet holding me rapt
Like watching the aftermath of a train wreck
Seeing the carnage down the tracks
Knowing I am what derailed you

While some idealized adoration seeps from you like blood
Coating your tongue
turning everything you say
Into an unrequited plea for mercy
Yet all I can hear is the sound of my own
Laughter, righteous and haughty
Coming from somewhere within, someplace dark
Dusty, forgotten, and echoing through me
Like shouts reverberate in dense caves

As I listen to my cackling, I wonder
Why you would want to subject yourself
To such a lethal ride again
You’re full of hope and of longing
When you tell me you’ve missed me

And I hang up the phone.

© CSM

Body

I’ve lost 30+ lbs and 25 inches off my total body measurements over the last year!  My goal size is on the horizon!

Vanishing

I never knew I could be this completely exhausted. I feel so low, so drained, hollowed out. I am so tired of complaining, of being lonely, of being in pain, of being unable. That’s it. I feel disabled.

It seems like every day that I discover at least one more thing that I can’t do, as a mother, as a housewife, as just myself. Every day something about me, about my abilities, gets whittled away.

I’m afraid I’m disappearing.

Ouch

Fuck fuck fuckitty ouch! That is all.

Just a call

was all it took to cheer me up today. Was great hearing your voice, old man. Miss you more than you know.

April 19, 2012

2 pm. I dreamed of a baby last night. A little girl, looked just like me, but wasn’t being raised by me. It was mine and Matt’s and he and his new fiancee were taking care of her. Maybe it wasn’t Matt’s. But she was mine. Angelica. I was in college again, too. And he (Matt) was kind. All very vivid. All very confusing too. Can’t understand what it all means. Were these all things I’d given up on come back to visit? To tell me what? I don’t understand.

April 18, 2012

I feel like I’ve crawled into a pit. Everything hurts. Everything feels like a chore. I hate lifting my arms because I feel weak. I have trouble lifting the kids, climbing the stairs, cleaning the house, making meals, even washing my hair. I’m always exhausted but I can’t sleep. I started smoking again, too. I have insane mood swings, and fits of rage that feel so uncharacteristic of the woman I’ve come to believe myself to be.

I can’t really play with the kids, and feel like the worst mother. I have a constant low-grade fever, and always feel like I have the chills or hot flashes. One of the doctors said it could be my fever rising and breaking over and over. Fun.

I can’t knit or crochet like before. My hands don’t like to work. If they aren’t just weak, they’re numb, or ice cold, or stinging like cuts of 1000 razor blades. My eyes are so sensitive to light and my vision blurs so it’s hard to read, and I can’t concentrate anyway, so reading has been minimal. My brain feels like mush so I haven’t done any writing, painting, designing.

I feel like I’ve gotten into a pond of self pity and loathing and that I just wade here all day. The handful of friends I had left are tired of hearing me do nothing but complain, and now i feel like I’m being avoided. Even online, which makes me feel like a real winner.

I don’t have much of an appetite anymore, but need to eat so I can keep taking my meds. I’m retaining water, bloated, hurt.

I feel ugly, angry, damaged, ashamed, useless, broken.

I feel broken.

I’m broken.

Please fix me.

Labs, 3/16

  • ANAchoice – Positive
  • ESR – 40
  • RBC – 4.07
  • WBC – 9.8
  • TSH – 2.34
  • Vit D – 43
  • Vit B12 – 861
  • RPR – neg
  • Iron – 31
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