Today, I feel like you are hovering all around me, like you’ve fashioned yourself into a suit of scouring pads, hugging me tightly at every turn. I can’t remove you while you scrub into me. Abrasive to my peace of mind. Bruising me with invisible bruises.
I feel the weight of you with each move I try to make. Whether I sit, stand or lie down, each position brings its own individual challenges — stabs, jabs, or prickles of pain. Shooting pain or radiating pain. A never-ending menu of surprises.
I stare at you in the mirror sometimes, and it’s like staring at myself but more elusive.
This week, I noticed that I have worn a hole in my sheet with restless legs in pain at night.
I have no questions for you now — just making these observations so that I can remember these days.
As you know, you’re flaring up right now. You’re in what seems like a jittery fit of temper because I tried to mow the lawn, which might have gone alright (we usually survive it together, don’t we?) except that tonight, the mower ran out of gas, and then I flooded it accidentally when trying to refill it, and then I was wrestling trying to start it again and then being the crazy neighbor trying to at least quickly weed wack the tallest weeds in my lawn when I realized the mower wasn’t going to come around . . . I’m sure I must have looked silly.
I would have just waited except that the next couple of days are busy & then I’ll be away for the weekend, but my-oh-my . . . you didn’t like any of that, did you? Now my arms are shaky, and aching deeply in your trigger areas, and I’ve broken out an ice pack to help calm the nerves that seem to be freaking out.
At one point, toward the end of our mower adventure, you shot a jolt of pain through my arm that almost brought me to tears. Part of me thought I should stop, but I’m also trying to stand up for myself, for my sense of desire to still be able to “manage” things without your interference. I’m still trying to learn where the line is . . . and still trying to come to grips with the fact that sometimes it’s just not going to be where I want it to be.
I don’t understand why you always feel the need to bring fog with you when you come to visit . . . it’s a bright sunny day outdoors, but in my mind, everything is suspended as though on damp, low-hanging clouds, moving slowly through humid mental air, floating, never quite landing. Focus is a challenge, and there’s so much for me to focus on between work, house projects, relationships . . . and of course, I can’t get by with just standard self-care because you want more time, more attention–demand added rituals and more complex steps. Sometimes you’re so needy. Any chance that you could just part the fog temporarily and allow the sunshine to stream in for the afternoon? That would really help.