| Sep 18 2011 |
09/18/11
To my very dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers,
I want, first to ackowledge you, and to thank you, for your kindness and support, and for your encouragement in trying to writemy diary entries, for, without you, I would not be, it is fully your reading, and comments that somehow make valid my efforts; and without you, and my other friends at MDJunction, I would still be so very much alone. And, without purpose; alone, and alone with my pain and despair. It is you who have taken me in, and so very often comforted me, and fully allowed me to share with you my thoughts without censure, and reveal to you the contents of my heart without betrayal nor cruelty.
And while I do crave your praise as it brightens all my days, even in your criticiam ( which surely I need from time to time ), even in this you have been both gentle and respectful of my deepest feelings.
I realize that all of us at MDJunction are bound by shared pain, and broken lives, MdJunction( thanks to Roy ), has proven to be a safe haven, a resting place, a quiet place, wherein all of us can find healing, hope, serenity, and...peace...from both the monsters within us, and those that may surround us, to that special place where yet angels can be found.
To find them, all that is required is to look into a mirror. For, whenever I seek them, I find them in you, dearest friends.
'I Feel So Strange, So Afraid; Could I Be Happy ???'
Usually, my dear friends, I merely 'exist' from day to day; nothing out of the ordinary, neither special, nor untowards. I awake from nightmare and broken sleep, to pain that begins to rise within me, even before I leave my bed. Often, my first 'task' of the day is to hurry out to the kitchen for my morning medications, AND my pain pills, providing--of course--that I have not once again awakened to find that I had slept out in the kitchen at the counter, already made weary by pain, made slow of thought, made contorted by position, to find the lights still on in the house, and--occasionally--having left the front door open earlier, so that my dog, Daisy, could go out; but at four or five in the morning to awake so, is itself frightening, and disturbing; once, at about eight AM, a neighbor just come into the house, without knocking ( or else I just didn't hear him ). But that sixth or seventh sense that someone was there startled me awake, and being suddenly very afraid, I either yelled or screamed out, so suddenly was I wrenched from sleep, feeling as it I were truly having an heart attack. He thought it was just funny, but, dear readers, it occured to me, that, had I been holding a revolver, he would most likely be dead. It cannot help but be my myriad medications which cause me to rise during the night--ostensibly--to hit the bathroom, and to come out for 'just one cigarette', that I must surely--in putting my head down on my arms--get too drowsy to do anything sensible like, going back to bed.
At least, now...I make of it an habit to purposefully lock the front door, lest someone come to peril.
And so, my days slowly pass, my hours stretching ahead of me like a prison sentence, and, unless I have a physician's appointment, all the days of the week blend into a blur; Thursday is no different fromTuesday, which is no different from Wednesday.
Everyday, I wear my pain like a robe, and carry it with me from room to room, bathroom to bedroom, study to kitchen; wherever I go, it goes; the pain clings to me, suffocating me, and every breath is nothing but a tiny torture.
I can no longer drive a car; besides, my agoraphobia would forbid it anyway, as I am too frightened of accidently being hit, or of hitting someone, possibly hurting or killing them. This I know I could not bear...to have taken a life.
I cannot go to crowded places for a number of reasons, nor to the library, nor to the grocery store as there's too much noise, too many bright colors, too many people, too many cars.
At least--now--I can 'allow' the County Public cab to take me to my appointments, as somehow, I know we are not going anywhere else, and I can hide ( a difficult task for someone of my weight ) slouched down in the backseat, listening to the distraction of the driver speaking into his radio's microphone. I still cannot tolerate a full waiting room, and have to escape outside to try to breathe. I carry a liitle bag I can throw over my one shoulder, that contains my housekeys, my wallet, some 'extra' money for emergencies, a cigarette case and lighter; over the other shoulder I carry my portable oxygen ( never fear, dear readers, I always disconnect my oxygen, for the couple of cigarettes I smoke, while waiting on a bench outside the waiting room ).
Living in Florida, I always wear sunglasses and wear an hat; and with my cane that helps me hobble-around, I always think I must look like some freak of nature, although--usually--the sight of my oxygen and cane gives me some 'pity points'.
Once, on the way in to my Psychiatrist's office, I lost my footing and fell down; ahead of me was a group of young teenagers who pointed at me, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed as I struggled to get to my feet. Did any of them offer to help ? You may choose your own answer, my dearest friends. Suffice to say, I had to crawl to the first car next to me, grab the bumper, and use the front end of the car to get up, and pick up my cane; I had dirt all over me where I had fallen, and--as you might guess--the ground and sidewalk were wet; I had cut my knee, and murdered my back. And was lightheaded as I finally got to my feet.
Forgive me friends, but in that few moments that seemed like a hour, I hated those kids...not because no one offered to help me, but that they had laughed at me. To be honest my friends, perhaps I did not hate THEM so much as I hated their healh and youth, something I longed for, but that they squandered.
But, as I am wont to do, my gentle readers, I digress.
Why should today, Sunday, September 18, 2011 somehow be special, different?
Why should it even occasion a diary entry of its own ?
Please help me to figure this out, my friends.
Although I awoke, again at the kitchen counter, at ten, this morning, it was to answer a telephone call from a dear friend to remind me to get up, wash my face, and make myself presentable, as--today, as is the case almost every Sunday, my cousin was due to visit me a little past eleven. And I must tell you a little about him.
What began as a long-ago query from him for geneological information, grew into a solid friendship, and, both he and his wife are exceptionally kind, decent, and wonderful.
He is about five years older than I; his grandfather, was MY grandfather's Uncle, and THEY were as children, until their passing, inseparable, close friends, so, perhaps, in a way, history is repeating itself. My cousin is a retired, electrical engineeer from Honeywell, and a most accomplished and genuinely nice person.
Among his other interests, he is a self-taught chef, and, often--during his Sunday visits to me--will prepare something truly wonderful, which, when ready, he places in front of me, with placemat and napkins, while he sits back to see my reaction, as he loves to cook, and loves to see people eat.
Last Sunday, he prepared perhaps the best beef stroganoff that I have EVER had; this Sunday, he brought with him utterly 'killer', as the kids would say, tuna salad. While he busily cooks, we jabber about the past, friends, and names in common, events of the day, anything, and manage to share a couple of beers while he is here. I always look forward to his visits.
But...why should today be special?
For one, even though it rained on and off today, my medication kept my pain level at a managable level; oh, I still hurt, as I will always do that, but, somehow, today, the pain was a little different.
And, if I may digress, but with reason to do so, I am trying to 'fix up' the house, as 'remodel' sounds more expensive that my meager means could fund. Still...after living here since 1985, when my mother and father were still live, it was always, inescapably 'their' home, which was only natural, and fitting.
But in 26 years, the only thing that changed was when I got rid of their loveseat, to make room for my upright piano, which I had previously kept in storage.
Even before my mother passed away in 2008, both of my folks had urged me to consider 'this' as my home, and that when I inherited it, to change it anyway I liked.
By then, the Lupus/Fibromyalgia/Chronic Pain and Fatigue had gown large within me, and I began to question just how long I would be able to enjoy 'my' home, before my level of care changed. Even though I am on SSDI. I had a couple of small retirement bonds that I redeemed, and, haltingly began the slow process of making my dreams a reality, that of making my home 'my' home, one that reflected me, my tastes, and aspirations, and, persona.
Some very necessary repair work was done, and I turned my old bedroom into my "study", and moved into what had been my late mother's room, changing the vanity area into a,"gentlemen's dressingroom". And by living on nickles, saving every cent I could, I began to buy furniture ( close outs, sales, floor models, and discontinued items, that brought the prices down to where I could afford them.
Of course I had to make changes, make sacrifices, or just plain, do without, for dreams--however sweet--know no budget, or restraint. Some of the furniture I bought had to be assembled after delivery, and today, my dear cousin put together two diningroom chairs I paid about $160.00 for two. I only wanted two, as I infrequently entertain; LOL, change that to 'never' entertain, but I had waited, and had been searching for these diningroom chairs for eight months. And they are upholstered in a zebra fabric, which is but one of several 'global' themes I had envisioned.
Sheer luck brought to me a beautiful, wing-back chair which is actually a recliner, for my 'study'.
These were items that my cousin assembled for me, today, and that makes me happy, for, very gradually, my dreams--even the compromised ones--are becoming real. I am begining to see themes realized, objects repurposed, and moved. And while the house may--indeed--take another year or two to even near completion, every nuance, every small acquisition, puts it that much closer. And while I might not have 'exquisite' taste, my tastes suit me just fine, and.....I know how to 'guerilla' shop for bargains. For example:
When I decided I wanted new drapes for the three, front windows of my livingroom, I purchased three complete sets of single rod pocket curtains, which included two panels, one decorative valance that was scalloped, and tasseled, and included the sheers and tiebacks, in a soft sage material with faint gold scrolls from the Carol Wright catalogue for $19.99 a set. So, for about sixty bucks, I was able to cover all three windows, with the two inside pairs of panels gathered and tied together; I've since gotten many rave comments about them; only I know how truly inexpensive they were.
Now, if you happen to view my profile, my dear friends and readers, you will see me sitting at the kitchen counter ( where, often I fall alseep ), and see--first hand, where the money ran out. I have yet to do anything to the kitchen, although, I think I would like to have the walls painted, at least. But...it'll just have to wait.
Now, my gentle readers, as the day passes slowly unto evening, and into the inevitable night, now, my friends, I finally begin to tire; and my pain is always ten times worse--it seems--at night, when I am again alone, with only my dear dog for company. Funny, but as I weary, all the little monsters start to return. And with them, all the doubt, confusion, longing, and suffering.
However my friends, for at least a short while, I was happy; the 'secret' is--of course--is about how to find that emotion, again, maybe make it last longer, for I could not, dare not hope that it might last forever. I was afraid of being happy, of letting myself be happy, and to enjoy that transient happiness, fragile as it may be.
For, perhaps my pain has made me comfortable in its misery. Perhaps--in geral--I have denied myself happiness as an uncomfortable stranger. I am more accustomed to pain, as it is reliable, always with me, and seemingly never ending. This is something that I will have to think about, to try to figure it out, and understand it. For surely....it would seem, that we all would rather be happy than unhappy. Which is the more true ? Which is the most safe ? I just don't know.
But, as I wander about my home, with some, small greater satisfaction, I wish for you, my dearest friends and readers, every hope, every wish, wished well, and, every possible sense of happiness. I wish for you, as always, 'pain-free' days, quiet and harmonious evenings, and blissful nights of sound, healing, and restorative sleep, attended to by angels.
'Zahc/Charles'
To my very dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers,
I want, first to ackowledge you, and to thank you, for your kindness and support, and for your encouragement in trying to writemy diary entries, for, without you, I would not be, it is fully your reading, and comments that somehow make valid my efforts; and without you, and my other friends at MDJunction, I would still be so very much alone. And, without purpose; alone, and alone with my pain and despair. It is you who have taken me in, and so very often comforted me, and fully allowed me to share with you my thoughts without censure, and reveal to you the contents of my heart without betrayal nor cruelty.
And while I do crave your praise as it brightens all my days, even in your criticiam ( which surely I need from time to time ), even in this you have been both gentle and respectful of my deepest feelings.
I realize that all of us at MDJunction are bound by shared pain, and broken lives, MdJunction( thanks to Roy ), has proven to be a safe haven, a resting place, a quiet place, wherein all of us can find healing, hope, serenity, and...peace...from both the monsters within us, and those that may surround us, to that special place where yet angels can be found.
To find them, all that is required is to look into a mirror. For, whenever I seek them, I find them in you, dearest friends.
'I Feel So Strange, So Afraid; Could I Be Happy ???'
Usually, my dear friends, I merely 'exist' from day to day; nothing out of the ordinary, neither special, nor untowards. I awake from nightmare and broken sleep, to pain that begins to rise within me, even before I leave my bed. Often, my first 'task' of the day is to hurry out to the kitchen for my morning medications, AND my pain pills, providing--of course--that I have not once again awakened to find that I had slept out in the kitchen at the counter, already made weary by pain, made slow of thought, made contorted by position, to find the lights still on in the house, and--occasionally--having left the front door open earlier, so that my dog, Daisy, could go out; but at four or five in the morning to awake so, is itself frightening, and disturbing; once, at about eight AM, a neighbor just come into the house, without knocking ( or else I just didn't hear him ). But that sixth or seventh sense that someone was there startled me awake, and being suddenly very afraid, I either yelled or screamed out, so suddenly was I wrenched from sleep, feeling as it I were truly having an heart attack. He thought it was just funny, but, dear readers, it occured to me, that, had I been holding a revolver, he would most likely be dead. It cannot help but be my myriad medications which cause me to rise during the night--ostensibly--to hit the bathroom, and to come out for 'just one cigarette', that I must surely--in putting my head down on my arms--get too drowsy to do anything sensible like, going back to bed.
At least, now...I make of it an habit to purposefully lock the front door, lest someone come to peril.
And so, my days slowly pass, my hours stretching ahead of me like a prison sentence, and, unless I have a physician's appointment, all the days of the week blend into a blur; Thursday is no different fromTuesday, which is no different from Wednesday.
Everyday, I wear my pain like a robe, and carry it with me from room to room, bathroom to bedroom, study to kitchen; wherever I go, it goes; the pain clings to me, suffocating me, and every breath is nothing but a tiny torture.
I can no longer drive a car; besides, my agoraphobia would forbid it anyway, as I am too frightened of accidently being hit, or of hitting someone, possibly hurting or killing them. This I know I could not bear...to have taken a life.
I cannot go to crowded places for a number of reasons, nor to the library, nor to the grocery store as there's too much noise, too many bright colors, too many people, too many cars.
At least--now--I can 'allow' the County Public cab to take me to my appointments, as somehow, I know we are not going anywhere else, and I can hide ( a difficult task for someone of my weight ) slouched down in the backseat, listening to the distraction of the driver speaking into his radio's microphone. I still cannot tolerate a full waiting room, and have to escape outside to try to breathe. I carry a liitle bag I can throw over my one shoulder, that contains my housekeys, my wallet, some 'extra' money for emergencies, a cigarette case and lighter; over the other shoulder I carry my portable oxygen ( never fear, dear readers, I always disconnect my oxygen, for the couple of cigarettes I smoke, while waiting on a bench outside the waiting room ).
Living in Florida, I always wear sunglasses and wear an hat; and with my cane that helps me hobble-around, I always think I must look like some freak of nature, although--usually--the sight of my oxygen and cane gives me some 'pity points'.
Once, on the way in to my Psychiatrist's office, I lost my footing and fell down; ahead of me was a group of young teenagers who pointed at me, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed as I struggled to get to my feet. Did any of them offer to help ? You may choose your own answer, my dearest friends. Suffice to say, I had to crawl to the first car next to me, grab the bumper, and use the front end of the car to get up, and pick up my cane; I had dirt all over me where I had fallen, and--as you might guess--the ground and sidewalk were wet; I had cut my knee, and murdered my back. And was lightheaded as I finally got to my feet.
Forgive me friends, but in that few moments that seemed like a hour, I hated those kids...not because no one offered to help me, but that they had laughed at me. To be honest my friends, perhaps I did not hate THEM so much as I hated their healh and youth, something I longed for, but that they squandered.
But, as I am wont to do, my gentle readers, I digress.
Why should today, Sunday, September 18, 2011 somehow be special, different?
Why should it even occasion a diary entry of its own ?
Please help me to figure this out, my friends.
Although I awoke, again at the kitchen counter, at ten, this morning, it was to answer a telephone call from a dear friend to remind me to get up, wash my face, and make myself presentable, as--today, as is the case almost every Sunday, my cousin was due to visit me a little past eleven. And I must tell you a little about him.
What began as a long-ago query from him for geneological information, grew into a solid friendship, and, both he and his wife are exceptionally kind, decent, and wonderful.
He is about five years older than I; his grandfather, was MY grandfather's Uncle, and THEY were as children, until their passing, inseparable, close friends, so, perhaps, in a way, history is repeating itself. My cousin is a retired, electrical engineeer from Honeywell, and a most accomplished and genuinely nice person.
Among his other interests, he is a self-taught chef, and, often--during his Sunday visits to me--will prepare something truly wonderful, which, when ready, he places in front of me, with placemat and napkins, while he sits back to see my reaction, as he loves to cook, and loves to see people eat.
Last Sunday, he prepared perhaps the best beef stroganoff that I have EVER had; this Sunday, he brought with him utterly 'killer', as the kids would say, tuna salad. While he busily cooks, we jabber about the past, friends, and names in common, events of the day, anything, and manage to share a couple of beers while he is here. I always look forward to his visits.
But...why should today be special?
For one, even though it rained on and off today, my medication kept my pain level at a managable level; oh, I still hurt, as I will always do that, but, somehow, today, the pain was a little different.
And, if I may digress, but with reason to do so, I am trying to 'fix up' the house, as 'remodel' sounds more expensive that my meager means could fund. Still...after living here since 1985, when my mother and father were still live, it was always, inescapably 'their' home, which was only natural, and fitting.
But in 26 years, the only thing that changed was when I got rid of their loveseat, to make room for my upright piano, which I had previously kept in storage.
Even before my mother passed away in 2008, both of my folks had urged me to consider 'this' as my home, and that when I inherited it, to change it anyway I liked.
By then, the Lupus/Fibromyalgia/Chronic Pain and Fatigue had gown large within me, and I began to question just how long I would be able to enjoy 'my' home, before my level of care changed. Even though I am on SSDI. I had a couple of small retirement bonds that I redeemed, and, haltingly began the slow process of making my dreams a reality, that of making my home 'my' home, one that reflected me, my tastes, and aspirations, and, persona.
Some very necessary repair work was done, and I turned my old bedroom into my "study", and moved into what had been my late mother's room, changing the vanity area into a,"gentlemen's dressingroom". And by living on nickles, saving every cent I could, I began to buy furniture ( close outs, sales, floor models, and discontinued items, that brought the prices down to where I could afford them.
Of course I had to make changes, make sacrifices, or just plain, do without, for dreams--however sweet--know no budget, or restraint. Some of the furniture I bought had to be assembled after delivery, and today, my dear cousin put together two diningroom chairs I paid about $160.00 for two. I only wanted two, as I infrequently entertain; LOL, change that to 'never' entertain, but I had waited, and had been searching for these diningroom chairs for eight months. And they are upholstered in a zebra fabric, which is but one of several 'global' themes I had envisioned.
Sheer luck brought to me a beautiful, wing-back chair which is actually a recliner, for my 'study'.
These were items that my cousin assembled for me, today, and that makes me happy, for, very gradually, my dreams--even the compromised ones--are becoming real. I am begining to see themes realized, objects repurposed, and moved. And while the house may--indeed--take another year or two to even near completion, every nuance, every small acquisition, puts it that much closer. And while I might not have 'exquisite' taste, my tastes suit me just fine, and.....I know how to 'guerilla' shop for bargains. For example:
When I decided I wanted new drapes for the three, front windows of my livingroom, I purchased three complete sets of single rod pocket curtains, which included two panels, one decorative valance that was scalloped, and tasseled, and included the sheers and tiebacks, in a soft sage material with faint gold scrolls from the Carol Wright catalogue for $19.99 a set. So, for about sixty bucks, I was able to cover all three windows, with the two inside pairs of panels gathered and tied together; I've since gotten many rave comments about them; only I know how truly inexpensive they were.
Now, if you happen to view my profile, my dear friends and readers, you will see me sitting at the kitchen counter ( where, often I fall alseep ), and see--first hand, where the money ran out. I have yet to do anything to the kitchen, although, I think I would like to have the walls painted, at least. But...it'll just have to wait.
Now, my gentle readers, as the day passes slowly unto evening, and into the inevitable night, now, my friends, I finally begin to tire; and my pain is always ten times worse--it seems--at night, when I am again alone, with only my dear dog for company. Funny, but as I weary, all the little monsters start to return. And with them, all the doubt, confusion, longing, and suffering.
However my friends, for at least a short while, I was happy; the 'secret' is--of course--is about how to find that emotion, again, maybe make it last longer, for I could not, dare not hope that it might last forever. I was afraid of being happy, of letting myself be happy, and to enjoy that transient happiness, fragile as it may be.
For, perhaps my pain has made me comfortable in its misery. Perhaps--in geral--I have denied myself happiness as an uncomfortable stranger. I am more accustomed to pain, as it is reliable, always with me, and seemingly never ending. This is something that I will have to think about, to try to figure it out, and understand it. For surely....it would seem, that we all would rather be happy than unhappy. Which is the more true ? Which is the most safe ? I just don't know.
But, as I wander about my home, with some, small greater satisfaction, I wish for you, my dearest friends and readers, every hope, every wish, wished well, and, every possible sense of happiness. I wish for you, as always, 'pain-free' days, quiet and harmonious evenings, and blissful nights of sound, healing, and restorative sleep, attended to by angels.
'Zahc/Charles'
No comments:
Post a Comment