01/29/12
In grateful dedication to, among others: 'River'; 'mabri'; 1magicman'; and, 'DenverCowboy'
My dear, and wonderful friends, and ever kind, and loyal readers, for you are as one in the same, I cannot ever thank you for befriending me, and pausing to read and contemplate oft times, my illnesses, complaints, and selfish sadness; for in my heart, I know that you hurt as much as I, and often more.
And were I able, I would you have no pain, sickness, or despair. I would that you become much as you were before such dire ailments had changed you, limiting your actions, and disrrupting all the aspects of your daily life.
I often pray, and wish for you, my dearest friends no pain, and a return to ancient normalcy, when illness was unknown, and never thought of; and that you and your families know no need or want, or sleepless nights of worry and concern.
And, were I so able, I would erase from your minds and faces, all the lines of care, mind fog, and dissapointment.
Would that you be strong, again, and free to frollick with your children, ( or, grandchildren ! ) laughing, running, playing games of 'hide-and-seek', and to further enjoy more quality time with your understanding spouses.
Of getting out, without fear, or dreaded anxiety, to go where e'er you so desired, free from the strangulated, and unnatural limitations of Agoraphobia, so that you never would feel trapped, nor compelled to stay at home.
To rise from the cold couch, to find new energy to further make of each day, a gladdened, new-found puzzle piece to add to that mystery of a Future filled--not with fear--but of satisfied anticipation, instead, as Life inexorably, yet fleeting passes.
To my dear friends who are Bipolar, I would ever seek to take the sine wave that peaks with mania, and bottoms out with depression, some better median find; perhaps, not at just 50%, but at a more pleasant 75%, and so, have your shifts and cycles level off.
And, of my friends who cannot breath on their own, I wish a calmness, and an end to labored breath, to find some ease of spirit, there; with lungs that thus reject the infiltrete, and fuction as they were supposed to do. For it is truly fearful, having such labored breathing; that it--alone--exhausts, and makes sleep difficult.
And if I could someway work my will, my heart would hold carefully to itself, all who have PTSD, and have been abused, for that is an evil thing, and I would ever stand by you, in complete safety and protection, help slay ALL your monsters, sending them ( and I am not afraid to say this, for fear of censure ) to the deepest spots of Hell, there to remain, to never, ever, ever hurt you, again.
Forgive me, my dearest friends, for I still hurt in a thousand places, and have been--most lately--in a phase of darkest depression. Even as it slowly lifts, a bubbled-up, and oily black remains, as some heart-ache's debris, and, even as I work my way back to the surface, a sadness, and sweet melancholy fills my empty shell.
By now, I know it well, for this has happened over and over again, choreographed like some mechanical ballet.
And for a time, this 'depression hangover' leaves me listless, and bereft of higher intellect; so routine it has become, yet possessing such a lingering power, that I can actually feel this stage of depression settle o're me, like a cloud, that fully takes its time to disperse, in leaving me.
During it, for it lasts some days, into a week or more, I feel a deep, and sweet melancholy; a sighed tiredness, and a looking back to all that might have been.
Sometimes, this phase causes me to become angry, distant, easy to made angry, and with a grumpy disssatisfaction for all things; I am often glad that I am--perforce-- alone, so as to not inflict my choler on someone--perhaps--who does not merit it.
And, in passing, I am left weakened, just a little more than last time, as it seems to take so much from me.
And all happiness has fled, reluctant in its return.
And I am duly made aware of that which I can no longer accomplish, or even care to try, if that makes sense. I see my part-remodeled home change to an almost unrecognizable pit of dirt, and dust, and accumulated trash, and dishes in the sink; of whisps of shed Daisy fur...everywhere.
And so, I asked my dear C.N.A. to come out on her day off, for two hours, just to try to return the house to one of human habitation. I thank God for her, and for her kindness, as she's a wonder, and knows my habits. And can--in two hours--take at least the rougher edges off the house; of course, I cannot pay her now, but she has agreed to wait until I have my two showers this week, plus the laundry, so I can write her one check that then can be safely cashed, although, it will shudder my frail SSDI.
This depression 'aftershock', is so severe, my friends, and makes me tired, that today, while though it is a quiet Sunday, with absolutely beautiful weather, outside, I shall--again--stay in, and soon will try to lie down for a much hoped for nap.
For, now matter how strong, and durable the cup, should it develope but one crack, then it is, in whole, made useless, no matter how intricate the design, or pretty, the colored glaze.
And so, my dear, dear friends, and loyal readers, I shall close for now; my entire body aches with a dullness, and all I want to do is nap, wherein, hopefully I will sleep.
I am sure that--as I lie there--trying to compose myself, mind and body to relax--that I shall think of you, and of your aggregate kindness and support; your caring, and...your love.
And as I close my tired, and blurry eyes, I shall say a prayer for you for a day of lessened, or of no pain; of quiet, free from consternation, free from want; as I would most willingly awake, and rouse myself, to dry your honest tears.
Please always know, that I love you dearly,
'Zahc/Charles'
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