"And Then I Fall" | Sep 25 2013 |
"And Then I Fall"
09/25/13
To my very dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers,
I think it is just before midnight, and a pained and headached glance back to the clock in the kitchen reassures that this is true; however, I suspect that it may be lying to me. For-in truth-it might as well be 10:00, or 11:00, or even 5:00.
Over the years, I have managed to, ‘collect', some thirteen clocks, all of which keep their own idiosyncratic version of time...even the ones that no longer work.
And then I fall.
I awoke with head in hands, dozing at the counter in the kitchen, and gradually, reluctantly waken with a dull and throbbing migraine that keeps its own time with the thrum of unbearable pain and depression.
Several half-spent cigarettes lie forgotten, spread-around in front of me; some have fallen from my hand to land on the kitchen floor, even those that have-in their erratic descent--burned holes in my pajamas.
The house is naturally too-quiet, and the light of two or three forty watt bulbs offer pools of dim light over the living room and the rest of the house. I have never felt as completely alone as I do now, for the pressure of that quiet upon my ears is almost deafening. I suppose I should get up, and go to bed.
And then I fall.
Sitting up, standing up, and moving proves tiring, and each posture resounds with its own jagged pain.
While still sitting there, I pause to drink a couple of sips of coffee, left over from this afternoon; it is brackish, and bitter and oily in its clotted coldness. I find that I-too-am cold; so very, very cold, shivering from fatigue and pain (always the pain). But that quarter cup of coffee that remains, is sufficient to wash-down a couple of pain pills, though I know it will take an eternity of, ‘mind and body', time, before I even begin to feel the slow loosening of my agony.
And then I fall.
Staggering to my feet that-by now-are all-over, ‘pins and needles', or, are numb, I check my front door to satisfy myself that the all the doors are indeed locked, and that the alarm system has been activated. Somehow, I must check and recheck it three or four times before I am content.
While at the door, my gaze moves slightly about the room. My furniture is overly dusty, to be sure, but-somehow-that state of cobwebbed untidiness offers-up reliable comfort after a fashion. I like my house, my little home; and am glad that-some three years ago-I had the funds to fix it up to my liking.
And then I fall.
A darkened hallway leads to my bedroom, but-first-I have to make a bathroom call to pee; and then-perhaps-to pee again. Otherwise I risk the chance of waking up wet, drenched, and having to change bed linens, pajamas, and coverlets; my occasional and quite unpredictable incontinence makes me angry, but with a sadness too. It was not always like this.
And then I fall.
I finally crawl gratefully into a disorder bed, grateful because I am weary (not sleepy, or tired, certainly not the warm fuzzy, surrounding feeling, there is a difference!)
Instead, I am freezing-cold, and every joint aches.
The pain pills I took earlier have not as yet made any palpable inroads upon my glacial pain. Therein lies another illustration of the confounding and plasticity of time; time-in effect-stops, while ever-waiting for some effect of all these upon these illnesses. Minutes do pass like hours.
And then I fall.
I am tangled up in my coverlets, with bed linen scrunched up here and there, and my pillows like cold pillars of stone. I then discover that I am lying on my oxygen tubing, and have to crawl-out of bed to rearrange it, so as to not hinder the life-giving flow that my own lungs can no longer provide.
Once I have found a place in bed that hurts me the least, I exhale, shut my eyes, and try to say my prayers.
And then I fall.
The prayers that I would offer-up in gladness, in thanks, and in gratitude become-instead-a whining rant of things I want, but lack; prayers that slowly devolve into pettiness, and wish-fullness. And I am embarrassed that I cannot seem to control the content of my own prayers.
And then I fall.
And with my great depression is a sadness, a burrowing sorrow that rends my heart into disparate shreds. In silence, I begin to cry, but even with eyes that are full, no tears course-down my face. My heart-instead--is bathed with the bitter acidness of tears.
And then I fall.
It would seem that my all too broken sleep is shallow. But I do somehow, manage to sink-down to the place where dreams are created.
Very, very seldom do I have a good or entertaining dream; too frequently, I awake from dark and foreboding dreams. Dreams of terror, of being chased by monsters, or of finding myself in a hallway, infinitely long, but one that becomes smaller, and ever smaller until I am trapped, isolated and afraid.
On rare occasions, I find myself in a park; at night as the street lights are on. There are trees, nearby, and-suddenly-I want to fly to them. I struggle with all my might to, ‘flap my arms'? And am-at last aloft.
But, still, on some more rational level, I know that this cannot be so...it cannot last. Desperately, I try to fly from the top of one tree to another. But it never does last, and-in an icy panic-I fall again to earth, waking just before I hit the ground.
I must wake five or six times during the night, usually having been kicked-awake by some terrifying nightmare, or, to make one or several calls to the bathroom.
And then I fall.
Often, while I am up-though half awake-I find my way out to the kitchen, again, to have a little something to drink, and to smoke a couple of cigarettes.
And then I fall.
And this is frequently my undoing; for while there, I usually am still drowsy-enough to want to simply drift-off to sleep. In consequence I often drop lit cigarettes to burn my fingers, arms, or legs; nearly ALL my pajamas have burn holes in them.
Or, in sleepily stretching-out my arms I have knocked glasses of tea off the counter, or, half-cups of coffee, to make a royal mess on the floor that I find the next day.
I have NO idea why I do this; perhaps I can breathe a little better sitting up; perhaps I find some needed warmth from the counter light, or from the lamps lit in the living room.
Often-if I have not already done so-I will take a sleeping pill, and a little more pain medication; I then lumber-down the hall back to a now-cold bed, to try to salvage sleep-enough to be able to make it through another day.
Now bundled-up in coverlets, again, I try to quiet my thoughts, and to let my mind settle-down, in search of some far-off place of perfect peace.
And then I fall.
My favorite imagining is to wake up one morning to find everything-outside-to be under a five or six foot blanket of purest snow,
Snow that has covered all the road out front, and hidden all the cars. To awake to a sound of utter silence. With drifts of snow up to the front doors of all the homes.
All the evergreen trees are full of whitest snow; even the more hearty shrubs are weighed down in a jeweled whiteness that sparkles in the light of early sunrise.
Other, large trees-having had their leaves stripped by a number of just-prior, autumn storms, raise their blackened and bony branches into a winter's blue and grey, watercolor sky.
There is a perfect silence all about; I do have food, and am sleepily warm inside the house.
I am protected, and kept safe by the snow. No one can bother me. No one can harm me.
And then I fall.
The mindless globe that is the world had once more completed its turn about its axis, and it is morning, There ensues-perhaps-a space of twenty seconds during which the mind is awake, but the body still stirs in its uncertain rest, when absolutely nothing agonizes and hurts.
Too soon, this wonderful, and God sent immunity passes.
And then I fall.
Grimly, horribly, the agony sinks in, and I moan and groan to get up, hit the bathroom, throw cold water on my face, and pause to open the curtains to the new day.
Even before I make my coffee, I begin the litany of taking pills: pills for pain (but you knew that, already). Diuretics, vitamins, supplements. Medications for my diabetes, my cholesterol. And-frankly-anything that I can find to try to alleviate a migraine that pounds with my every heartbeat.
Grimly-and with mug of blessed coffee in hand, I light the first of too many cigarettes.
Before me lies an uncertain day, assailed by all the cares of daily living: the bills I cannot pay, the pantry that is nearly empty...as is the freezer and the fridge.
The, ‘unbearableness', of the day crushes me and makes me panicky and afraid, as deprivation and always-pain settles firmly in.
How will I survive another day?
And then I fall.
There are so very, very many things that I just do not understand:
Why are even the most blissful of memories a gift wrapped-up in regret?
Why do those we most love die?
But, why do all we most detest go on and on and on, to descend like starving swine to ever-gorge themselves upon the buffet of our collected miseries?
I wish, I wish I knew.
And then I fall.
And then I fall.
And then I fall...
My dearest friends, I wish for you pain-free days, or days of much-lessened pain. I wish for you pleasant days, free from wont or despair. I wish for you afternoons of quiet contemplation, and evenings of restored happiness, in full-surrounded by family members, dearest friends, and attentive pets who love you for yourself, alone. And that you have all the happiness your hearts can hold!
And, please always know that I think of you so very often, and that I love you dearly!
‘Zahc'/Charles
