"Through Eyes Of Broken Glass"

“Through Eyes Of Broken Glass”

 

 

March 4, 2012

 

 

To my very dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers,

 

 

I

 

 

Sad. Sadness. I am so very, very sad.

I touch the sadness in the empty air.

I taste the sadness on my tongue and it makes hesitant my words; it is a language written in silence.

It is not as all-consuming as is dark depression, that catches the breath, and is depended upon every movement, every pulse beat. 

I know so well that, ‘other’; a seeming endless depth of despair which rises in the body to paralyze the arms and legs, obliterating all thought as it devours the soul.

It is like a blackish and blood red tide which—in rising up—sweeps all away before its relentless path.  There is a sickness of the mind that bends all senses to itself; making even slightest movement difficult. Suborning the appetite; food becomes ashes in the mouth.

The very body seems to collapse, seeking to become as small as possible, to lie with legs and arms and body drawn up to hide in the center of the bed, motionless, with stifling bed clothes pulled up past the ears.

 

While deep depression seeks to destroy the very soul, sadness—being less severe, somehow—is like a gentle and semi-sweet ache that plays-about the heart.

Sadness is like sitting quietly before a window, looking out through a blurred and rain-speckled window to an abstraction of blurred and blowing trees outside the frame to a grey and liquid day; and yes—in sadness—the heart feels exactly the same way: bleak, somehow foggy, distant, ill-remembered and yet familiar.

Sadness is so ready, full-encouraged by the sounds of all-day rain upon the roof.

Ever so lightly are played long ago, and almost forgotten memories.

Sadness smells like a dusty attic into which have been thrown boxes of old clothing, and neglected Christmas ornaments; of pictures without frames, frames without pictures, dirty and fly-specked mirrors. Cards and letters from absent or now long-dead friends.

Sadness has a taste of moth balls, ancient stuffed toys, dusty heavy curtains, and faded flowers.

My sadness with its own pained sense of remorse and regret plays around the edges of deep depression, lest it fall in.  The sadness is—for now—enough to bear.  More than enough, really; but the heart in its sweet despairing manages to avoid the far-greater agony of depression’s despair.  Which I realize makes absolutely no sense, but in my longing I find it to be true.

 

In the measured quiet of my cluttered, dirty and neglected house, my sadness is a silence which still presses upon the ears.

Memories from some long-ago time ripple to the surface, and the Present.  In my too quiet house I hear the faint echo of children happy, laughing. Sometimes I think I hear a door pulled shut, or drawer pulled closed.  A polite knock upon the door; the sounds of a thousand black birds as they gathered in the back yard to eat pieces of bread thrown to them by my mother and father.

And—yes—into the void of quiet suffering, I often hear my name; my long-late mother and or father calling me.  Even though I know it cannot be, still—in my wearied sadness—I return their calls.  And then—with a force—realize how very much I love them, and need them, and miss them. And that no amount of pleading or tear-stained prayers could save them.

 

Conversely, I recall a time when everyone I knew who was so dear to me was still alive and well; the repetition of destroying illness and death lay within an unknowable Future.

 

However—in my plangent sadness—when I might have chance to see one of the very few toys that survive till this day (and some are as nearly old as am I !), I do not see myself as I might have been then, but—in truth—see no one that I even remotely recognize. I actually have—among a few other things—a stuffed toy rabbit that my grandmother gave me for my 1^st. birthday (now, fifty-eight years ago). It has lost a lot of stuffing, and is very dirty, besides.

How, ‘crazy’, would I be to dig it out of the dusty box that it is in from the closet, and place it once more upon my bed, as if I might find some slight comfort in doing so?

 

 

 

II

 

 

My sadness does not concern itself with a largely-forgotten Past only, but extends to try—in full—to capture and to embrace an almost unbearable Present.

Never mind the situation that I now find myself in, for that is something already too often mentioned, and focused upon.

What makes me sad are the promises—so glibly made—but that were never intended to be kept; the false smile…the ready lie.  How quickly was I dismissed as some irksome and unnecessary fool.  The, ‘shadenfreunde’.  The mendacity.  The too-well-dressed Social Workers.  The draconian Pain Management.  The overflowing pile of pills that collectively can never, ever take away the pain.

The situations that make me have to beg.

The situations that make me cry in fury.

The situations that have only, ‘one’, end, one that I need hardly mention.

 

 

III

 

 

My dearest friends, I have no idea—whatsoever—why my dear Daisy is still alive.

Her measurable decline began sometime last July; at least, that’s when the veterinary bills started to roll in.

Her stomach is distended, and she has lost weight.  Several of her leg joints are swollen out of proportion by arthritis. She only picks at—well—those expensive, tiny cans of food (3.2 ounces that cost as much as a regular can of dog food); The, ‘flavors’, all have cute names, but I now know the ones that she will eat, and the ones that provide scant-enough nourishment for her to survive.

It has become a horrible existence.  Every time Daisy looks up at me it is though a dull-eyed glaze of pain, discomfort, accusation, and—I fully believe this—a sort of wearied, “Help me, Daddy!”

I imagine that some would accuse me of being uncaring.  Of being selfish.  Of being…stupid; and in this, they might be right, as I love Daisy dearly, and have had a most faithful, and loving canine companion now for over thirteen years.  And that—somehow—I just cannot seem to, ‘just let go’.

 

Hardly anyone has encouraged me to have Daisy put to sleep.  The base-line truth is: I cannot afford to euthanize her.

To have the vet come to the house, put Daisy to sleep here, take her to the clinic to have her cremated and then returned to me in some token, ceremonial urn costs $400.00!

Even to have Daisy put down here, for me to bury in the backyard costs $248.00.

 

I can hardly afford Daisy’s medications; I most recently ordered four of her prescriptions (including her pain medication) only filled for half the month cost $135.00. I have even had to reduce the filling of my own prescriptions to those most needed, and for half a month only.

The truth is (if there—in fact—be any truth to be found) that even though I have been greatly ill, and in unutterably, unstoppable pain, and that seeing Daisy so ill, tiny, and helpless makes me sick, I am afraid.  I cannot just blithely kill her, as though she were—somehow—an inconvenience.  I am saddened and afraid; afraid, maybe, to be alone…isolated, cold, and alone, ever a prisoner in my own home.

 

As it is, I do try to keep Daisy as comfortable as possible; I try to keep her dosed-up, especially in pain medication; and—at night—I give her a small tranquillizer to her relax, and doze-off to sleep.

She is now quite unable to walk down the back steps to the backyard.  Sometime before, I had to go, pick her up, and then place her back on the deck.

I have puppy incontinent disposable pads which I place on the floor.  And I really do not care if she uses them.

 

Meanwhile, she still follows me from room to room, but she now takes longer to get comfortable and lie down. Often, I will get down on all fours’ to whisper in her ear, and to tell her that she is beautiful, and that I love her so very, very much.  And on some elemental level, I hope with all my heart that she knows this.

And…that she forgives me.

 

I now look at her so many times during the day just to make sure that she is still breathing; Dr. Weston—Daisy’s vet—says that the, ‘end’, will happen at any time, now.  And, my dear friends, each night, when I retire to bed for yet another broken, pain—filled, nightmared and inconstant sleep, I might awake at any time to find her dead on the rug beside my bed.

 

When that time does come, I will have her buried in the backyard at the entrance to the wooden shed where—thirteen years ago, on a November day in 1999—my late mother and I first found her.  I will have Daisy wrapped in a special throw I’ve kept for years which is pink, and all-over hearts.

Somehow…it just seems, ‘right’.

 

 

IV

 

 

Sad.  Sadness.  I am so very, very sad.

There is no specific medicine that will take this heavy weight of sadness from me. I awake in panic and to sadness, and it lasts the whole day long, until too weary, I crawl into bed at night.

I over-take what meds I dare in hopes that restful sleep will come at last.

For Daisy.  For me, and for all of us kept safe until the new day’s light.

“Sweet Savior, grant us peace and ever-respite from all sadness seen through eyes of broken glass.”

 

Oddly, the one thing that does make me happy is to see Daisy eat her food!

 

 

My very, very precious friends, please know that—although I now post with marked irregularity—I think of you so often, and wish for you no pain, or, if that is not to be, then of lessened pain.

I wish that you be kept safe, and secure, and free from want or need.  And that you be in full, surrounded by family, and true friends (and…pets!) who love you, and who treasure you.

And I wish for you all the happiness your kind hearts can hold!

 

 

And please always know that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

" A Questioned Prayer; A Sad And Lost Lament "

 

“A Questioned Prayer; A Sad And Lost Lament”

 

 

01/31/13

 

 

( As always, to my very dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers )

 

 

I

 

Je vous prie, je vous implore,

mon Seigneur*, Lord whom I adore.

How much greater was my greatest sin—

that in eclipsing all other slights—was then

raised so quickly up to Heaven’s door ?

 

 

II

 

Could it have been the subject of some nightmare dream

full-birthed by an Unconscious mind, obscene,

that so moved You to an incandescent rage

that no uttered prayer erase, assuage ?

Unwanted dreams—while sleeping that in a thousand, carnal ways blasphemed.

 

 

III

 

While base Evils all around me swell,

all monstrous dance about the very fires of Hell;

a damned army, unrestrained, with swords and spears all raised, their blood-stained flags unfurled.

All spreading terror, torture, fear around the world,

while fearing not that place to where Your most beloved angel fell.

 

 

IV

 

Their history is written large across the human plain.

Wherever evil flourishes, no goodness can remain.

In a thousand, different tongues their voices roar;

their’s is a lurid legacy of famine, and of war.

How much of Your Kingdom can those slaughtered innocents claim ?

 

 

V

 

Oh mercy, Lord, how can You let such Evil thrive

unpunished, while my own repentance seems so thoroughly denied ?

For dread circumstance makes me afraid;

I do not understand, and am in full dismayed.

And when—oh Lord—will bless’d deliverance arrive ?

 

 

VI

 

I do not ask for fame or earthly wealth,

although I frequent pray for better health.

Each day and night my fever’d prayers are sent aloft in vain.

I do not ask for grandeur, but for some marked relief from pain,

Saved from wretched want, some lasting peace, and purer Self.

 

 

VII

 

I pray for some facility of mind,

some measured calm each day to find.

And at day’s end to fall into a blissful sleep

while all about me, angels to their watches keep

that I might wake more forgiving, kind.

 

 

VIII

 

My Savior, with Your power to move,

please let Your loving mercy prove

to take away my sadness and all of my unending grief.

Please grant—I pray—some little comfort and relief.

Above all, being thus gratefully reassured,

please let me ever joyous revel in Your love.

 

End

 

·                 Fr. “Je vous prie, je vous implore,

Mon Seigneur”

‘I pray you, I implore you, my Savior’

 

Oh, my very dearest, kindest friends, I ask for your forgiveness for my now long absence from my diary.

I know that you will kindly understand how incapacitating can be great depression, pain, lack of needed finances, Daisy’s continued decline, complete lack of sleep, and a migrained, ‘mind fog’, so severe, that thoughts and words escape me. Sometimes, even, ’parts’, of sounded words cause confusion and pain.

 

I also realize there will be those members—evidently more centered, focused, and apparently much stronger than I who might chide me for, ‘willingly’, falling into this most awful and prolonged state, and then using it as some unacceptable excuse.

To them I laud their greater strength, their sense of purpose, their firm and unyielding resolve.  And hope that they may continue happy in this state.

 

Please oh please remember my dear friends, that—even though I may post now but infrequently—I think of you so very often, and hope with all my heart that you may be in, ‘no pain’, or, much lessened pain, free from want or care, in full—surrounded by family members, friends (and, pets !), who love you for the most wonderful and special person that you are.

And, for all the happiness your kind hearts can hold.

 

And as always, please know I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

" So...What's It Like To Be 59 ? "

“So…What’s It Like To Be 59 ? “

 

 

01/12/13

 

 

To my dearest, kindest friends, and wonderfully loyal readers,

 

 

( A small dithyramb on the occasion of my fifty-ninth birthday, yesterday, at about 12:15 p.m. )

 

For at least six months leading up to my birthday, I was asked a number of times, what I, ‘thought’, about turning 59.   In fact, I was asked the same question just a day or so ago.

 

Both now---as then—it gave me some measure of pause to actually consider it, and to try to make some sense out of their transient interest, and my lingering concern.

 

So…what’s it, ‘like’, to be 59?

 

If pressed to answer honestly, dear friends, I would have to say, “I really don’t know”.

 

While I realize that, biologically, I am tracing some sort of continuous arc that—naturally—would begin at birth, and unwind until I finally—at some, unknown time in the future—simply stop, take but a ragged measure of breaths, and then flop over like a trout newly, ‘gigged’, and thrown up upon the deck of some fishing vessel.

 

Culturally, certain birthdays are heralded by goal attainment; reaching a particular age that supposedly separated childhood from adulthood.  Other, ‘society-implied goal attainments’, in brief, might be: school events such as senior proms, graduating from high school or college, securing a particular career path, buying one’s first car, marriage, the arrival of children, the secured promotions in both education, and career, retirement, grandchildren, being able—at last—to, ‘take it easy’, and—finally—am inescapable plunge into ill health, or senility, the transfer into some, ‘complete care’, nursing facility, and—finally—death, pre-attended by severe illness, pain, you name it…the accumulations of a lifetime of illness and injury, and a time when the cells no longer divide, but are consumed until nothing is left.  Except—perhaps—of that final, barely-alive realization that the scope of one’s world has collapsed, and dwindled, until one world consists only of that part of the ceiling directly over the bed that one can still see.

 

My dearest friends, I will allow that—of the majority of these things—none of them are any, ‘fun’, at all.  If anything, it is depressing, and limiting, and we seem to be victims of a raw deal, having to be mortal, and—for the most part—fragile, and insubstantial.

 

And so, we manage blissfully—somehow—to be so caught up in the cascading moments of the, ‘Present’, that, ‘Being’, largely becomes a, ‘day-to-day’, preoccupation.

Thankfully, always having to experience the, ‘Present’, and, having an uncertain sense of memory—besides—kind of blinds us to the greater passage of time.

 

Aging…and we ALL are aging becomes not so much a process, but—rather—is marked by certain events that trigger memory.

 

For example, I can faultily remember having graduated from High School, I cannot relate to, ‘that’, person in any way, whatsoever, despite photographic references that freeze the event in time and place.

 

As an example, friends, in my photographs posted at my profile here at, ‘MDJunction’, there is a long-ago picture taken of me when I was about twenty-five years old.  I dimly remember—now—that I was there, but, in truth, have absolutely NO identification with the, ‘person’, in that photograph; so much so, that it is now a stranger I see, not me.

 

Personally, I can more accurately identify with the, ‘Self’, who is me, only three of four days in the past, and then, not completely.

 

Oh, of course we have vague indicators of the changes that time confers, and—frankly—seems to insist upon; it is these other, ‘outside’, or external confirmations that help us know that we have changed.

 

I have a twenty-year-old driver’s license picture that—again—I do not identify with, really; however, it DOES reveal that—in the ensuing years since, my beard is grey, white, almost; I had hardly any grey hair, or facial wrinkles, and my weight….well…we won’t even talk about that!

 

I do remember certain birthdays, mostly because of their irritant quotients.  My 25^th. Birthday somehow bothered me when my mother and father began to tease me that now…I was a, “quarter century old!”.

 

Turning thirty-nine really, really bothered and annoyed me.  First, it caused me to realize that—career-wise—I was stuck at the bottom.

 

Co-workers did not help matters as I was harassed without hindrance that now, I would soon be forty years old. Middle aged.  One foot-in-the-grave, and the other on a rocket skateboard.

 

Dearest friends, I ask you to kindly consider the greeting card industry, who seem to delight in awful, tasteless, demeaning, horrifying, ‘jokes’, that begin to appear for someone aged thirty-nine, and older, until—basically—they retire.  But the, ‘sex’, the, ‘senility’, the, “Grim Reaper”, jokes continue unabated, I discovered, until (if it does happen to occur!) one reaches ages eighty, and above.

 

Maybe I am odd, but I find I tend to live, to be caught up in, and to be too preoccupied with the, ‘Present’, to really feel much of anything.

 

Not having experiences many of our Society’s traditional, ‘markers’, I find I therefore have lots of time not structured by events.

 

I can only state with clarity that—within the past twenty-four hours—I slept horribly (my nocturnal panic attacks having—once again—returned in earnest).  I awoke in a stark panic, with a migraine, and hurt all-over, besides.

 

The Sciatica in my left leg aches so much that—in trying to walk—it wants—suddenly—to buckle under me.

 

And so, I reluctantly greeted the morning by taking extra, and extra-again pain pills, and having coffee, in order to be able to function on some level, today.

 

While I do—sometimes—call-up happy memories (made even more so by the frailty of memory), and, certainly, these, ‘please’, me, I think I am more concerned with the near future.  My electric bill of last month interests me no not at all; I am concerned—however—with whatever the electric bill will be this coming month, and how able will I be to pay it.

 

What is, scary—because it is largely unknowable, and, thus, can only be, ‘guessed at’, is the, ‘Future’, and for this reason, I’d have to say (to a very limited degree), that 59 bothers me, as:

1)           Next year (should I survive), I shall be sixty, and nothing in either thought, experience, emotions, or memories can, ‘prepare’, me for it!

2)           It DOES make me aware that time—somehow—HAS passed.  That  I will never be thirty again, or have that much potential balance of life left to me.

 

Once, when I was thirteen, and at school, we were preparing to take some sort of little test of quiz.  At the top, right-hand side of my paper I had to write my name, and—below that—the date.

 

Suddenly, while looking at that date, April 27, 1967, it hit me that in the year 2000, I would be forty-six years old.  I could hardly imagine it, or any of its consequences.  But I did place that thought in memory, to be remembered later, when I became forty-six years old; to pause to try to go back through the years to that time in 1967, when I had wondered what life would be like at the utterly astounding age of 46 !

 

Needless to say, my dearest friends, that thirteen years have passed since.  And I certainly am no more the wiser, or the, ‘wealthier’, and certainly no better or worse a person than—perhaps—when I was thirteen.

 

So, I guess I would have to surmise that living, ‘day-to-day’, stuck firmly in the Present—for me, anyway—is probably the best, most honest, and most true way to go.

 

But…my dear friends, and ever-loyal readers, what do YOU think?  How do you feel about birthdays and/or the inarguable passing of time?  Have certain birthdays bothered you?  What are you proud of?  What do you regret?  Most importantly…how do you cope?  Please feel quite free to leave comments, below.

 

I wish for you much lessened, or, ‘no’, pain; without want, or care.  And—as always—in full surrounded by family members, friends, and pets ( !) who love you dearly.  And for as much happiness as your kind hearts can hold!

 

Thank you.

 

Please know that I think of you so very often, and love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

"Wednesday, December 26th. Christmas: The Day After"

' Wednesday, December 26th. Christmas: The Day After '

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

 

 

 

To my ever dear, and dearest friends; and constant, kind, and loyal readers,

 

 

I

 

This was to be my considered assessment of, ' Christmas: the day after ', as I think it a most profound assay of our long-hoped-for dreams and expectations leading to a single week of often stark reality, wherein all imagined thoughts ( some yearlong in making ), were to be answered in just two days.

 

 

It is not New Year's yet; there remains--still--a slight, but real hurry to attend to all that was the year just passed, (and of shaking it from us like the briefest dusting of snow that clings to coats, upon one’s return to the warmth of home ), and--ancient, and pagan revelry made modern--turn thoughts to a looking forward, of sorts, to seek perhaps a kinder, and more prosperous time; the continued safety of true friends, and loved ones; of wishing, somehow, that we be will be different Selves, and--of course--a most legitimate desire to feel better and—somehow—to be in less pain.

 

 

II

 

It is, of course, too early to even think of 'resolutions', especially if, today, we are at least moderately happy, still well-fed, and in, thank God, some lessened pain.

 

 

 

Perhaps is not the day to even think of things, but rather, let the mind relax in thinking dire thoughts; too early, then, to give thanks for just surviving the soon-ending year still yet before us.

 

 

III

 

And so...I shall not over burden you with 'shoulds', and 'woulds', and 'coulds', for there is plenty of time for that later; I would not, for all my heart, presume to divest you of your delights and joys; of much-loved children playing with their toys. And, of tired, and quiet adults ( many still in sleepwear) sitting at your table drinking coffee, in an exhausted, but somehow satisfied mood, discussing plans of going home, and sharing muted expectations for the coming year.

 

 

IV

 

I would not try to take that from you, as it is Life, such as we are allowed to know it. The house may be a wreck, with dishes--maybe--in the sink; still burning bright your tree, and with its dwindling power to suspend a plain and--yes, painful--contemplation of the year before.

 

 

V

 

Today is NOT the day to think of pain; of too much debt, and bills yet to be paid; I beg you, stay a while in lambent dreams, tired as they may be: for, for a too-brief while, you knew a happiness, and if you but only now consider it, an ember of that love remains.

 

 

 

 

VI

 

Should you have hosted visitors, and counted grandchildren among them, their laughing innocence proudly represents your legacy to an uncertain world; too soon they must--as all adults must be--' responsible ', so let them full enjoy their childhood, as, in doing so, you will make sweet memories that, in later years, will sustain you both, for it is then, that they are most needed.

 

 

VII

 

Along the 'bell curve' spectrum of circumstance, and necessity, and custom, there will be those for whom the 26th represents a ' Christmas cleansing '; by now, provided that they even ' put' up trees, have stripped them of their gaudy splendor: for who--indeed--wants to have to vacuum dead needles in the carpet.  Many have to return to work, and so, all the lights come down, are boxed, and put away. The presents  (what there was of them ), have been ' installed' ( as they usually are the ' practical kind ' ), where they shall remain, and, all the scraps of littered, pretty paper have long-since been picked up, and along with the boxes that the gifts came in, are relegated, without a second's glance, out to the trash. And by tomorrow--at the very latest--any furniture that was temporarily moved has been returned to where they have been for years. And Christmas has been surgically and efficiently removed, until no trace of it remains whatsoever.

 

 

VIII

 

Then there are those--perhaps, much like myself--for whom this Christmas was but a twin to last year: quiet, singularly without moment ( except what I could 'make' myself feel ), spend at home, alone with dog; in many ways, I knew it must--somehow--be special, different, yet, it was not really; just another weekend passed.

 

No visitors, no passing children singing carols; not when, the children that DO live around, take inventory as the pass; and often, what they cannot steal, they imply break...or...set of fire ( its true ). No neighbors came to call, no thoughtful plates of food were brought; I understand, as early off they drove, that they have filial concerns of their own, and I no longer figure into that holiday equation.

 

 

Oh, yes, two friends called me on the telephone: so briefly were their wishes, that I could not help but gather that their cell phone plans charged them an hundred dollars-a-Christmas-minute; it was more like a duty, that when dispatched, is done.

 

I was truly grateful, and humbled to receive such wonderfully thoughtful gifts from two of my dearest friends at MDJunction, gifts from two, loving, life-long friends, and…several gifts through the auspices of,  “The Volunteer Way”; presents quite undeserved, but so welcome nonetheless, for—to me--there was the true representation of all my magic Christmases past.

 

 

IX

 

 

 

 

And then, and this truly rends my heart, are those who pain, and loneliness, and despair was--by Christmas--made an unbearable mockery. Those whose family dysfunctions almost make as breathless the credulity; those who validly disturbed the Christ-child's sleep;  those constantly a roil in anguish, depression and despair; too often steeped in poverty, wanting for a lack of love, or show of kindness or affection anywhere.

 

How very lost, are these lost souls.

 

For they have nothing, yet--in their intractable misery--still reach out for some, slight hope, despite all the laughing promises that are made, but never kept; it is--for them--the gentle and remorse-filled angels wept. As should we all.

 

 

X

I thought myself unable to write to you today; for my 26th began in the middle of the night with pain, such pain, that I--again out in the kitchen--put my head down on my arms, and tried to find some wanted sleep. My dreams came as vollies of the unexplainable and diffident nightmares; I awoke not once, but numerous times, and somehow sad, and not a little lost.

 

For those of you who understand what happens when a 'Lupus/Fibro/Chronic Pain and Chronic Fatigue flares,  it becomes a supernova of unutterable pain everywhere.

 

 The pain pills hardly touch it, neither is much-relieved the mind-fog, and a listlessness, and a migraine so severe; I am hungry, but too nauseated to even think of food, and find—although I never do so—think that I should rather stay the day in bed.

 

Perhaps you well know the irony of sitting at the computer, writing this to you, my dearest friends, while I am all-over in chills.

 

Would that all my errant clocks pick a kinder time and there stand still—between that space between drawn breaths--perhaps, one between seconds wherein the opiate has worked, in brushing pain and daily worries away to some darkened, cobwebbed corner.

 

 

 

XI

 

 

But I find I can still pray for you, my dear, dear freinds, in wishing you 'no pain', or much lessened pain; I can still be very proud of you for every little gain you make: in stepping from an Agoraphobic's home, to venture out into the world; I can still be thankful when your pains are low, or when there is some clarity of mind-fog; or when--by sheer determination--manage to let go of fears, and turn your backs upon an unspeakable past.

 

 

I laud those, whose pain--while different from mine, though just as great, or even greater--refuse to be dragged down by it; I laud your more noble souls.

 

 

And...on this December 26th, I would speak to you of my gratitude and thanks for your unwavering concern, caring, and support.

 

 

YOU are the greatest gift that I could ever hope to receive!

 

 

 

Please know that I think of you so very often, and that I love you dearly !

 

 

 

'Zahc'/Charles