I am tired, so tired, of days like this. I wake to cloudy mind, achy body, and mental confusion. Picture the floor of a child’s playroom, toys scattered everywhere, the kid in the middle overwhelmed with sensory input. At her feet is a substantial pile of wooden alphabet blocks. She likes the feel and shape, but does not understand what they are for or what the symbols mean. Pretty colors! Fa-la-la, I sit and look at the blocks, pick one up occasionally, then put it down, “What is this for?”
I sip Peet’s coffee, take a shotglass full of empty tummy pills, and watch “The West Wing.” After an hour or two of that, I push all the toys away from me to clear a spot on the floor large enough to nap on. Too tired to get up and find a chair or my bed, I sleep where I stand, err, sit. What is this? Lyme die-off or a Babesia surge? Or even worse, a viral surge indicated by a cold sore on my upper lip. Damn viruses, the result of playing patty cake, sand boxes, slumber parties, and kissing boys; they are the medical dragon our generation cannot slay.
It is an absolutely beautiful day outside: 80°, sunny, low humidity, light breeze, aaahhhh. I should be out by the pool, soaking up the Sun, or better yet: in the left field bleachers at Wrigley watching the Cubs and A’s, drinking gluten-free beer and talking smack to a Bay Area friend on a cell phone. Instead, I am half-asleep, watching the game on TV, lying atop my bed while wearing sweats because I am cold. There are so few beautiful days like this in a year, and even fewer with the Cubs playing at home. “They have the power and they have the speed to be the best in the National league, so (I cannot) come on down to Wrigley Field.”[1] My Die-hard Cubbie blue heart aches.
I hate this, I hate this, I hate this! It has been six – SIX! – six years since I collapsed from exhaustion and disorder. I do what the doc tells me. I swallow fists full of pills, inject massive amounts of penicillin into my gluteus maximus, suffer alternating bouts of its diarrhea and constipation side effects, and watch age creep across my visage. Day after day goes by while I pray that tomorrow dawns as the day I rejoin the human race. Only a saint could be asked to have this much patience. How can God ask so much of me?
This day will never come again! It is another lost opportunity to pursue something I love and enjoy life to the fullest; life is slipping away and I am powerless to plug the drain. One day the opportunity to attend Cubs games will cease.
Could I have prevented this day by being more diligent with meds, sleep, meditation, or some combination thereto? What in the hell am I doing wrong to warrant losing so many of my days to fumbling ineptitude? How do I stop this horrendous waste of my life? Why can’t – or doesn’t – God send the answer to my travails? Is there some spiritual lesson I cannot discern? Despite years of study and accrued wisdom, could the path to health perchance be found in a lesser-known mystic’s tale?
I cringe every time the phone rings for it is most likely a debt collection agency or the IRS searching for nonextant pennies. Thank the Goddess for caller ID; I can find friend from fiend and then some. When I wake, I feel the anxiety of no job. Yet when I feel as I do today, I am grateful for my soft bed and rent-free roof over my and the kitties’ heads, for today it is impossible for me to earn my keep – and I accept that, along with the accompanying frustration and anger.
The guilt from sitting at home and watching TV is profound, for I have never been so unable to right my ship. It is as if I am out in the middle of
There have been over a thousand of these useless, wasted, unproductive days. My greatest fear is that there may be thousands more. Whenever will I get my life back? If never, how will I stand it? Moreover and most importantly, what grim choices will I be forced to make if that day never arrives.
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