I’ll Climb Back Up From Here
Things have been such a struggle lately that I hardly even know what to write. In any case, I’ve found a way to write, which is a start.
Currently, I can’t dictate because my jaw popped out again a couple of days ago and then visited the Osteo and now is a delicate, swollen mess. Buy yay for iPad and thumbs!
Life has been feeling utterly overwhelming for what seems like a ridiculous amount of time. Challenge after challenge, after challenge. My last post was about breaking down. When I wrote it, I thought I was on the upward path again. Maybe I am, but it’s a rocky trail that involves a lot of climbing and obstacles.
I have been on my own for a few weeks now, it’s hard to look after myself, by myself. I can’t seem to get much further than getting myself fed and I haven’t even been able to do that all of the time. It’s confronting and saddening to realise that I’m about to turn 30 and can barely take care of myself.
It’s confronting and saddening to realise that I’m turning 30 at all.
I never used to be a person that cared about aging. I guess I was just young. Or maybe it was just that I could always keep looking forward then. I could make plans and actually carry them out. I could earn my own money. I could take trips, socialise and leave my house whenever I wanted to. I was going to get a degree. I was going to see the world. I was going to be an incredible director of groundbreaking theatre. I was going to be independent and clever and amazing. Maybe I was going to have a family one day.
I believed all of that back then, whether my predictions were whimsical or not. I believed I’d do a lot of that before I turned 30. I’ve been sick for six years, yet something about this milestone has me feeling like I’m grieving for myself all over again. Newly and with open wounds once more.
Sure, there are good things about having a birthday. I can logically understand the good things. I’m alive, I’ve learnt some stuff in 30 years, I have a roof over my head and people who love me. Good things that should be celebrated.
I understand this stuff, but I haven’t been able to feel it.
And I feel inadequate and useless for that. I feel guilty for not feeling happy, even though I spend a lot of time trying to reason myself past that emotion. I feel like I’ve let myself down, even though I’m the only one setting those expectations.
Kinda silly, right?
Yeah, I feel silly too. Lately, all I can do is let the silly stream down my cheeks because solving is too hard.
I’d love to be able to just go and do things. Just go and find life, enjoy people and love things. I wish I could focus on adapting those things that I wanted to do before CRPS into things that I can still do.
I see that it would totally make sense to look at my challenges in that positive way…yet, I can barely keep up with feeding myself.
I’m so very tired of only being able to focus on day to day living. I hate this lingering feeling that I have about the future, about any plans that I do make. I hate this part of me that is never surprised when things don’t work out. I trick that part a lot of the time, I coax it into hopeful anticipation and that feels a bit better, but it still cuts deep when plans don’t happen. It cuts down to where the expectation of disappointment is still stewing below the platforms that I’ve built above it.
I want it all to not be too much. I want to be strong enough to keep doing what I was doing. Keep managing the pain, even when my capabilities are tossed around without break or warning. I want to be able to focus and feel ok even when my body is a painful mess. I want to be more than the things that hold me back.
I want to be able to connect with friends again. I want to have something to say. I don’t want to feel sad about the things you do that make you happy because I feel like I can’t do anything. I don’t want to receive messages and then freeze up about replying because I can’t think of anything to write that isn’t depressing.
Maybe I’m a bit depressed, but the last thing I want to be is depressing.
Sometimes I’m even sad that my life is inherently depressing to healthy people, unless I work really hard to show them my tiny victories. I can’t just tell someone about my day or week without seeing sadness cross their face. Sometimes I think the sadness is at the fact that I’m talking up some tiny achievement, that I have to do so because it’s all I’ve got.
Oh, and I’m jealous of the stupidest things. Your broken bone? Kills me, because a few months later you’re better. Your permanent disability that isn’t painful? Seems like freedom, even though I’m sure it isn’t. Your weight problem? Fuck, I wish that was my biggest concern. Somebody said something petty to you? Grow some adult.
I know that thinking these things, being distracted by these thoughts is useless, unhelpful and not even logical or accurate. And I feel inadequate and useless for that.
Ugh. I even hate that I’m writing this sad, self pitying post because I’ve sunk so low that I just don’t have anything else. But I know that if I didn’t write something like this, I wouldn’t feel honest.
This is where I’m at and I have to deal with it.
I’ll climb back up from here.
I will, I’ve done it before.
My Prince will come home, my jaw will heal enough that I can talk and smile again, the financial stress will pass, the birthday will pass, everything will pass.
And I have Regina Spektor tickets for December and she is well worth months of anticipation.
And maybe one day I’ll still be an incredible director of groundbreaking theatre.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll still be independent and clever and amazing.
Love & Honesty,