Original posting date was August 3, 2006
Everything is soft around the edges again today. My whole body is feeling drifty, as if I don’t have the energy to move, and what movements I do make are slow and languid. It’s almost as if I’m disconnected from my arms, my hands; I reach for something, and watch myself move and grasp, but with little feeling of touch or motion.
I’ve felt this before, it seems to come before a dark time, and it’s frustrating me. I know it’s going to take time for medicine to work, to take effect fully, but I’m impatient. I want to be done with the emptiness and the cold, the unfeeling darkness.
It’s cold there, and I don’t like it and don’t want to go back.
I tell myself I don’t have to, that I can stop it, it’s just a matter of will. Even knowing better, I fall into the mindset that it’s a character flaw, and I have some control over it. So I cling to thoughts and the knowledge that I do exist and am worth fighting for.
I replay words that Lynn has said, touches and hugs she’s given me, in an attempt to convince myself. I force myself to think of the kids, of their smiles and laughter and the tears and bumps we’ve worked them through, of the growing that they’ve done, that they still have left to do.
I use these thoughts and memories as weapons, fighting off the despair and darkness; I can almost see it recoil from the brightness of them, it becomes a tangible thing. I can make it back off, enough, by drawing my mental pictures, but god it’s so tiring some times.
I’m tired. But I can deal with tired, no different than at work, at a fire, at night when they need help with homework. You do what you have to, I can do what I have to do.
I can do anything for just a little longer, right? As long as I don’t think beyond now, I can cope. Right?
Right. It has to be right.