Things were good for a few days. Now they are not. I want to wait and write when they are good again, but this site is about authenticity, so I’m going to check in now.
I try to tell myself that it’s the way of things: summer is followed by autumn, the moon wanes after waxing, and what goes up must come down.
I try not to be afraid of it any more. I try not to have unrealistic expectations. I try not to let the knowledge of what will come interfere with enjoying the good times while they are happening.
The operative word, of course, being try.
I get so tired of running these calculations all the time. Of constantly observing, diagnosing, and analyzing myself. Of collating the data and crunching the numbers until I can estimate how much of a situation is biochemical and how much is psychological. Estimate whether I’m suffering a worsening of my condition of just a worsening of my attitude. Whether I need professional help or just some tough love.
I’m tired of spinning the wheel and having to try to guess where it landed. I’m tired of constantly evaluating whether I could be justified in asking for help or in declining a task. I’m tired of questioning my own honesty.
I’m tired of being in pain all of the time. Of having disturbed sleep and feeling fragile and hollow all day. I’m tired of hearing lectures about how fucking important sleep is and how I should be getting more of it.
I’m tired of looking at everything I’ve done wrong, every way I have harmed or failed those I care about, and every way I have failed to do and be whatever I could have done and been. I’m tired of making plans to try to do better in the future when I feel as if I am barely hanging on now.
I’m tired of getting advice about great classes, physical therapists, massages, and countless other things that I can’t have from people who don’t seem to grasp the fact that I have no money. I’m tired of feeling guilty every time I write a check to my therapist and asking myself if this is the month I should quit and how likely is it that I’d end up inpatient if I did?
I’m tired of trying to have normal conversations with people. Tired of monitoring my tone, vocabulary, facial expression and body language. Tired of trying to make small talk when I want to grab them and pull a bit of their soul out. Trying to keep from asking who are you really? What makes you weep? What makes you laugh like a child? What do you need right now? How do you cope with the fact that you’re going to die? What would you do with me, right here, right now, to fight the darkness inside us? Could we play? What would happen if I broke the rules?
I’m just tired, and that mercilessly compassionate spiritual thing I try to use as a guide will not lie to me even though I kind of wish it would. It/she/he/whatever will not tell me that there is relief from this cycle coming, or that my shoulder pain will go away, or that food will stop being a struggle, or that I will ever be totally free of craving the drug that offers temporary relief.
Soon–most likely in a matter of days–I will feel better. Recently–less than a week ago–I had some good times and celebrated. It really is the way of things, for all of us and only emphasized by my condition. I live it, whether I always accept it or not; I write it here, and I know I am not alone.