I read Me and Ophelia today with stunned respect -- for the courage of disclosure; for the easing of my own pain, through recognition; through affiliation -- unchosen, to be sure, but there nonetheless. Her openness has eased my solitude, and I am grateful for that.
She says:
The imprisonment of long term chronic illness and loneliness is getting to me these past few days. I shall be glad when it is all over. Christmas I mean. I think. Although I wouldn't be at all disappointed if I went to sleep and never woke up again. I am always very grateful and appreciative of people's kindness and all the help I am given. But at times it does not seem worth it. Solitary confinement is no kind of life at all. My battle is unknown. There is no treatment or cure. They put animals down for lesser suffering. At least I have Ophelia to keep me company. If only she could speak ...
Following her example, I am posting a late-night ramble written sometime in the past few days (I actually don't remember when.) But I am putting it below the cut:
awake in the drugged night
asking myself how i have managed
to be so alone. not alone in my bed,
which folds me in fine; but alone
in my life, in the dailiness of it, in
the chores and banalities of living
too long. alone in my soul. how
has it happened that a christmas comes
with no invitations, none meant in
friendship or sorrow or guilt, none.. . . i have done this to myself
. . . what have i done?it is me, with all this. it is judgment,
i think. that, and misunderstandings
that i've no energy to rectify . . .
so now, needing, more than ever in my
life, needing friendship and tangible
support, i do not have it. i can not, do
not care for myself. i am unable to tell
what is can't and what is won't. i have
lost my bearings. do i mean to be cruel?am i required to accept cruelty? am i
unable to distinguish between cruelty
and simple human failings? i do not cry, for
fear of being overheard.i think i need a room, just
one room, a few necessities, the dogs -- less to
take care of. even less to care for.a virtual life does not ease the shoulders. it
does not mend the heart, banging, banging
against its own shore.
