I’ve had a good day. Which is especially nice as my life has been rather up and down lately. I’m writing now in the peace and quiet of the early hours of the morning. I have a load of freshly washed laundry hanging about the house and smelling clean and wonderful. I’m showered and enjoying actually being able to wear my warm winter robe as the weather has been perfectly cool today. Sarsaparilla is being smoochy and trying to head rub my keyboard. I’ve washed all my dishes and my kitchen is clean. My dining table is clear, my bedroom is tidy, the study room has been sorted.
I cooked today. I’m so pleased, it’s been ages since I cooked. By which I mean something more complicated than toast. I made ham and zucchini pasta for dinner, and brownies for dessert.
It’s been an erratic start to the year for me. The past couple of months have been tiring and challenging. My fibro flares quickly at the moment so I’ve been in a fair amount of pain many days. I’ve also been anxious and stressed. A lot of my friends have been struggling with their mental or physical health, I’ve been rocky and getting overwhelmed. Some nights are pretty peaceful with decent sleep, others have been terrible. My girlfriend told me recently that sometimes when I’m having nightmares, I moan in my sleep, recoil if touched, and weep. That’s the saddest image in my mind, it seems so lonely to be crying in your sleep, sailed out in a world of dreams, beyond comfort.
I had such a rough day the other day, I worked out afterwards that I’d spent 7 (non-consecutive) hours in a 24 hour period crying. Some days everything is too much. I’m tired, tired in my aching bones, tired in my soul. There’s no strength left in my spirit, no hope left to light my lamps, no inspiration in my hands to paint or sculpt or tend. There’s yearning and grief and fear for my future.
So I cry. I hurt, weep, curl up in bed and hold my broken heart in my hands. My tears, they slowly dull the edges of the broken glass in my chest. I cry the despair out of me. I speak the black things that are gnawing on my bones, that have teeth sunken deep into my heart. Desperate to be hopeful, to be bright with joy, to be at peace in the dawn, I name my demons instead. I still my hands, I let the depression take me. It’s a blessing. It keeps me safe, the lethal lethargy eases me from frantic need. I seek no relief, blades do not tempt me, the sirens of death are far off. Here is just the frozen despair, the paralysing sense of inadequacy, the raw, overwhelming awareness of pain.
Then the tide goes out and the fire dies down, the pain ebbs. I get a day like today where I wake and my mind is quiet and clear. The rain falls softly on my face, washing away self-loathing, easing the grief. I walk without pain. There’s no burning in my skin, my eyes don’t throb, the knives that were in my muscles have fallen out overnight. I can dance. I can dream. There’s delight in simple things. I watch a favourite French movie (La tete en friche), I get flour on my hands, I let the rain scented air into my home. And it’s okay again, it’s okay, I remember life’s sweetness, I remember the songs of the little birds in the morning.