I am really struggling. Because of my food intolerances, I am sleeping anywhere from 12 to 20 hours at a time, where I can't wake up. When I do wake up, I am exhausted and foggy. I do my best to avoid foods that I know will get me, but that seems to be changing so much, so quickly that I think it is more the combinations of foods. This makes it almost impossible to anticipate which foods will "get" me. My sleep is full of intense dreams and nightmares. Yesterday, it was an infestation of insects which laid eggs inside my body. I woke up screaming from that one, drenched in sweat. My nights are switched with my days. I can do little on the days that I wake up at 3:00 in the afternoon or later. I have slept until 5:30 p.m. even when I have gone to sleep by 11:00 p.m. I am afraid to go to sleep, for fear of dreams and the possibility that I WON'T wake up. My rational mind knows that this is improbable. The child in me is fearful.
And so, I sit...and read. Resigned to not doing. I have many blessings. A husband that says he still loves me. Amazing children who are young adults filled with idealism and the belief that they can change the world. I have a home that I own. I have friends, but time with them is sparse do to my inability to interact with them in my strange and twisted days.
And then there is the pit in my stomach. In my attempts to help a friend who was going through a grueling divorce from an emotionally abusive husband, I helped her financially since she had no resources. First the lawyers fees, then money to move, to catch up bills. By the time I woke up to reality, I had given her $28,000. All without my husband's knowledge or consent. We had to refinance our home, and it was in this way that my husband found out. So conflicted. My friend needed help, but I put my family at risk. At 55, I am paying off debt rather than investing in our retirement. I have broken trust with my husband and my family. I can't fall asleep at night because of the pit in my stomach. I can't wake up because of my body. I can't do, because of my illness. And despite this huge breach in trust and giving of money that we don't have, my husband has forgiven me. He still loves me. I do not know if I could have done the same.
And then a phone call. From someone I love and care for. I have hurt her. The pit grows larger. It widens to impossible dimensions.
And this blog. It has become a form of self-expression, a release, a sharing of my passions, thoughts, ideas. Is this self-indulgence, self-aggrandizement, a plea for attention? Is this wrong? I have gotten positive feedback from others who have gone through the same struggles. Gratitude for putting into words their fears and experiences.
I am really at a low point. I know, or hope or pray that I will rise up. But this is not the life I had hoped for or chosen. My husband and I have a phrase borrowed from a storybook about a pig that was "sad in the mud." And so I sit, mud dripping from my nose, up to my hips in goo. I hope that the mud will dry and not cement me in place. I ask for forgiveness for those I have inadvertently hurt in my desires to express myself and help others. Perhaps the rain will wash away my tears and fears. I hope for the days when I am awake and truly alive. I pray that I can do more than just "survive". I know despair. I battle it daily, even as I try to embrace life. But it is messy, and fraught with mistakes. I am more than human. I am.
Namaste.
Kismet
Copyright March 2014
And so, I sit...and read. Resigned to not doing. I have many blessings. A husband that says he still loves me. Amazing children who are young adults filled with idealism and the belief that they can change the world. I have a home that I own. I have friends, but time with them is sparse do to my inability to interact with them in my strange and twisted days.
And then there is the pit in my stomach. In my attempts to help a friend who was going through a grueling divorce from an emotionally abusive husband, I helped her financially since she had no resources. First the lawyers fees, then money to move, to catch up bills. By the time I woke up to reality, I had given her $28,000. All without my husband's knowledge or consent. We had to refinance our home, and it was in this way that my husband found out. So conflicted. My friend needed help, but I put my family at risk. At 55, I am paying off debt rather than investing in our retirement. I have broken trust with my husband and my family. I can't fall asleep at night because of the pit in my stomach. I can't wake up because of my body. I can't do, because of my illness. And despite this huge breach in trust and giving of money that we don't have, my husband has forgiven me. He still loves me. I do not know if I could have done the same.
And then a phone call. From someone I love and care for. I have hurt her. The pit grows larger. It widens to impossible dimensions.
And this blog. It has become a form of self-expression, a release, a sharing of my passions, thoughts, ideas. Is this self-indulgence, self-aggrandizement, a plea for attention? Is this wrong? I have gotten positive feedback from others who have gone through the same struggles. Gratitude for putting into words their fears and experiences.
I am really at a low point. I know, or hope or pray that I will rise up. But this is not the life I had hoped for or chosen. My husband and I have a phrase borrowed from a storybook about a pig that was "sad in the mud." And so I sit, mud dripping from my nose, up to my hips in goo. I hope that the mud will dry and not cement me in place. I ask for forgiveness for those I have inadvertently hurt in my desires to express myself and help others. Perhaps the rain will wash away my tears and fears. I hope for the days when I am awake and truly alive. I pray that I can do more than just "survive". I know despair. I battle it daily, even as I try to embrace life. But it is messy, and fraught with mistakes. I am more than human. I am.
Namaste.
Kismet
Copyright March 2014
