Writes Like A Girl

I once made a comment about having been through a lot in my life and someone I didn’t know very well said ‘We all have a story.’ True.  Not disagreeing with this person’s statement I did take exception to her tone which seemed to insinuate that ‘What you’ve been through isn’t any worse or more than what I have.’  Maybe she was wrong.  Maybe she was right.  Maybe if she had listened a little longer before passing judgment she might have said something else entirely. 

I was once offered desert by my favorite server in my favorite pub.  She pushed it a little and I was trying so hard to resist.  My reaction was to make a comment about her wanting to be the only skinny girl.  Now I have been harassed about being thin so it is not something I would normally do.  I know better.  That night I was not thinking about other people, I was only thinking about me.  She responded to my judgmental comment by offering me her thyroid problem and she would take the dessert.  I offered to trade my diseases for hers.  Ok, she said without pause.  Uh, no, not really I retracted suggesting that it would not be such a great trade for her.  “No,” she questioned,” you wouldn’t let me?”  “No I would not let you, but if you had really known the deal you would not have offered in the first place.”

We all think about our problems, think they are so awful, so hard that sometimes we forget about other people.  They struggle too.

Last night I could not go to sleep immediately and I began thinking of an art project.  This morning I began.  Everything I ‘should’ do be damned.  At least for the day.

I enlisted Aubrey, we were on our way out the door when Patrick, the boy next door, showed up, so we took him with us.  At first I did not tell them my plan but as I was picking up things I decided they were there for a reason and could help me.  After a brief explanation they began choosing things too.  Once I fully revealed what we were going to do with the things when we returned home the boys were very excited.  Proper precautions were taken, the items were divided, rules explained so we set to it.  Smashing.

Literally we broke not only the things I had purchased but also I added to the things in my pile several personal items I felt the need to rid myself of in this fashion.  Nine year old boys did not absorb the greater meaning; frankly it was not explained to them.  Bits of it have been told to Aubrey but until I have more concrete evidence I am not going to put this one on top of the others.  His little plate is full. 

When all the pieces were set before me ready to be used in the collage I had in mind my thoughts were buzzing like a hive on an early spring day.  My intention was to have the collage be pieces of all these things and my thoughts all together to express how I perceived this part of my life to be.  Hours later, hours of gluing and moving paper and glass I had the thought that maybe I should just stick with writing.  Writing is the easiest method for me to express my thoughts.  But I would never have known if I did not try.  And it was very therapeutic, not just the destructive part but all the thoughts with all those broken pieces before me.  Thoughts about people, about ridding myself of things, about being broken.  There was a clock that I threw, it held so much meaning for me.

Some of the things I broke were things I had been given and have been carrying around for years.  Dishes.  My mother bought these dishes when I was young and she put them in the top of the closet and told me they were for me when I got married.  A set for each of us but Kelli didn’t follow an approved path so her dishes stayed in the closet.  When I married, way, way to young I was given both sets of dishes.  To me some how those dishes came to represent doing what I ‘should’ do.  Following the approved path.  What if I had not done it the way my mother expected?  What would she have done with those dishes? Would they have just remained in the top of that closet?  I was the good child for most of my life but now I am going my own way.  Damn the dishes.

Much of what was smashed were things that I bought.  At some point someone had gone to the store and purchased those things.  Many of them had like been gifts for someone for some occasion.  One said ‘Congratulations.’  A part of me feels like that.  There have been times in my life when I was doing something that made me feel like I was important.  Like what I was contributing was important.  Now I feel like those knick knacks that have served there purpose and have been given away, thrown out because they no longer serve a purpose, they no longer bring anyone joy. 

And then they were broken.  Now we are getting down to the heart of the matter.   I often feel that parts of my very soul have been stolen.  I feel broken.  Parts don’t work.  The most significant thing I smashed the hell out of was a clock.  Time.  It feels stolen from me.  Time slips away while I feel to sick to go out. Time slips away while I sleep half, or more, of the day away.  Time is taken from days gone by because I cannot remember the things that I did.  These diseases affect every facet of my life and certainly it does not stop with me.  I do not live in a bubble.  Obviously it affects everyone I come in contact with, it shows up in my conversations, but much more so in those enduring relationships (or at least the ones I want to be enduring.) 

Lately coping with the hypersomnia and what that might mean I have been moody, morose, angry, weepy and of course sleepy.  The other night I went to sleep without taking my sleep med.  Why, you may ask, would a person who sleeps 9-12 hours per day need a sleep med?  Well that was sort of my thinking.  I spent the whole night having vivid, horrible dreams, hallucinating, twitching, jerking and gasping myself awake.  In the course of preparing for this sleep study I have read quite a bit about narcolepsy and until then was pretty well convinced I did not have it.  Now, I’m not so sure.  Of course I am still hoping for the best but I am terrified that I have narcolepsy, or some sleep disorder that is similar.  Not too long ago I told Steph if I was diagnosed with a 3^rd disease I was going to freak.  Crazy, off the deep end.  She told me her only question on her way over to sit with me would be “What kind of vodka would you prefer?”  D suggested that was a good response.  (BTW, we have been playing with vodka but that is a different post)

So we still have a couple of weeks before the sleep study so be extra nice to D, she’s having to put up with my crazy ass.  There should be a reward for that.  We shall keep you posted.  Thanks so much for your support, your encouragement and kind words.  We are grateful.