April 09, 2012
Grief Therapy 6, ME Newsletter, Vol. 5, Issue 15
11/25 – What not to wear. Nine hours, two very helpful hands, eight large black plastic bags, a milkshake and a glass of wine later… it’s a little bit embarrassing, but… I gave up the size 28, 26, 24, 20 clothes. 142 pieces in all. The closet is under control. I can appreciate that less is more, especially when it comes to not having to make decisions. It’s a beautiful thing. Hanging on to the 18’s just in case I have one of those days were the 16’s don’t feel comfortable. With some insistence to my resistence, we hung pictures, rearranged the dining room to make it a bistro area. It’s cute and airy. Hanging pictures was nice. That didn’t upset me as much as I thought it would. Maybe sometimes, just little changes are all that I need, but in my case, big ones are in order.
11/30 Yes, I’m in limbo, but it’s a nice view from here. Everywhere I look are options that I don’t intend on pursuing. Buying a bed would be setting down symbolic roots, I’m not interested in that. Having to make goals… that was tough. Accountability is something I have been missing. Being accountable to myself doesn’t always work. We toss around some light weight goals; exercise, cook, work on my book. Work on crying less. “What about socializing?” the therapist asks. Not interested in working on my people skills, and I say it – lol. Ten minutes a day of garbaging the box pile in the “bedroom”.
I continue to get raised eyebrows about not wanting to buy a bed. I don’t need one. I land where I land. Some days I walk in and make it to the couch. More than once, I have not. I don’t suppose you know what it feels like until it happens to you. You just don't care to go any further, so you drop everything – coat, lunch bag, purse – and fall to your knees. It occurs to you that the coat would make a good bed so you roll up a sleeve and tuck it under your head. You curl up in a tight shivering ball and pull the rest of the grey wool in around you.
A curious cat licks at my tears. I don’t know which one because I don’t open my eyes. I don’t really care either. A few hours later, I slowly come to the waking realization that I have to pee. Still, unmotivated, I lie there until it becomes an absolute necessity. Then rolling into rising stages, straining muscles, I barely make it to the bathroom. I wash my hands and check my reflection. I consider washing my face and brushing my teeth but I don’t. Instead I stumble stiff-legged into the kitchen and glazedly gaze into the refrigerator.
After an eternity or a few seconds, I realize I’m not hungry. So, I decide I must be thirsty. I actually make the effort required to address that problem. I pull out the milk and place it on the counter, retrieve a glass, and a spoon and chocolate syrup, pour, stir, drink, return the milk to the fridge, but leave the syrup where it is. I’m exhausted and it’s pill time again. I wander back to the bathroom to find the little wonders. Again, heading back to the kitchen, I’m disjointed and disoriented, and I discover another dilemma. Struggling through short moments, I didn’t anticipate my needs. I now wish I had some chocolate milk left to wash it down, but I don’t, so I swallow it without liquid, and shuffle to the couch. I feel pretty good about getting to my “real bed.” Fully clothed, I crawl up against the back pillows and sink into twilight, not really sleeping, but definitely not awake. Hours creep by, and at some point I know I must have slept because the alarm is going off and it’s time to drag myself up. Although morning is easier because I have a routine and expected behavior, I am beginning to see that something is clearly wrong. I’m supposed to be getting better, feeling better, not worse, not so much worse.
Posted by jaselin at April 9, 2012 08:07 PM