First up. the rumors of my demise are greatly overstated. I had a bit of a hospital adventure, which I’ll explain later in the post, but I’m not too bad. Photo proof too, aren’t you lucky
I’ve been getting really good at procrastinating.
Oh, I’ll tell myself it’s because there’s only so much I can do in a day, and I do achieve something…but.
Normally, but works in my favor It’s what I say to justify falling behind on my own work. It’s what I say to comfort myself when there’s nothing else to say. But…
I mean – client work is getting done. Edits are flowing in and out. I’m doing PR and my articles. But sometimes, the articles don’t get posted. A week passes and i loom at stuff and think ‘i should have done that, how in the heck did I miss my OWN deadline?’ Sometimes, I forget to stop at 9 and keep working through, and frequently I have to do twitter from my phone between other jobs.
I haven’t knitted since the middle of last month. I’m devouring books in the wee hours of the morning cause there’s no other time to read. Let alone write.
My sleep sucks. My blogs are neglected (I had articles for d-z, but I didn’t post them. I will though), and I’m sad, lonely and just not coping.
And through it all, I keep telling myself, ‘tomorrow will be different’. Tomorrow.
Today is full of knowing my womb is empty, and not dealing with miscarrying. Today is studiously avoiding having too long to think, because then the litany of self-loathing in my head gets to be too much to bear. Today is waking up and checking my phone to see what’s happened this time and is full of missed things, and dropped responsibilities – agreeing to stuff when I should say no. Laundry that seems endless, even though we bought a new machine. Moderating because people just don’t ‘get’ it. Millions and millions of screams and sobs, suppressed because if I start, I’ll never stop.
Waking up and my first thought being ‘I wonder what fresh hell today holds’. Except, it’s not a fresh hell – it’s stale, moldy leftover hell. It’s one where I tell myself how worthless I am. Because I am.
It’s trying to be brave, because its been a bad week/month/year. It’s two new kittens, but constantly worrying – if they don’t eat, cry when walking, blink or sneeze, we panic. Its missing Kush like crazy, but having two cuties who make me smile, but I feel so guilty. It’s having friends, but being too scared to talk to them because, really, what right do I have to tell then about my life when I’m (mostly) healthy, I’m not in a position where I’m destitute. I’m loved and/or respected by people (though I will never understand why). I’m not dealing with organ failure, or health insurance, or sick husbands, or anything else. It’s wanting just one day where I don’t have to be strong.
And it’s a similar refrain, but trying to have a baby for nearly two years and being met with nothing but later and later, heavier cycles, failing to manage the one thing I should be able to do, and doesn’t depend on money, or work, or writing or even anyone other than me and him hurts. It hurts that we can’t get pregnant. It hurts that infertility is something else on our list of things. It hurts that, instead of a new baby at home, all I have is emptiness. And it’s hard, cause I feel as if there’s no-one to talk to. Even though I have a few really good friends that have told me to talk to them about anything.
I always said that I couldn’t make this sort of thing public – then, on Thursday I landed in hospital. For one reason and another, it had been a horrible week, and after talking to my other half, we went out for food.
On the way, my shoulder started hurting. Soon after eating, I started to feel horribly sick. And was violently and repeatedly sick. When I came home and posted my ‘woe is me’ on Facebook, mentioning the pain in my jaw, neck and shoulder, I was urged to call a doctor, who called a paramedic, who radioed for an ambulance.
They took me to the ER, where the commentary was basically ‘this could have been a cardiac event. We need bloods, to make you comfy, and you’ll stay.’ So I did.
And I read. I read like I’d never read in a LONG time – mostly because I’d forgotten my bipolar meds and the worst side effect of them is skipping a dose = only capable of dozing. And I read. And I had a think.
One of the things I thought through was why I put off my own writing in favor of *anything else*. I think that’s a whole post unto itself to be honest. Then I thought about what I am. Again, another post because I mostly define myself by what I can’t do/haven’t achieved. I thought about something very specific someone said in public then threw in my face in private, and what the fallout from that was. On that, I came to the conclusion that I can’t do anything. Not yet anyway.
I read. The whole of the second book of The Hunger Games (Catching Fire) and talked to nurses about books and indies and life.
I was in hospital a total of around 13 hours. I slept for 1. So I got home, was fed, and slept. And I thought some more.
I have no solution to the empty feeling inside me right now. I have no immediate solution to one of the things thrown in my face either, though on that, the person was wrong. But tomorrow is going to be here soon, and I don’t want to keep looking to it to find the better things. I want to find more of them now – it’s better for me that way.
Oh, that photo? That’s me, tonight, in bed, smiling cause I get told off if I don’t. It’s not a common expression right now, but I’m sure that if I turn tomorrow to today, it’ll find me again. I hope.