Joy lies in the fight, in the attempt, in the suffering involved, not in the victory itself


Monday, April 18, 2011

fear is the heart of love

So much has changed over the last six weeks. Left my job, got a new one. Left my house, got a new one. Left my independent life, became a live-in girlfriend. Not all of it's been easy. In fact, most of it has been fracking hard. I feel like I'm treading water, waiting for my feet to be able to touch bottom, but all there is down there is a vast, terrifying, murky depth. Honestly, I don't know how long I can keep my head above water. Being mad is all very well when you live alone and work only three days a week. There's a lot of time leftover for retreating to bed with the sheets pulled up over my throbbing, pounding, naysaying head. These days I have to be awake, showered, dressed (and not just in sweat pants or a sarong) and ready to face the world by 6.45am. Neil asks me if I have had breakfast (puke at the thought), made lunch (ditto), tells me to have a great day. Without fail, I spend the entire hour and a half journey to work thinking how I can get out of going, or how I can be well enough to not be in one of the hospitals I pass, or what food I can binge on or junk I can purchase to cheer myself up. I am no sicker than before this all began. Mostly, I manage to feel "normal" and complete a day's work. But there's no doubt that the extra social pressure takes its toll. For most of the weekend I collapse thankfully into sleep or junk-TV watching. I eat entire packets of chocolate biscuits then berate myself for being so fat, lazy, unmotivated, hideous, ill, ill, ill. Neil asks me, fearfully, if I've taken my medication. Yes, yes, yes, but I am still mad, you see. The medication takes the sharp edges off but you can still be hurt by the blunt ones. My things arrived at Neil's two weeks ago and are still half-packed. I don't have enough cupboard space for my clothes, pantry room for my food, bookshelves for my books. My belongings randomly overflow out of boxes like the disjointed conversations I have with people at work. Nothing makes sense, there's no rhyme nor reason, no place for my Big Ole Crazy to be. I miss having space. I miss having peace and quiet and nothingness. It was easier to convince people I was okay when I didn't actually have to see them. I don't know if I can do this. But I am still here, trying. Title post from Death Cab For Cutie's "I Will Follow You Into The Dark"