Have you noticed how seldom I post? A true confession is that on the days I don't post I am struggling.
The truth is I am struggling with everything in my life.
I wondered about doing this, but I am going to go for it.
That is a warning.
If you are looking for a happy Karen Deborah post then move on.
This is not for you.
The truth is I am in a crisis in every way.
I keep trying to find a positive outlook for living and I can't.
Then I rebuke myself and think of all the people who have faced much more serious adversity than me. If I don't, someone else does!
I am becoming a recluse. I don't call people. I don't go to church. I don't want to go out. I don't want to be patted or talked to or _____ fill in the blank.
I really don't want to hear any more platitudes or "good advice."
I may kick the next person's knee caps, who tells me to just straighten up.
Does anyone really think that I am doing this to myself?
It's more than insulting to think I'd want this.
It makes me feel unknown, that hurts.
My life has completely changed. Everything I did before is gone. This is no longer Fresh Fixins. There isn't going to be gardening or cooking or baking bread. My starter rotted and I threw it out.
I struggle with the weight of the dough.
I cannot handle it, which steals the pleasure.
No canning, no planning the garden, none of it.
I cannot use my arm. My hand hurts when I type but today my heart is hurting more than my body.
If I continue to blog I'll have a completely different topic.
How about "The Daily Scream?"
Trying to survive devastation.
Physical, emotional, spiritual, devastation.
It's not like I have a huge following.
But I wouldn't want to loose my fifteen blog friends that I really care about.
But can anyone want to read this crap?
I wouldn't blame you if you left.
So help me.
I can't think of title for spilling my guts.
That is what I'm going to do.
I am going to write often and just spill it.
I understand now why some people turn their comment section off.
They hurt too much to take even one hurtful comment.
Let's face it. A lot of people don't realize what they say injures another.
They haven't suffered and they don't know.
Knowing that, allows those of us in the fellowship of pain, to excuse them.
It's true my daughter has rescued me and brought me up from the grave.
But at times I wish she hadn't.
I am GRATEFUL that our relationship is restored.
I am GRATEFUL for her love and help.
She literally saved my life.
But I am not grateful for the dependance I have to embrace. I hate it.
I am also hurt that the rest of my family doesn't even get it.
I'm hurt my brother has never come to visit.
He just called and his mother in law fell and hurt her arm.
I'm sorry that happened.
The way he went on and on about how bad it is went threw my gut like a knife.
He has no concept of what has happened to me.
She will get better.
Sometimes I think no one gets this.
If you care about someone, don't you make it your business to know?
(I still miss Grandma J, she just went away).
My family doesn't read my blog except when I ask them to so I don't have to worry about saying this.
I think I have PTSD.
I am afraid of falling.
I am afraid of people.
I am afraid of being touched.
I am afraid of handshakes.
Who is this?
These "fears" are foreign to me.
This is the antithesis of who I have been all my life.
I hate talking about what I am going through. Talk about Debbie Downer.
My faith is in crisis. My identity is in crisis. I feel like who I am is in the past tense.
So who am I now?
Someone in a constant state of suffering.
Someone who went from care giver to dependence.
Someone who has almost ruined our finances, we haven't had to give up our home yet.
There it is again. Back and forth.
Other people are facing foreclosures.
Why do I complain?
I feel so guilty and I KNOW that is dumb. Knowing doesn't stop it.
Trust God....there's the rub. I thought I did.
I don't understand anything.
How can a nurse not have health care when I spent my whole life giving it?
Why should my 73 year old husband have to pay taxes?
I'm not paralysed but in a way I am. I'm travelling through a "veil of tears." I am grieving for my life.
I don't know how to continue. I am NOT suicidal.
That is for you Susie,you always freak when I talk like this.
I'm OK I just want to talk.
I'm upset because I need to get it out.
I want to scream, long and loud and every day.
Every day some daily task presents itself and I can't do it.
That is just a fact.
How do I focus on the good in the face of daily new "facts"?
Every day I get to wake up to a new day of disappointment.
My new life.
Every day the reality of our financial situation presses down on me a bit heavier and makes my heart hurt. I really should find homes for all my animals because that money is needed to pay bills.
I have asked many providers for help and they have written off parts of what we owe.
I have charged $12,000 for meds, doctors, and gas, basically anything we couldn't pay for. I didn't know it was that much. When my husband finally told me, I felt like I was going to vomit.
It seems to me the pets need to go.
They cost a lot every month.
The dog is so big he nearly knocks me over nearly every day.
He scares me to death.
I love that big galute.
He's a puppy pony.
Then I bawl and cry my eyes out, AGAIN.
How much do others have to pay for me?
What if something bad happens to them?
How can I be sure they'd get a good home?
Those are emotional rhetorical questions.
I don't need an answer. It's how I feel.
Beggars can't be choosers.
It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't after such a long list of losses.
I have always been so good at helping others in grief. In encouraging others to cling to the Lord for comfort. I cannot help myself. I am not sure if I can't or don't want to.
I get mad.
How do you cling without hands?
My nerve block has worn off and I've lost the mobility I gained. I'm back to feeling crucified. The thing about that is real crucifixion would end and it doesn't. The pain syndrome I have "Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy," is a progressive disorder. It gets worse. Most of the time I can't even remember the name of it. I don't read about it because it scares me to death. I actually said in my Sunday School class that I'd rather have cancer and the judgement I felt was horrific. No one understood what I was saying. With cancer you live or you die. There is some hope of it ending, one way or the other. At least you have a chance to fight it.
I fight with exercise and drugs, but I'm told I might win.
A long shot. The majority of the time this RSD wins.
Which is worse to always be blind or lose your sight and have the memory?
If a tree falls in the forest with no one to hear it; does it make a sound?
The drugs make me stupid and I stink.
But if I don't take them I'll go hysterical.
I can't stand it when my arm is in a state of activity that looks like grand mal seizures.
It hurts and it scares me to death.
At least I'm off of narcotics.
Back and forth.
What I have is severe with increasing severity and it is chronic.
No end. I really can't take much more without going crazy.
I'm already crazy.
I don't want to know anymore about this.
I can't imagine more.
I know what it means when medical people say it will get worse.
Most people have no idea what is ahead of them.
I am a coward.
It shocks me, the cowardice, I thought I was brave.
I am a coward, no kidding.
Where do you go to say, UNCLE?
Hell on earth. Why? Wasn't I doing good work?
I have always said that this subject of suffering is one I couldn't tackle.
Maybe God wants me to reveal the whole inner ugly struggle.
I'm like that.
I'll say there is an elephant in the room when everyone else pretends there's nothing there.
Maybe my new lot in life is to say what it is like to be living with a whole host of unwanted changes.
Stripped of everything that was--- who I thought I was.
All that is left is words. I CAN talk.
But who on earth would listen?
Does that even matter really?
Is it hard to blog if you don't have any readers?
Anybody out there?
I do not always have these rock bottom days.
I can smile and laugh sometimes.
I see the beauty of spring beginning to unfold.
Then I see all the weeds I would be pulling.
Ten years I have worked on this garden.
I don't want to stay here and watch it deteriorate.
The see saw again--up and down--back and forth.
My husband doesn't understand.
He does all he can, but this was never a one man operation.
I will just have to let things go one by one, or faster than that, ten by ten.
It's a lot like cancer or any other process that takes your life a piece at a time, or a chunk.
It took a lot of guts for me to do this.
Leave a comment if you want but don't judge me.
My mama said if you can't say something nice don't say anything at all.
That's how come I don't blog.
But I miss blogging.
I can blog, I just don't have what I was to give you.
She is gone.
I'm not feeling sorry for myself.
I have no bootstraps.
Even if I did I wouldn't be able to reach them.
Someone else would have to put the boots on.
So none of that, please.