Yesterday was gutwrenchingly brutal. For anyone who cares.
I realised that to the world, my life is just a book. People can pick it up anywhere. They can read a line, a sentence, a paragraph or a chapter. And throw it away if it doesn't interest them. They can disparage it, mock it, laugh at it, ridicule it. They may even identify with parts of it. But in the end, they close the book and put it on a pile of other books, to end up covered in dust and cobwebs. Perhaps one day, they may pick it up again and remember and wonder. "Whatever happened in her story?" Most people never will. Lately, many people have closed the book on this particular chapter of my life and that is so hurtful. Many of those were people who swore they'd stay the distance with me in this particular hell of a chapter. My experience in life told me this wouldn't happen and thus it has come to pass, again. Thing is, I can't close my book, yet. I could, but suicide is not yet an option for me. My cat needs me. My son loves me. Two reasons to keep going, no matter how bad it gets. And believe me when I say, I know how bad it can get. I really do. From my own story and that of my friends. So if I'm not up to reading your books right now, forgive me. Forgive me for being shallow and selfish and wallowing in my own despair and anguish. Forgive me if I haven't 'got over it yet'. For me this chapter is not over. This book is not yet finished.
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Today sucked. It really, really sucked. Instead of finding out when the insurance company MIGHT settle, I'm still sitting here in limbo waiting. Why? Because the building company that promised to have their report in LAST THURSDAY had not submitted it. Blaming it on 'incorrect data submission' they promised to have it fixed and in by today. Yeah, right. Like I believe that. Like I believe anything, anymore.
At the end of the day, all these people get to GO HOME. They get to be with their families, surrounded by their lovely things... AT HOME... What do I get? Fucking excuses. More fucking excuses. I don't GET to go home! Because my home is a fucking derelict, burned out, shell. A fucking eyesore. A bitter fucking reminder of everything I have lost! The mold is growing thick and adding to the acrid charred odour. There's rubbish and broken and smashed and violated things lying all over the yard. My beautiful garden is a fucking jungle of weeds and shit. My beautiful fucking home is FUCKED! At the end of the day, I can't go home. I don't have a home. I hadn't wanted to write anything today. I didn't want to think, remember what happened eight weeks ago. It's like someone's pulled a curtain between my mind and the memory of that awful afternoon and I kinda like it like that. I guess I'm starting to heal. That's a good thing.
I'm still waiting on the insurance company. I'm still in limbo. That's not a good thing. I've had some big lessons from the Universe - about patience, assumptions and learning to let go and let it all be. They've been hard but liberating. I see by my site stats that the views to my page have all but disappeared. So have the donations, most of the support and many of the people who insisted on 'being there' for me. It seems disaster has a use-by date for most people, except those caught up in it. That's ok, that's been a big lesson too - to let go of the bitterness and hurt of being abandoned by people who promised but then didn't deliver. I'm just so very grateful for ALL the people in my life who really do love and support me - I am truly blessed in the friendships I have all over the world. Thank you - all of you. So here comes another week. I hope by the end of it, I will have some resolution, some closure and some idea as to where I'm going and when. xoxox I've been up and down today, up with the clouds, celebrating the joy of being alive, watching the birds chase each other through the cloudy deep blue skies; watching fluffy little lambs gambol after their mothers, their tottery steps a joy of dancing on the green, green earth. I watch the sun move across the skies, feel its spring warmth on my winter cold skin, smell the freshness of snow on the gentle breeze as it drifts down from the mountains and clears my head... And sad. So sad. So much loss in my life. So much grief. So much pain. I used to imprison it - I'd lock it away, I'd eat it and swallow it down. I'd push it back in, I'd submerge it, I'd put a lid on it. I would banish it to a time when I could deal with it. Which was never. Do we ever allow ourselves to experience those darkest of feelings? The pain and sorrow of grief, the fury and rage of anger? How often are we allowed to let those feelings out? Or are we always told by society, told by others, told by everyone to keep it in, to not be so public, to be 'a man', to be strong, to put on our big girls pants, to deny that which is part of the human experience? And what happens to those most powerful of feelings when we suppress them? Do they magically go away? No, they don't. They don't. They manifest in us physically as illnesses, as cancer, as pain and more pain. They manifest in us emotionally as depression and mania, as schizophrenia and madness. They bubble to the surface, no matter the bandaid measures applied. I've spent most of my life being sad and angry and afraid. I often hear my inner voice as it timidly says "I'm so scared... I'm so, so scared..." That's tragic. It's a tragic waste of life, spending it in fear! And I used to be so angry, but I'm not now. I burned all the anger out two weeks ago when I harnessed it all to deal with the salvation of whatever was left in the burned out remains of what had been my home... my home, my lost home. I'm still scared. I'm still sad. I have moments of such profound and utter grief in which I let all of my past pain out along with the present. There is no holding back, this time. I can now see part of the gift I have been given. The gift of this 'now', this time, when I can heal all the past pain and sorrow, heal all the anger and injustice, heal the bitterness and the jealousy, heal the grief and the loss, let go of all the suffering and guilt that has been 'me' up until now. Up until now I have been defined by my journey through this life. Marg Thomson, artist, writer, painter, poet, depressive, PTSD sufferer, survivor of rape and abuse, ugly, fat, old, unloveable, unworthy, unwanted, talented, creative, strong, powerful, passionate, compassionate, articulate, sufferer of FMS, cat woman, bird whisperer, proud and loving mother, great friend, etc. I could continue to define myself with these parameters but I've been handed an opportunity to change. A sweeping gift that encompasses all that was and leaves me here in limbo with nothing but my history and an open and blank page for my future. I could choose to keep any and all of what I have been up to now, or I could discard everything and start again. What a choice. What a gift. What an opportunity. Do I discard the identity I struggled all those years to create? Do I shatter the illusory image of "WHO I WAS" and be reborn? It's all an illusion, really, isn't it? Seven weeks ago, a fire destroyed my home, taking with it everything that I was, everything I created, everything I had. It left me this woman I am now, empty, scared, sad and tired. But I'm also feeling a small tendril of hope, a whisper of adventure, a sigh of happiness. It's all up to me. It's ALL up to me. Love you all long time xoxoxoxo It's been so long and yet no time at all. I'm trying to comprehend just how time can flow so fast and yet go so slowly. Perhaps I'm dead. Perhaps this is the afterlife. Perhaps I'm going totally fucking crazy.
I'm numb. I've been numb for a few days. I guess I burned all the anger out in the past few weeks, although it feels like moments. I used that anger, used it to get things done, used the energy and strength it gave me to get through what needed to be got through. I'm paying for it now. The fibromyalgia is in full flare and I'm hurting on so many levels, in so many ways, it's unbelievable. I know pain. I know it well. I live with it 24/7. But this? This pain is so much worse than anything I've experienced to date and it's not on the physical level as much as it is on the emotional and spiritual level. Gutted is such a fine word. It's been six weeks. Nothing has changed. I'm still waiting on the insurance company. People still keep asking me how I am and what they can do for me and then walking away without listening or doing anything. Most people, that is. I'm still heart gladdened every day by those who just DO. They listen. They give me what I need. Then they walk away making sure I know that they're only a phone call or text or email away. I've really discovered what friendship is all about. It's been a horrible six week lesson. I've learned that the people I want in my life are those who, knowing I CANNOT give back right now, still give. Without asking for anything in return. Without making it all about them. Without judgement or censure. Knowing that I can't reciprocate right now. They just keep giving. That's what I call love. That's what I call support. And I'm so grateful I have so many of them in my life right now. I'm still falling and they're still catching me. I am so blessed. And those who don't or won't or can't, for whatever reason, support me in this part of my journey? I forgive you. And I let you go. Thank you. It's been six weeks. My world is contracting, thus. |