The holidays are nearly here, though it doesn't feel that way. And so I have holiday icons, four different ones. I love the one of the pink ornaments on the white tree the best, I think; it makes me think of eating pure snow that tastes the way you think it should when you're a toddler, and what Candyland might really be like if you stepped into it, ornaments really fruits that taste like nothing imaginable and everything desirable.
I have so much work it makes me almost ill; the problem is, of course,that I am ill with it. My head throbs and my chest still hurts rather badly. I need to take a muscle relaxant for pain, but that means taking a pill to stay awake, and it feels like all my day is filled with tablets and capsules and liquids and ointments and shots, each one to balance out or protect against another, and then those few that kill the diseases themselves.
It's December, and even though it's been rather warm here in Tennessee, it's cool outside; I feel like it's the middle of July, and my stomach rebels against the mixtures in it.
I pray, each day. For people who I doubt would ever think I do. I was a minute ago. I pray for their peace, for their health, for their grace; for fortune in their lives, for health, for needs to be met, for them to know forgiveness is granted and for them to forgive in return, and for ever and always love.
I am so tired. I kept up the wall against reality and fear and thinking about some things I know I'll be stuck with all my life for so long, and I didn't even realize how much work it was. But I half-wish it was still up.
I never said I was brave. I never said I was strong. I never said I could always be okay with this and deal with it at all, and especially never said I could do it alone.
I feel very alone, most the time. Not always. But most the time. Alone and lonely, unimportant and fading into the background and given little thought by most. (I feel; logic has no place, sometimes, except to make me feel guilty, too, every now and then, about feeling so.)
And the worst part is being afraid to ask for the support or help you need, even if it's just to talk about it--because what if listening is too much?
And then I'll be even more alone than I am now.
I have schoolwork to do; I have 7 days and I really need to do a week's worth each day. For my brain, this is easy. For my body--
I am so frustrated with my body. With my body, with life, with the stubborn natures of others and with wondering about my own. I am so frustrated with wishing that someone would stand up for me, or hold my hand. I am so frustrated with having to be understanding on top of the rest.
And I have to. Because I can't be me and be otherwise.
But it wears, too, and I feel so tired that I wonder, with all the mess and all the wear and tear, why I bother trying to do so much and why it's so important to me to do this or that.
(And the answer is, because I'm me. And I made up my mind to do this long ago. To love and to forgive, to understand and to stand up for others unconditionally, not to be angry if it doesn't happen when I need someone to do it for me, to protect others from embarrassment even if it would be easier on me to reveal their actions, to be truthful and kind both, and to never give up. And I have to keep doing it, imperfectly though I may, to keep trying to be the me I'm meant and need to be.)
Nerves in my lower back have degenerated rather a lot from--oh, from one of them. Lyme, bartonella, babesia, what does it matter which? One did it. There's only so much healing--"repair work"--that can be done, and it can only be started when I'm totally well. And until then, they degenerate more.
Sitting hurts. Standing hurts more. I worry I'll end up in a wheelchair again; I was for a while in high school.
The essence of Christianity is something I love with all my heart.
But Christianity as a religion involves communion with the other as well as communion with God. And too many times I've been hurt too badly by Christians who were not at all Christ-like, with hardened hearts and unwillingness to forgive, even if they were in turn. And that's the most critical part, to forgive, to work and rebuild, to accept the penitent and the prodigal home again.
If you're turned away enough--by individuals or organizations, by a bishop, a teacher, a parishioner, a fellow worshiper, a pastor, or even a friend (Brothers and Sisters in Christ, are we not?), no matter if it's a member of your denomination or another--then you stop trying to come in.
Maybe that's what it is most, for me. I've always said I would never give up, but maybe I'm at that point anyway. Or too tired to try. Maybe for now, or maybe for always.
I don't know.
But I can't not think about it. And it hurts as badly as anything physical could.
I have work to do. I'll do my best to get it done, even if it kills me. If not, I'll retake the course--again.
I wish the schoolwork was all I had to deal with. That would be so simple.
I want to live, not just exist.
I want to love, and for it to be known.
I want to dance, and for it not to hurt.
I want to forgive, and I want to be forgiven.
I want to go home, and I want to be welcomed back.
I miss something.
I don't even known what anymore.
I'm not depressed--or, rather, I am a bit, but that's not the motivating...force, emotion, choose the term you like best, within me at the moment. And by "the moment" I mean "since that appointment".
It's--it's a lot of things, I guess. It's love, and fear, and a constant sense of time, and pain--and more, the utter absence of pleasure--and determination, and a need to keep going when I feel like I'm on empty. And feeling like I've been drenched in reality and awareness, of knowing exactly what each thing about my body and health and medications means.
And I continue to believe I will get entirely better, that I will be cured and okay and have a life, a good one, and I live like this will be so.
But all the rest is in my head now, too. Almost all the time.
And that, too, wears me down.
emotions: 
contemplative
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