Emo ramble

I think I'm getting better. It's hard to tell. The last week or so has been a blur. I have not accomplished many of the things that I set out to, because I have been in so much pain, and so very tired. When I have a fibromyalgia flare-up, it's as if everything slows to a crawl. I could sleep for 24 hours if left alone that long. It was so bad last night that even having the cat jump onto me caused excruciating pain. I felt feverish and light-headed and sickly for several days in a row.

Fuck this shit.

It took all my strength, but I made it to the coffee house today. The walk was easier than the last time because it was not quite so cold today. Quite warm for February, in fact, though the wind was chilly. I have sat here for hours, and no drawing has flowed from my pens, but I did work on a project in Photoshop for a friend, so I consider that a suitable accomplishment. Three weeks now. I'm on a roll.

Flare-ups make everything worse. My sleep is disturbed, my steps are slower, my head is foggy, my thoughts are darker. I am always in some kind of pain, but during these flares, the pain often wins over my will, and I hate it. If I were still in school, I would have missed several classes. If I had a job, I would have missed work. Since most people either don't know what fibromyalgia is or do not understand it, it has cost me many opportunities. Pain, depression, anxiety and poverty have been my saboteurs all of my adult life. How much blame to I place on those things, and how much blame do I place on myself? Where is the boundary between "taking responsibility" and "accepting blame"? Where does accountability become guilt-tripping? In any case, I must stay in the moment and cling to small victories where I can, so bigger ones might come later.

Later. How much longer do I really have? I worry about dying far more than anyone my age without some dire prognosis should. Since I was a kid, I've had this idea that I'm not going to have a very long life in this body. Often, I feel as if my soul is wearing this body out, burning through it in desperation, in longing for what's next. This didn't used to bother me, but now that I have something to lose, it really does. It's only since I've learned to love life that I am afraid to lose it.

There are brief moments when I wish I was entirely free. No relationships. No family at all. No ties to this world of any kind. Then I could go back to laughing in the face of mortality. With nothing to miss or leave behind, I would not mind letting go. I think I wish these things, but having been there, I know better. There is no joy in being hollow. There is no freedom in directionlessness.

Sometimes I feel that in facing my inner child, I also face my own demise. Cradle to grave. I used to leave my body when I was little. I remember looking down at myself at my crib. I remember flying. I thought everyone did that. Maybe everyone does, but not everyone remembers. Despite this, I am absolutely terrified that I am merely fooling myself, and that death is not merely a transition between worlds but the absolute end. That possibility is so horrific, so terrifying to me, that it brings a deep fear I cannot seem to quell.

Will that child die, too? Or will I be reunited with him, in monstrous beauty, in some other place and time? Will my consciousness remain? Will I remember anything?

I don't want to go. I'm not done. I don't even know what it is I'm supposed to do, I just know I haven't done it yet. I may be 35, but emotionally, I am barely out of childhood. It's funny how when you're forced to deal with very adult things when you are young that it takes so very much longer to grow up. I think I still have no interest in growing up. I just want to be a child again and know all that I know now. Cliche, yes. But true. I want it back. I want my youth back. The energy, the pain-free days, the easy rhythm of school days and weekends and summer vacations. Being teacher's pet. Making dandelion chains. Playing with imaginary friends. (I'm sure my gods are really just my imaginary friends, but I tend to take Dumbledore's attitude about that. 'Of course it's all in your head, Harry. Why would that mean it isn't real?")

I'm rambling. Really, really rambling. Doing several things at once, actually. Listening to music, chatting with a friend, watching the fish in the tank at the coffee house, checking Facebook. Generally distracting myself from how much I want to cry right now. Because I know I can't cry, no matter how much I want to. I often feel as if I am storing up my tears, and that they then come out at inappropriate moments, erupting from me as lava does from a chamber stressed beneath the earth. How can I feel things so keenly, and be so detached from those feelings at the same time?

I'll revisit this later.