Sleepwalking Life..

It used to be that I could not stop thinking. It was almost like a harsh, electric current, where my mind was constantly seething with thoughts, I could not turn off the voices of anger and frustration and the cries of anguish. Insomnia was my way of life and no matter what I did, I could not sleep. I was unable to read, unable to watch movies.. unable to even listen to music, for the voices and thoughts in my mind were too persistent.

This was just the way of life for me, it had been that way for all the years I had lived.. and in all honesty, I imagined that such would be the way it would be for the duration. I prayed earnestly that there might be a way to have that cease, for the thoughts were not conducive to functioning, living.. even just day-by-day, was beyond the mindset I lived.

I argued with myself, with my family.. with my friends. I would carry on these imaginary arguments in the car, while taking a shower.. while trying to work. It was a good thing that I could type and function without needing to think, because if thought had been required 100% of the time, I would have failed miserably. But I had managed to apportion part of my mind so that I could work, could fulfill my tasks set forth, while still battling these obstreperous voices, but it grew so tiring, my outlook so bleak, that I lost so many friends, so many years wasted.

And now, I’ve gone to the other extreme. I have blocked out whole years of my life, I have ceased to think, except perhaps once every two months or so, that same type of thought process will occur. Often it is shown when I am writing here, when the words well up inside and I cannot help but let them run through my fingertips like grains of liquid sand. With just as much substance as the mists.

It all changed when I was going through chemo, I believe. I had two rounds of it, for in the middle of the course of treatment, my blood count dropped radically and until it was able to be raised, I had to cease the treatment. There was a two month duration when that stopped, and each week, I had to go in for blood work, to see whether or not it could begin the following day.

The lab assistants knew who I was, it became commonplace for me to go in and walk right in for the work to be done. After the first couple of weeks, I stopped worrying about when it would begin again. My hair started growing out a tiny portion and I knew it would again be lost, but no matter how much I fretted over it, how much I worried, there was nothing I could do but wait.

During the course of treatment, my appetite did not truly fail. I only had a couple of days that I felt very sick, other than the allergic reaction the first time which was handled by giving me antihistamines before the treatment. Usually I was just very tired the day following, but I was able to eat normally.. so in that it was not a lack of eating that caused my blood count to fall.

But it did teach me to take things one day at a time, I had no choice. I had to wait. And during that year where I never left the apartment except to go to get lab work and hospital, I sheltered myself, only talking to people online. I was too embarrassed to go in public, though I did wear hats that did not look like turbans, I just did not like what I looked like, even more so than my normal low self-esteem.

I think during that time, I just gave in. Not so much giving up, which is also true in many aspects.. but just giving in. I knew when I was beat. I knew when fighting for all I’d lost was futile. There was no way to recover the years, any more than it would have been possible to recover what had been lost in surgery.

There are moments when I am brought low in mind and heart and spirit in what I have lost, but predominantly, there is just a numb acceptance. It’s done and over with. Crying for what is lost is wasted effort, crying for years that I can never recover, is foolish. Pining for what cannot be, to me, is just as wasted.. for I do know the limits in my life, in who and what I am.

I know that my views are very narrow-minded. I recognize that I am harder on myself than I should be, but I think predominantly, most people are. My view on life, on my life, that is.. is likely more bleak than is necessary. Yet being prepared for life the way I have, at least helps me not focus so much on what is lost. Instead of constantly looking for what is missing, what I wish for, what I long for.. I just go through the day and work, relax when I can and sleep the rest of the time. It is not the most fulfilling life in the world, but at least I am able to sleep again.

It also keeps me from writing often. When asked how I am doing, in all honesty, just the same as always. Days bleed into weeks into months into years. The same as I was then, so I am now. Perhaps being able to think of raindrops turning into streams and then into rivers and thus into oceans, helps me reconcile what my life has become. There is no more purpose now than there was before, so if it continues in this vein, at least I am well prepared for it.

At least I hope I am.

At least I try to be.

I cannot think what else to do, but just to do what I have been doing, even if it is nothing.

I wish that I could come up with some way to break out of the numbness, but the more time passes, the more I surround myself in cottonwool. I fear life, I fear change and I fear what will be. Perhaps it is because I have become accustomed to the way my life is, that I resist changing, abhor the thought of attempting to break out of the cocoon I have encapsulated myself with.

I apologize for not being around and noting more, not writing in response to letters and not being available more. Even if it terrifies me to do so, I will try to make amends as soon as I can, to those I may have hurt.

I’m sorry, truly.