Universe says ‘guess’

Sometimes I just want to scream.  I can’t keep my head above water.  I am prisoner to my body.  It won’t let me be fully awake.  It sleeps twelve hours a day.  There is always pain, or the utter exhaustion it leaves behind.  It has become so weak it’s difficult to stand up straight, and I am cold unless I stand in front of a heater.  I can’t focus long enough to read my email. 

I can’t keep up with the everyday chores and errands.  Do the dishes.  Renew my drivers license.  I haven’t cooked dinner for a month or more.  I find myself doing nothing, just staring, mind wandering, afraid the pain will return.  How can I see the doctor or the naturopath?  I can’t even wake up before 3pm.  My sleep is coarse with nightmares and pain. 

I’m not asking for help getting things done.  I’m not asking for advice.  I do sometimes wish I had some emotional support.  I find myself chatting with my grandmother, but then there’s that awful feeling of self-betrayal when she makes some nasty hint that I’m a lazy whiner who ought to get a job.  Sometimes I’m tempted to ring Anna, but I know she’ll just tell me to spend some of the money she gave me to do something practical about it.  As though every problem could be solved with money.  And of course I’d sound hideously ungrateful if I suggested any such thing.  And I won’t stoop to crying on Alexander’s shoulder, when he never has need to cry on mine. 

It makes me wonder what’s wrong with me.  Why can’t I just miraculously get well, get a job, fix my own problems, deal with my own issues?  Nobody ever says it’s okay to be ill.  Or to fall in a heap emotionally from it. 

Oddly it reminds me of my high school years, watching in silent horror as the emotional pain got steadily worse, worse, worse.  And nothing happened.  I didn’t collapse, I didn’t die, no-one stepped in to offer help.  My mind played a few odd tricks, I suppose, like imagining screaming all day long, but nothing visible. Just like those torture scenes in novels, where the torturer promises his victim amazement at just how much the human body can take. 

Quiet desperation, et cetera. 

What is all this for?  If I’m supposed to cure this, how?  If I’m supposed to suffer, why?  If I’m supposed to die, when?  And if I’m supposed to chart some careful course between getting worse and getting well, then where am I going?  Maybe I’m just supposed to learn emotional self-reliance, I don’t know.