Rocky Road

I try to type up a journal entry about a month after it was written — unless I write something I want to share right away.  Normally, I wouldn’t post something like this, but I think it gives a very good picture of what my life has been like this darkest portion of the year.  This was written December 21.

Yesterday was pretty miserable.  I didn’t have any contact with anyone who loves me and who I can be real with.  I did talk to L — we were going to get together for a walk — but the rain started so we didn’t.  I tried to tell her what was happening to me, but she didn’t say anything, didn’t seem to understand.

Reading was very unsatisfactory.  I’ve been reading a book of short stories by Rosamunde Pilcher but they don’t hold me the way the longer books do.  I’ve got The Shell Seekers, but worry about the sadness of Penelope losing Richard.  Winter Solstice and September have happy endings, but I’ve already read them recently.  Coming Home also has a happy ending, but they didn’t have the book, only the DVD and I didn’t feel like watching it.  I started The Scent of Water, but somehow it scared me.  I don’t know why.  Maybe it was too adult.  Maybe it was the reference to the horrible noisy modern world and the loss of the old countryside.  [The Scent of Water is a book by Elizabeth Goudge. I usually find her books comforting.]  Maybe I should be reading The Secret Garden.

I prayed to god to help me get out of bed this morning, but there was no answer — that I could hear anyway.  O yes there was “god helps those who help themselves,” but I don’t believe that.  That’s the cruel parental voice.  I guess that’s where I’m stuck.  Judging myself for being such a wimp, for not just “pushing through,” for not calling more people for help, for not calling Eve again.  I see Eleanor, up against much worse than I am, managing to keep going.  I see Pat, after losing Michael, being able to keep going.  I judge myself as “bad” for “giving up.”  In some ways I feel like a stubborn little kid who won’t play the game.  Like a frightened little kid hoping to be rescued.  That reminds me of losing it at the airport coming back from Mother’s funeral and Clare was an hour late.  I think about trying to make an apple crisp for the pot-luck tomorrow.  It feels utterly impossible.  I could probably force myself.  At least I’ve done it recently enough so the routine is available.  I could also go buy something at Mac’s or the Co-op.

Where’s the “tough little drip that just won’t quit?”  She’s sitting down, refusing to keep soldiering on.  Well, can I find some compassion in my heart for her refusal?  Yes, I can.

I realize that I’m scared to call R because I’m afraid she’ll invalidate me in some way, tell me to “stop believing that story.”  She only did that once, it was a long time ago, but I feel too fragile to take a chance.

I just typed up the session with Caryn where I came into the present.  That really did happen and it can happen again.  But I need help to do it.

O god I just want to die.  Please let me die soon.  It’s just too hard to keep going.  Last night I imagined that I died and wondered how long it would take people to find out.

I feel sick and sad and bereft and utterly discouraged.

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