Pins And Needles, With Occasional Bard
Because it's been nigh on two weeks since I posted anything, and because I've gotten a couple of concerned emails, I thought I'd de-lurk briefly and let everyone know that I'm just fine. I've been hermiting is all.
So far the new meds are working pretty well. I no longer want to fling myself from the nearest available ramparts -- not that we have any ramparts -- and I feel more normal than not on most days. I'm still beastly tired, though, and it'll be a while before I'm back up to snuff.
Nevertheless, I'm forging ahead; I'm painting again, albeit in a much-reduced capacity. I've also done housework voluntarily . . . a couple of times this week, even.
I would have been posting more often, but just now it feels a lot like rolling a very large stone up a very steep hill. The sad truth is that I like you all too well to subject you to a detailed accounting of every spin in my emotional weathervane. I don't have anything particularly interesting or lyrical to say, which is why I've just been silent.
These past couple of weeks have been an awful lot like walking on a foot that's fallen asleep. I have no real idea of where my limits are at the moment, and I have no idea how much weight I can take before I collapse. Every step is a crapshoot, and I'm reminded that even the most careful walk is still nothing more than one prolonged, barely-salvaged fall. So I take each new step half-afraid I'm going to do a faceplant; I might be fine, I might go plummeting ass over teakettle. Can't tell.
I'd speak of hope, but I don't have any. It's not necessary. When your foot falls asleep, you don't have hope it will wake up. You just know, with an awful, ice-solid certainty, that it will wake up, bringing with it all the pins and needles and stinging sensitivity that waking up entails. I know it will happen: I'll feel better, times will improve and I'll be happier than this. I'm just a little worn out from everything that's come before, and I've run out of things to say while I wait for the numbness to go away.
I crave your indulgence, and I figure asking you to endure a scattering of silence is better than asking you to endure my emotional tempests. Forgive me the quiet, the charms o'erthrown and strength most faint. As you from crimes would pardoned be, and all that.
So far the new meds are working pretty well. I no longer want to fling myself from the nearest available ramparts -- not that we have any ramparts -- and I feel more normal than not on most days. I'm still beastly tired, though, and it'll be a while before I'm back up to snuff.
Nevertheless, I'm forging ahead; I'm painting again, albeit in a much-reduced capacity. I've also done housework voluntarily . . . a couple of times this week, even.
I would have been posting more often, but just now it feels a lot like rolling a very large stone up a very steep hill. The sad truth is that I like you all too well to subject you to a detailed accounting of every spin in my emotional weathervane. I don't have anything particularly interesting or lyrical to say, which is why I've just been silent.
These past couple of weeks have been an awful lot like walking on a foot that's fallen asleep. I have no real idea of where my limits are at the moment, and I have no idea how much weight I can take before I collapse. Every step is a crapshoot, and I'm reminded that even the most careful walk is still nothing more than one prolonged, barely-salvaged fall. So I take each new step half-afraid I'm going to do a faceplant; I might be fine, I might go plummeting ass over teakettle. Can't tell.
I'd speak of hope, but I don't have any. It's not necessary. When your foot falls asleep, you don't have hope it will wake up. You just know, with an awful, ice-solid certainty, that it will wake up, bringing with it all the pins and needles and stinging sensitivity that waking up entails. I know it will happen: I'll feel better, times will improve and I'll be happier than this. I'm just a little worn out from everything that's come before, and I've run out of things to say while I wait for the numbness to go away.
I crave your indulgence, and I figure asking you to endure a scattering of silence is better than asking you to endure my emotional tempests. Forgive me the quiet, the charms o'erthrown and strength most faint. As you from crimes would pardoned be, and all that.