T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
I LIKE the era we seem to be moving into better than I have liked the self-centred , wishy washy, polite, “inspirational” era that I hope we are moving out of. I was not designed for it.
The articles I have been finding have more depth, more guts than what I have been seeing for a decade or more.
I have felt the pressure internally and externally to BE INSPIRING. To find a way through this. I don’t even like the ” LIFE IS A JOURNEY “. shit. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe there is nothing inspirational to be found in this time of my life. Maybe its just a Bummer.
I have definitely felt the pressure to ” cheer up “. To move on to the “next stage”. To “handle” things.
I think of Him. I think of ME – the ME that was. I think of money and hatred and distress.
Many days I simply go through them. Sleep as much as I can.
Many days – I know that whether or not I survive this is not yet decided.
ENVY flies through me and Rage. I try to pay attention to the small good things – just so that I can stay sane . Its like early Recovery in the late 80s was. A tight discipline on the mind to prevent raving madness. This time I am not in a Mental Hospital – but I am close. I surely have been in hospital a few times.
I don’t know what you say about times like these. I do know that the placatory rubbish does not work. Some days I still almost vomit. Some days I can see him lying there on the road. Gone.
And other times, the sheer horror of being alone out at Raleigh and vomiting blood for hour after hour till ringing 000 seemed like the only thing I could do and I did. I didn’t even know I was as sick as I was. And then hearing a doctor say – you have 12 1/2 minutes of life left. Then waking up and finding out that weeks had passed. Tubes and needles and thins all over me.
It seems like so much has gone bad since June 21 2014, that the pit is bottomless.
I have been a little surprised at how much is expected of the one remaining and how quickly. At the expectation of a return to . not normal, but at least a condition which does not disturb the ones around too much. And certainly the Straight World has failed me once more. And not just me. Inept. Inefficient. Regulated by formulae that don’t work.
So – here I am. Sitting with heater on. Shedding possessions. No idea at all about what happens from here. About where I will go nor what I will do. Not knowing whether or not my body or mind will fail me.
Tonight is pleasant. I have eaten well and talked long and rested much. I have a book to read and am getting the knack of Netflix. Good as it gets sometimes. Good as it gets.
Crosby, who is a professor of English and Gender, Feminist, and Sexuality studies, and a scholar of the Victorian novel, describes how most accounts of trauma and recovery “answer to the dictates of the realist consensus”: once the writer’s life has been split wide open, the task of such memoirs is to stitch it back together in ways that make it seem deep, complex, self-contained, and goal-oriented. Such books tend to convey uplifting messages, turning the disabled body into an illustration of why readers should make the most of every day or overcome adversities in their own lives; through tales of hope or inspiration, they aim to give value to lives that might otherwise seem damaged beyond repair. (The titles of Christopher Reeve’s memoirs, “Still Me,” and “Nothing is Impossible,” reflect the genre’s prevailing tone.) Crosby, by contrast, resists any impulse to impart lessons, shrugging off the narrative arc that “carries the troubled subject through painful trials to livable accommodations … and all too often sounds the note triumphant.”
The Concrete Path is still blocked off for me on my Pony. Its become a symbol of Recovery for me. Today 3 experts were there doing expert consultations and achieving seemingly nothing. There was a bobcat dumping loads of dirt. God knows here or why. Later in the day I rode the Pony around to see whether the Concrete Path was open as yet. Nope. Still blocked off with red and white striped plastic ribbons and little ditches that are just a little too deep for me to cross.
How that relates to recovery, I am not quite sure but its working for me. PATIENCE. And Acceptance whilst doing what I can.
I had Andy the cleaner here this morning after another difficult night. Then John brought me his samples and I like them and think they will suit the Forest. I simply need to design the thingo I want to put on it and then he will burn it and varnish it and we can hang it out in the Forest. I am not yet sure just what I want. Maybe one of Izzy’s old posters would be good.
John has been clean a few months more than me and I have taken the opportunity to speak at depth with him on long term matters.
Didn’t turn the computer on till late afternoon today.
THE CONCRETE PATH.
Grief is the natural response to the physical loss of someone we love. ‘Pain is the agent of change, pain is what forces you to adjust to this new reality. And it is also through pain that you heal,’ explains Julia Samuel MBE, a psychotherapist and founder patron of the charity Child Bereavement UK, which helps children who have experienced a bereavement, as well as adults who have lost a child. When we do not allow our grief to surface, when we suppress it, there can be long-term implications for our mental health. ‘If you cut out pain, you also cut out your capacity to feel joy,’ says Julia.
Grieving Isn’t WallowingMARCH 27, 2016I’m chatting with a young woman who’s father has molested her. She’s understandably uncomfortable talking about it. Openly grieving her loss feels like it’s out of the question, because the memories terrify her. But when I ask what her greatest fear is, her answer is telling: “I just don’t want to look like I’m wallowing.”My response: “Why do you feel like you’re wallowing?”“Because people will think I’m weak. Like I’m playing a victim.”Ah, the victim card. We hear this one so often. The assumption that people who don’t immediately “overcome” their loss prior to some ridiculous, externally-imposed and arbitrary expiration date are whiny losers is extraordinarily prevalent in our culture, particularly in the US. Given our cultural predilections towards individualism and “fixing” everything, it’s no wonder that grieving people are terrified of being labeled as wallowers. In all the conversations I have with grieving people, the most common experience they communicate is that they feel alone. Parallel to that, most feel tremendous shame for having to grieve at all, and a significant amount feel as if their grief is driving them crazy. What usually binds many of these feelings together is a deeply rooted sense of unworthiness that is grounded in the haunting feeling that they’ll be “found out” as wallowers. The image of the wallower is deeply embedded in our culture.