Broken

Maybe a good night’s sleep will help.

(Good night’s sleep happens, over and over, and still it hasn’t helped.)

* * * * *

Maybe things will get better with time.

(Time keeps ticking on and nothing’s looking any better.)

* * * * *

Maybe once I finish this task, or that other one, or that other other one, I’ll feel a load lifted off my shoulders.

(Those completed tasks depleted so much from me, I don’t have the wherewithal to rejoice.)

* * * * *

Maybe if I do something fun, I will reset myself and renew my outlook.

(Fun things don’t feel as fun as they used to. In order to do something fun, the fun has to be felt or it’s not technically a case of “having fun”.)

* * * * *

Maybe if I talk to some friends, I’ll feel better.

(Talking to a friend and talking with a friend aren’t the same thing. I don’t feel heard. I feel worse.)

* * * * *

Maybe if I get away alone for a few hours, I will return with a better outlook.

(I come back and I’m still here.)

* * * * *

Maybe if I keep talking to God about my pain, I will find peace.

(I am only reminded of how much I want to be out of this world and into His face-to-face presence.)

* * * * *

Maybe I need more water, more fresh greens, more sunshine. Maybe I need to run more.

Maybe I need less caffeine, less carbs, less rain.

Maybe I need less words.

Nothing’s working.

Maybe I need medication.

I’m sorry.

I don’t have the answers.

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When I Cannot Write

Um …

When I’ve “got the dumb and can’t brain”, it is comforting to read someone else’s words about their writing or lack thereof.

My blogging buddy and brother in Christ, G.W., said so well what describes my relationship with the pen. Maybe others can relate, too.

Here it is:

What’s What – to write or not to write that is the confession

“Squeak”

“Squeak”, said the cupboard door, as I opened it to put glasses away from the drying rack.

How did those glasses get into the drying rack? I cleaned the kitchen before bed last night. There was nothing in the drying rack then. And for that matter, why are there crumbs on the island’s cutting board top?

Not that the cupboard door cares, even if I had asked out loud. Its sole purpose this morning is to yell at me.

“You need to get the WD40, wench. Do it, or I’m gonna squeak and squack and wake up your kids. I don’t CARE that you only had four hours of sleep last night. And woah there, missy! Backspace and correct that spelling error. It’s SQUAWK, not ‘squack’. Idiot.”

Eyeballs plugged into a head full of pain glare out from this thing called Christine and say, “Screw you,” not just to the cupboard, who MIGHT get its wish commanded if I remember to write it on the to-do notebook’s latest page, but to everything in and out of sight.

I turn on the kettle and don’t bother grinding coffee. Earl Grey is my friend, though he has little to say. I’m cool with that today, for I don’t want to talk anyway.

Problem Of Pain

Migraine, or whatever it is, hurts so bad that nausea sweeps in.

Five days of it, every three to five weeks, for, what, twenty years now?

Family physicians, a neurologist, naturopaths, a homeopath, chiropractors, massage therapists, and a physiotherapist all failed to fix.

CBD oil prescription is expensive and doesn’t fix. It helps minimally. THCa oil in acute attacks does the same.

Hospital emergency rooms in desperate moments is a gamble. Triage. Wait a long time. Downtime from duties. Need someone to do the drive home. Get shot with something that sometimes works. Demerol worked once, but when requested the next time, it was refused. Morphine took the edge off and allowed sleep, but the pain returned by morning. Ketorolac 60 mg injected with Gravol to combat the nausea it can cause works 80% of the time.

Face-first into a wall in 1988. Unknown whiplash unhealed. Spine grown twisted. Escaped from perpetrator.

Now add in the pain from being knocked over by a dog. Twice. Back of skull first day. Then knee next day.

Monday: Liquid nitrogen to plantar surface of left foot for wart. Burns.

Tuesday: Cleaning the kitchen because foot too sore Monday to clean before bed. Stuffing and baking a turkey. Many hours. Remove stuffing and refrigerate. When turkey cools, remove meat from bones and refrigerate. Put drippings in container to use for gravy. Too late at night to make gravy. Make it tomorrow.

Wednesday: Many processes to prepare for making turkey pies. Grind wheat outside in grain grinder because it leaks flour. Thank God for grinder given by friend. Good grinder is mailed to Vancouver Island shop under warranty.

Make turkey bone broth. All day.

Clean, clean, clean. Laundry. Floor. Cat litter boxes. Delegate but only so much kids can do. Listen to kids. Answer kids. Interact with kids. Pray for kids. Dishes in dishwasher, plus ongoing big pots and bowls washed in sink. Fold and put away laundry. Declutter stuff in ongoing decluttering after new bedroom carpet installed.

Thursday: Whole wheat olive oil pie crusts x6.

Soup.

Chopped carrots, celery, onions. Sauteed.

Other things unremembered. Many. Too many. Tears in there a time or two. Mine.

Thursday night, now: Suddenly realize forgot to let dog back in house. Oldest daughter to the rescue, brings her in. Long past bedtime.

Brain is gone. Somehow over three days of cooking, this is result:

Turkey

Stuffing from homemade bread

Gravy for turkey pies

Three turkey pies

Vietnamese spring rolls

Turkey soup

So much rice.

Onions were absent so they had to be bought this morning.

Family ate filling for turkey pies when it wasn’t yet done so had to stretch it by thawing Italian sausage from freezer and browning it… then driving to store to buy potatoes to cook and add.

Big pots to wash in sink. Sore hands from so much washing.

Phone calls I cannot return, added to list.

Deadlines for forms that needed to be filled.

People to contact via text and email. None for pleasure. Business and stress.

Dear friend in distress. Suicidal. Fear. Prayer.

Dear friend’s father had a seizure and in hospital. Prayer.

Noises in house.

Kids doing what told not to.

Me yelling.

Silence.

Ringing sound. High pitch ringing that permeates the room. Source unknown.

. . . . . .

See also: Giving Up
https://holysheepdip.wordpress.com/2018/01/22/pressure-to-write-2/

Nothing Good To Write

I have nothing good to write today.

I’m in a storm.

My head and my hand hurt from me being accidentally knocked to the ground by my dog as she ran past and tangled herself and me in a cable.

My foot hurts from liquid nitrogen my doctor applied yesterday to kill a wart.

I’ve been paying bills and watching the money drain from my account.

The messes keep happening.

The meals keep needing to be cooked.

People keep disappointing.

The weather is dark to match my mood.

Supposedly storms don’t last forever. I look forward only to the end of it.

“Oh, for wings like a dove, to fly away and rest! I would fly to the far-off deserts and stay there. I would flee to some refuge from all this storm.” (Psalm 55:6-8, TLB)

Slow My Thoughts Down

Is there a drug, a food, an exercise, a process, or anything that can cause my mind to slow down? I’ve always got overlapping thoughts that cascade so thickly that it is a struggle to hear – really hear – the things people are saying to me. I hate that. I want to focus better.

And please don’t suggest cannabis. I have tried it and it intensifies the mess.

Giving Up

Maybe it is time for me to give up on writing a book.

I can relate to my great-great-grandmother-in-law, in how she must have felt before she kicked the stool out of the way and hung herself.

She had been asked to do the arrangements for a wedding – a big task, yes, but by itself not death-worthy. It was, however, the final rock to send her over the edge of a stress mountain.

I often think of that scenario when I find myself in positions of having too much to do and too little time to do it efficiently and effectively. There are demands being made of me by others who COULD be helping, compounded by the frustration I feel from the expectations of others who don’t really know me but who think I SHOULD be doing more.

The thing about people expecting me to do more is particularly irksome, but I can control it, to some degree, by avoiding contact with them.

What I am talking about is the writing of my supposed book.

I say “supposed”, because although it has been looming over my head for the past few years, it still has not materialized. I have pages of notes and a few chapter drafts, but no complete manuscript.

I am at a point where I am wondering if I should just give it up.

“You have such a talent for writing and an important story to tell,” they say.

That sounds like a compliment on the surface, but the way it lands on my ears is more like a sledge-hammer to the side of my head.

Really? More? I am supposed to do MORE?

I have seven children. That is not common or easy. Few people can I consult for advice and even fewer are willing to help.

I never set out to have a large family, but that is what happened. Whether people can accept it or not, my kids are my number one priority.

Even sitting here on my couch writing this blog entry on my laptop is a luxury, but the kids are all occupied at the moment, none of them asking me questions, none of them asking me for help, none of them trying to tell me something, and so I am taking this quiet time to write out the thoughts that have been bouncing around in my head for the past few days.

(No sooner did I finish that paragraph than one of my kids ran up to me to remind me that they left their iPad charger at someone’s house a 25 minute drive away. So I sent a text to find out if the road is decent enough to drive there to pick it up. Yeah, this time of year, where I live, snow and ice can make roads dangerous.)

And I can see someone saying I should have taken this time to work on my book instead of venting on WordPress.

No, this here is quick and mindless.

Like sudden vomiting.

Working on my book, however, requires deep thought, more akin to preparing a gourmet meal on a wood cook stove. Ingredients must be bought and measured. Careful attention must be given to the fire. And nobody can interrupt me, lest I miscalculate a measure, miss an important ingredient, or burn the results.

I deactivated my Facebook account. That thing depresses me. A huge pile of potential communicators who are supposedly friends, but most of them just want a quick fix. I can understand that, to a degree, because I myself am usually too busy to get into much depth, but still it discourages me to post a question or a thought and have very little feedback. Like, why bother? Might as well write on WordPress, where it is more to be expected that there will be little to no intercommunication.

And that leads me back to the topic of writing my supposed book. How satisfying will it be to complete a book, and not know what others are thinking or feeling when they read it?

But how can I write that book if my focus is on my children’s needs?

And with my own ability to concentrate being poor at best (two of my kids have ADHD, and two are diagnosed as being in the Autism Spectrum – surely they got some of that from me, though I have no such official diagnoses – and, yes, I did undergo testing), I can only work on a book when everyone is asleep or out.

I even built a shed in hopes I could write in it, but my kids interrupt me in there, too. The thing is, though: they need me more than the book needs to be written.

Oh yeah, and I failed to mention that my youngest three children are almost always home. We homeschool. It’s more in the direction of unschooling, but still, my point is that they aren’t away for several hours a day. They are almost constantly at home. And don’t try to convince me otherwise. I have long been against public schooling and so this is my choice.

And I haven’t even touched on the chronic pain with which I live. There is no cure. All I can do is suffer through it. Some days are better than others, and on those days, I get a lot more physical tasks done.

I don’t really want to hang myself, because I think of how it would affect my children. But the pressure sure becomes a lot sometimes, and where can I go to escape it?