I’ve been avoiding this place, for a host of reasons I can’t even name. Part is simple fear – that drawing attention to the sunlight filtering through the cracks would somehow destroy it. Part is not having any mental energy left over for something as (useless, exhausting) as exposition. I’ve been so busy crawling out of the pit I couldn’t do more than wave away the fleeting thoughts of ‘maybe you should write this down.’
Well. Sunlight has indeed been eclipsed by clouds. I’ve slid back down the stone wall enough that I can see just how high my bloody hand prints got.
It doesn’t help that you knew a crash would come. It was as inevitable as the tides, as the way the blood on the stone walls dries and flakes off, leaving nothing but the ghost of the sheer effort it took to get that far up. Granted, I still couldn’t see the top but I was far enough to know it was there. To get an occasional gust of fresh breeze.
(Sudden memory, the guy from the team building exercise that was one part group therapy and one part ‘let the loonies get some fresh air’. He called me Cool Breeze and looked at me like I was something special. I was, back then. Sometimes I think if I could just … look like that again, some of my problems would go away. Body dysmorphia may not be the worst of my problems, but it’s top five at least.)
So. Take a weekend of fever and illness, the attending isolation and loneliness. I just wanted someone to walk the dog for me. Bring me soup. Instead I had to have a discussion with J about what to do if I passed out on the floor. He did not want to hear that shit. He never does. I still don’t know for sure if he’ll be able to do what he needs if something happens to me.
Let’s top that off with dreams, back to the full-blown dystopian sci-fi shit I didn’t think I would have to deal with again. I was so happy to know the metoprolol worked as a sleeping pill/dream aid – as long as the dreams were bringing my OCs to life to live and breath on their own. Now that we’re back to the unpleasant dreams I’m less than amused. Especially considering my heart is still thumping from the mess I had to clean up.
That was the final straw. I was not having a great morning but I was determined to work through it. Do what I needed then sit down with my cup of coffee, maybe a bowl, and get my head screwed on right so I could be a functioning adult. It lasted until I knocked over the cup and spilled 8 ounces of hot coffee all over the floor.
Now the weasels are running wild, my heart is thumpy, and I am ready to Give Up.
That’s the worst part of the climb, you know? Not the bleeding fingers desperately digging into stone to find enough purchase to get a grip on. Not the effort. Not even the reason I’m in the pit in the first place. It’s knowing all that effort was wasted . That it was useless to even try to climb out.
Same as it ever was.