I’m starting to lose myself. Even as I creep slowly back to awareness, back to consciousness after these last dizzying 6 weeks, as the reality sets in and I’m brought back around to this realm from the one in which I’ve been ensconced, even now I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not. I’ve been faking my way through the last 6 weeks, but now, finally, it’s all catching up with me. The armor of strength I feigned to avoid the inevitable breakdown has become a mere shadow, taunting me as I struggle to hold onto it. Where once there was strength, now sorrow and despair have sunk in and have me in a stranglehold that makes it difficult to breathe as I come to terms with it all. How desperately I long to be numb once again, to not have to feel.
The only difference between now and 6 weeks ago is thus: I was haunted by different things 6 weeks ago, only then the terror tended to vanish to the bottom of a glass, becoming more abstract, less threatening. I’ve not used since the day before I had the stroke. It’s not that I don’t want to use. Quite the opposite is true, in fact. As the days continue to slide into one another, I want nothing more than to drown any coherent thoughts I have in absinthe and despair. But I can’t. I will die if I do that.
But how I want to pour a shot. I want to swallow a bottle of Valium and chase it with a bottle of rum. I want to grab the sharpest blade I can find and run it hard against my skin to cause myself physical pain to distract me from the emotional anguish of what is happening around me. But I can’t. I can’t move.
I wrote about memories this morning. And grief. It was more of a yell than a thought, but the process was somewhat cathartic. I expressed my rage and lightning didn’t strike. So there’s that…