49 days – 7 weeks x 7 days. Counting down like a child to their birthday, Christmas or a holiday. But I am no child (despite numerous agencies doing their best to make me feel that way) nor am I counting down. Up I go – the number of days I have spent in crisis borne of exhaustion and lack of support. The ennui is heavy, a tiresome burden.
It seems to matter little which authority or agency is “in charge,” whether I’m sat in a boardroom with senior managers, in a tiny office, the quiet room, somewhere, anywhere on the ward; the words & noises wash over me like the droning buzz of bees; and each service offers up essentially the same platitude differing slightly by tone or word but there is no concrete solution offered. Sometimes pills to take off the edge.
I am calcifying. Feeling my bones beneath me fossilising and yet melting at the same time but there is no release.
Small comfort in tiny things – the dog, always happy to see me, the children, hubby, close friends and family texting/e-mailing/messaging for a progress report. It is a kindness but I no longer know what to say. What do they want to hear? I think carefully. I should not forget the shoes I suppose.
I await instruction – get up, medications, get washed & dressed. Plaster on the smile & the make up. This is my armour but the smallest of fissures show beneath the veneer. Eat, sleep, repeat.
Don’t look closely. It is a death mask. There is a coldness, a distancing. Who is the person staring back at me in the mirror? It surely is not I. That woman looks so “normal” Ha! Appearances are deceptive.
I am a chameleon but I do not change my colours for others, for protection. I am beige, blending in, don’t stand out. Does anyone even see me or just what they expect to see?
What to do? It has not been successful so far – attempts: 2 – Lisa nil. My mind is jabbed sharply, pointedly by my protective measures – my husband, children; I am aware of the statistics of those who do succeed and the increased risk it burdens on my own flesh and blood. Yet I cannot be, cannot exist as is. It is not survival. Purgatory I think.
Perhaps if I contine to calcify, fossilise, blend, I will be re-absorbed; a form of osmosis?
Definitely Not The Walton's.... 