Today, I feel invisible. I work and the dent I make in the horrid mess is too small to notice. I talk and no one hears me. Sometimes they answer but generally, they don't. When they do, they have not understood what I said. Their reply is incongruant.
My mind is still not right with the new medicine. Tuesday, I went with Charmian to see War Horse. The movie was good but even before we got there, my mind was rushing, rushing. I ended up pleading sickness and having to come home after the movie. I had to lay down. My mind was going to fast. I can't even tell you what my mind is rushing about because it goes so fast that the thoughts are lost even to me. It pains me when it happens. I realize that I am not making sense and it hurts my sense of who I am. I pride myself on an orderly intelligence. Pride is not a good thing. Perhaps I'd be better to say I have a goodly amount of intelligence and that is a piece of myself that I recognize and honor. But these rushing thoughts and disorerly "fits" are not the person I wish to be. Yet, even still, my mind rushes.
I keep having to rearrange my room. I hate my surroundings and by rearragnging them, I think that they will somehow be more congenial. Instead, I have piles of almosts. Piles of almosts are not orderly enjoyable places. They are confusion and distracting.
I go to Mr H's home and in his rooms are no almosts. There is order and calm. Peace and beauty. Then I come home to almosts. Only lately, I don't get to come home. I have more work to do to earn more money. I go to Anna Mae's and clean her house, bake her Christmas treats, clean her kitchen. I see all her order and calm. There are also no almosts there. They are all here. Here at home. In my rooms...
I even almost have a husband. He watches television, awaits the arrival of his meals, and sleeps. He goes to the doctor looking for pills to fix him. His blood pressure, diabetes, and even his enlarged heart are greatly improved. His dementia gets worse. The tests so far have him off the charts depressed. But he wants a pill and refuses therapy. " Talking won't help and changing is impossible and undesirable", he says. He says at his age, things should just be there for him. Unfortunately, he has done nothing in earlier years to store up for these years of aging.
Once, I had money stored up, hopes awaiting fruition. Then,I funded an antique shop and contents, auction school, an auction house, real estate school, a real estate office, and a year of fees and licenses so that he could use his expensive new computer I gave him to look at pornography and bemoan his lack of sales. Even still, he denies any responsibility for the loss of my retirement money and my sister's inheritance. He says he got into antiques and auctions and realestate at the wrong times. He says that abouthis dad's money frittered away on shrimping too. The "chinks" took over shrimping, were given government entitlements, and didn't follow the rules... that is his story on why that little enterprise failed.
Okay, so I am pissed. But the truth is that I and I alone gave him my money with which to fail. I could have held it and refused to give it. So the failure is my responsibility. Now it is I who am dead broke, riddled with fibromyalgia pain, rushing with bi-polar thoughts and hurting in every place I have a place. But invisable as I am, I still get up every day and try again. Maybe God will honor that.
My mind rushes. I know what I say is true. I just want my house, my family and enough to keep them both.
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