and me, without my raincoat

I used to be able to do this. When I write, I want it to be honest. I used to be more optimistic, but that part of me is on hiatus, or maybe its left for good. I'm afraid to write, because I don't know if it can be good and terrible at the same time. And if it's terrible, does it need to be out there? 

The emotional pressure I put upon myself is enormous, and at this stage, I think I may have buried me. The physical pressure has been another ride I didn't expect, nor have I welcomed it. As of late, I can't tell the difference between the two. Four months ago, the dizzy spells started, then ear pain and popping, pressure in my face and head, and finally the head rushes while I tried to fall asleep. Swollen lymph nodes remain, old and new, and every day I wonder what the hell could be wrong with me.

 There have been terrible times. Blood tests, then wait. Cat scans, then wait. A one month round of antibiotics, and now, Prednisone. Holy side effects, Batman. 

And what do I worry about most through all of it? How my work, my loved ones, and my life are suffering for it. Sometimes I'm too dizzy to drive. Other times the computer screen looks like it's swaying back and forth, and a lot of times, I finally just cry.

I'm still toughing it out. Maybe I can find some optimism here if I really try. If I could just see the bright side, maybe all of these symptoms would just magically disappear. And maybe I could ignore the it when my co-worker rolls her eyes because I'm leaving work at 3:00 instead of 4:30 because the Prednisone makes me feel manic and pukey. As if I'm having a grand time not having the energy to cook dinner when I finally get home, or go for a walk, or sometimes just do the laundry. Or when I'm pulling over on Route 2 with a panic attack so severe that all color fades from my lips and my body turns into an earthquake so shaky that I can't even dial the phone.  I conserve my energy for fighting the panic attacks at work, so she can do less. And she does, believe me. Last I knew GFA home banking isn't an insurance Web site. Neither is Facebook, nor is your hotmail account.

That said, compassion only goes so far. My optimism is leaving. In these crappy financial times, people just get crappier. Compassion leaves the moment people realize that they might have to actually back someone up, like actually do something.

I've been apologizing for all of it. Hundreds of times a day, and if you ask me, it's become a problem. It's come down to apologizing for my very existence, and with that I'm done. It will never be enough - could never be enough. Expecting that it would was the very reason I wasn't sorry enough. Sometimes you can only be one thing to someone ever after. I can forgive, but I can only do that for me, and by doing so I can still continue to be someone that does better every day.

The days that I do come home and manage to cook dinner despite it all, well, those are the good days. For all of the weeks that I have been at work all day everyday, and have managed to help my co-worker finish the work she's let pile up while she was busy surfing the internet, those are good days, too. What makes me do that? Compassion. Not the fake kind, either. She's overwhelmed, and I feel her pain.

Life can be unkind; how cliche. Like the semi-colon. I can still stand, even if I have to do it alone in my little muffled world, for now. What a freaking metaphor.