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Knocked Over By A Feather

But It Didn't Keep Me Down…

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mental health

She Used To Be Mine


By Sara Bareilles 2015

For myself and Alice…and anyone else who can relate. ❤️

It’s not simple to say
That most days I don’t recognize me
That these shoes and this apron
That place and its patrons
Have taken more than I gave them
It’s not easy to know
I’m not anything like I used be, although it’s true
I was never attention’s sweet center
I still remember that girl
She’s imperfect, but she tries
She is good, but she lies
She is hard on herself
She is broken and won’t ask for help
She is messy, but she’s kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone, but she used to be mine
It’s not what I asked for
Sometimes life just slips in through a back door
And carves out a person and makes you believe it’s all true
And now I’ve got you
And you’re not what I asked for
If I’m honest, I know I would give it all back
For a chance to start over and rewrite an ending or two
For the girl that I knew
Who’ll be reckless, just enough
Who’ll get hurt, but who learns how to toughen up
When she’s bruised and gets used by a man who can’t love
And then she’ll get stuck
And be scared of the life that’s inside her
Growing stronger each day ’til it finally reminds her
To fight just a little, to bring back the fire in her eyes
That’s been gone, but used to be mine
Used to be mine
She is messy, but she’s kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone, but she used to be mine

 

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Sick

I was sitting down in front of my laptop yesterday afternoon, feeling absolutely icky after my epic four-hour nap, when I had what I think some people call a “moment of clarity.”

“I’m sick. I’m really sick…fuck.”

In all of my spoken and written communications over the last five years, I have used the words depression, anxiety and fibromyalgia way too many times to count.

But, I don’t think that I have ever just said or typed, simply, “I’m sick.”

It’s so strange, but I wish that I could climb a moderately sized pile of dirt and stand on top of it while shouting, “Hey, you guys! I’m sick.”


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Yeah, I’ll just pop a squat here…good enough.

The word sick is everything to me now, not the actual diseases that I have. They all combine to make me an extremely unwell 43-year-old woman with exhausted eyes and a wry smile.

Unhealthy, chronically ill…fucking irreversibly sick.

If you strip things down to the basics, it’s really so much easier to comprehend. Perhaps this is a phase, a part of the whole acceptance thing that I keep hearing about. I have no idea, I just sort of roll with the punches.

You know, the truly saddest part is that the healthy me is still inside this now sick body, confused as fuck about what the hell happened.

Why can’t I get my ass up to the little store? It’s a short drive and I can lean on the cart.

Why can’t I cook a big dinner? Or shit, even a small one?

Why can’t I think straight and do all of the things? Even putting a clean sheet on my bed is a monumental challenge now, what the hell is wrong with me?

Because you’re fucking sick, Mer. Get it?

Got it?

Good.

the chaos I’d leave behind

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I haven’t written a thing about my health for at least two weeks now because I felt like it’s all been done before, so why bother?

But after reading Kim’s post yesterday, it stirred up all of my emotions, the ones that I have been trying so hard lately to repress. I like life better when I’m not constantly thinking or overanalyzing everything. I’m safer when I keep my distance from people who aren’t within my inner sanctum.

I put my walls back up when I get hurt really badly by someone and that happened to me…again!


ragdoll


When the fuck will I ever learn not to trust anyone? Haven’t I been treated like an afterthought enough times that I should know better by now?

My mental health is precarious. The worse that the fibro gets, the more I worry that I’ll have another complete meltdown.

I’ve been spending about 60% of my awake hours stoned and if I had enough weed, I’d make that 100%. But alas, I can only get so much of it at any given time.

My bones fucking ache like a throbbing, infected tooth. Trigger points throughout my entire body are sore to the slightest touch and is spreading insidiously upwards. Muscle spasms are constant. I’m weaker than I have ever been and I’m starting to lose muscle tone in my legs.

Each time I think that I have “accepted” this lifelong sentence, with my body stepping in to take the place of a jail cell, I go back to the anger and depression stages of the grieving process.

I’m imprisoned inside this painful body until the good Lord decides that it’s time for me to leave. But then again, if memory serves me correctly, my brain gets off on telling me to kill myself.

And as my physical health continues to deteriorate, I’m scared that I’ll end up deciding that maybe I would be better off.

I’d be finally done suffering, but the chaos I’d leave behind…well, that’s the thought that saves me for now.

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