For the first time in my life, I find writing daunting to me. I feel as though I’ve been placed upon a desserted island and I’ll never be rescued. It isn’t that the thoughts aren’t in my head as much as it is the sheer effort of putting it into writing at the moment that is my problem.
I honestly would not wish my last month on anyone. I’m so tired and each time I think I’m making progress, I’m somehow shut down yet again. Complications arise. It will end. I know it will. But just for today, I’d like to be normal again. Just now, my island is filled with pain, loneliness and some boredom. I feel very isolated which is to be expected, but it has been so long.
My Hubs has taken me out for a drive, but I am exhausted after returning, unable to do much of anything only to return to my island. The simplest things seem so difficult and take so much time to recover from. I took my first walk down the street. I made it 4 houses and back. I felt completely done. I was lightheaded yet so proud of my accomplishment. The next day, I was useless once again.
This makes me champion for all those who live like this everyday. They make no big deal over living peacefully in this alternate universe of pain and ultimate boredom. They try to keep busy and interested in the world around them. I know I try, but it is so hard sometimes. I’ve shed so many years just wondering if there is an end to this hell. Of I can escape this, my own private island of hell. Ever? For each positive step forward, it seems to take me back 2 sometimes 3. I feel like one of the lost souls on Gilligan’s Island. My problem is that I was shipwrecked alone. I’m trying my best to remain positive. Perhaps this week will bring positive things. This weekend, well, it’s not over yet.