Unsurprisingly I did not manage, and yet I’d said ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be OK.’ Two little letters charged to carry normalcy like droopy caryatids in pretty drapes.
Mustn’t grumble, I think, I’m not as bad as X, Y, Z, very nice roof over head, food in fridge, can write a bit, occasionally enjoy a visit. Ending up without speech, unable to read (not even tweets, though glad to know myself addressed), to phone my brother on his birthday, or filch dinner from the freezer – par for the course! Radio voices, usually the last resource, pan out as well? Just let them go. Charlottesville, Partition, new M.E. research, and cards from friends, tied in themed bundles and tucked away, along with fresh ideas and keen intent? Breathe…
In this fast world I chase a hurried game of peekaboo. The ‘nots’ drag on unseen.
Some days the phrase ‘you’re just not good enough’ is all pervasive. It’s the shape accrued frustration takes, a crust, or coat, too tight to wriggle out of. Doubt thrives on silence (the chronic, polyester kind); when radio is the only voice you pluck the air for adjuration. And there she waits, your girdled guide, smacks bloodless lips and drools disdain: your art, your writing; your sleep, your rising; your ability to connect, converse, consider; your quests for energy and cure; upswing of any sort – whatever you try is veined with lack.
Red letter days are those with room for conversation. You gush in half-remembered, rampant tongues; hush falls before the need is gone. Just time to carve an ear into the ground, and while fatigue declares she’s won another round, the joys you stumbled on fan out in quiet jubilation.