I’ve spent the greater part of three decades dealing with issues that no one single human should ever have to face. I’ve seen my favorite and most beloved therapist retire, my best friend die, and my own life take so many twists and turns that I’m dizzy.
I turn 57 soon but I feel like I’m going to be 100. I’m tired of being in physical pain, tired of being poor, tired of being stuck in life, and well, just plain tired.
I sit here at my little purple lap top and type away while tears are streaming down my face. Nothing has changed, I’m not experiencing any more trauma or drama than usual, I just feel a sense of defeat and like the walls are closing in on me. I know that I am a very successful person in some people’s eyes, as I have a successful blogsite, have published three books, and am sought after for my first-hand knowledge of living with dissociative identity disorder. I am once again enrolled in college classes and have all I need to live. It’s just that I’m not making any money selling my books, my blogsite while exciting isn’t paying either, and I’m poor as a church mouse.
Dammit I’m pushing 60 and I want to be well enough off financially that I don’t have to worry about being overdrawn at the bank or if my family has enough food money left to eat on the rest of the month. I want to have earned my PhD now not in six or seven years. I’m not getting any younger, and at 56 I’m looking at the last years of my life instead of the beginning of it.
For those of you who have never seen this side of me, surprise! I am human too, and I get very weary of always struggling. I just want someone else to take care of me for a while and to make a way for me instead of me always having to push a way for others. I am weary of being a leader, I want to follow for a while.
I know many of you recognize what I’m talking about. That poor me feeling of self-pity we all, as humans, endure once in a while.
I wake up in the morning right now, with a feeling of wondering when my stomach will start to ache and when my head will begin to pound. It’s not even a matter of maybe anymore. I have such irritable bowels and arthritic damage to my neck that pain is my constant companion.
I’ll be okay. I just need to rest for a bit. It’s been a very tiring week, and I desperately need a good meal and to chill out.
You know, no matter how brave you are or how determined you get in life, sometimes you just need to lay down your sword and rest. I’ve decided to sign off the Internet tomorrow as much as I can and watch Star Trek or read a fluffy book.
I found the poem below that says perfectly what I’ve been trying to relate in this post.
“I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you’ve turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me aside, and you who send me letters and emails and beautiful gifts wouldn’t even recognize me if you saw me walking down the street where I live tomorrow for I am not a poem.
I am tired and worn out and the eyes you would see would not be painted or inspired but empty and weary from drinking too much
at all times and I am not the life of your party who sings and has glorious words to speak for I don’t speak much at all and my voice is raspy and unsteady from unhealthy living and not much sleep and I only use it when I sing and I always sing too much or not at all and never when people are around because they expect poems and symphonies and I am not a poem.
I am an elegy at my best but unedited and uncut and not a lot of people want to work with me because there’s only so much you can do with an audio take, with the plug-ins and EQs and I was born distorted, disordered, and I’m pretty fine with that, but others are not.”