I must confess, and be really utterly honest with you all. I am selfish, ridiculously selfish, and I am using this blog as a place where I can come and write and be honest not only with myself but with all of you.
The people whom I share this life with, do not know of it's existence and it is not for them that I am writing. I am here because I live this, "rose colored glasses" life, where the assumption is that I am to behave a specific way or act a certain way, and honestly I am so tired of trying to be other peoples' expectation of me. I would just like to be liked and appreciated for me. For the thoughts and ramblings of my incoherent mind, the depressed and anxiety riddled mess of a woman that I am. It is for those things that I would like to be listened to, to be heard.
My story isn't meant to illicit apologies or confessions of shared experiences, or even accommodations for the life I lead, but I want to be heard. Even if the people that are listening, are few and far between and are not people I will ever come to know, I am glad you are listening.
I must too apologize, for my lack of true writing skills. I would love to be a writer, to sit in a cafe and write life changing, unapologetic literature, the things that invoke such emotion that you walk away feeling as though a part of you as either been ripped out or has been put back. That some fear has been made rational, that some definition of love has been spelled out, that somehow you have found a resolution that you didn't quite know you needed but you found none the less. That's what I want, to be able to write in a way that I can find those resolutions not only for myself, but maybe help others to find it as well.
I must digress though, and remind you, that I am not that person. I am not someone sitting in a cafe writing beautiful literature, sipping on coffee, and writing beautiful pieces, I am the person reading the writing of others and seemingly dreaming of a life where words flowed through me, the same way that they flow through them. That my feelings could somehow transcend space and time, and would just pour out of my fingers all the thoughts and feelings and raw emotions that I feel, that my soul could just be lost in this keyboard and be found on the pages of this blog.
I often feel as though I am a ship lost at sea, I actually wrote a letter once, to my husband, and then shared it with those I felt closest with, when my struggle with Lupus really kicked up, my clinical trial had rounded out unexpectedly and I started a new course of treatment. With Lupus nothing is guaranteed, in terms of day to day contentment etc, but with these new meds, these new awesome infusions come, great, ridiculously great success at managing most of my symptoms, but they also brought on with ravenous force anxiety I had never quite experienced and a depression as unforgiving.
I was lost, lost inside myself, lost deep within a hole, wanting so desperately to find my way out, but alas all that I could muster the strength to do, was to sit, inside my hole, in the deep dark loneliness of my soul and wither away. So, I wrote a letter, I promised, I vowed that while I was a ship sailing in the darkness of the ocean, with no course and no path that I would find my way, to leave the light house lit and I would eventually make it out of this sea of darkness, that my life would somehow come back together, that within my dimly lit hole I would turn and see the ladder that has always somehow been sitting, right there waiting for me to climb up and out. But that right now, in this moment, where I am, the mere thought of moving seemed superfluous, that even the knowledge of a ladder and help and freedom, of a map or a compass to guide me home, that I still couldn't do it. The most that I could do, was confess that I was lost, confess that I needed help, because I wasn't strong enough to do it alone, but the hardest part was to confess that even with all the help in the world, that it had to be me. That I HAD to be the one to find the strength to climb out of the hole, to point my compass, to follow the light and to make it home.
So I wrote the letter, I shared it with those closest and it hurt them, it scared them, perhaps it made them realize parts of them, they didn't know were there, or fears they also share, maybe it was the reality of where I really am, beyond the shiny plastic covered exterior or rose colored glasses and a fake smile, but the true nature of my soul. It is in those moments though, when it is so hard to be selfish, you have to be, relentlessly so, because someone has to take care of you, someone has to be there to get you the FUCK out of the hole, but they are hurt, you've hurt those who are supposed to help you, because they don know how to do it. They have no clue how to heal this hurt that they either can not understand or do not wish to understand and so they mourn, and they pull away and they do the best they can to protect themselves, in an effort to do what they would assume is helping the general outcome of your situation. But it doesn't help, it adds to the frustration, and you sort of implode.
Well I imploded in January, its now November, I do think that I made it out of the hole, but this idea, of depression, of anxiety, it is something that I do not think that anyone can possibly relate to unless they have been in this place. It is not a choice, you do not have a choice whether you can or can not move, you are simply frozen, watching life pass you by, trying to sit, and stare, and smile, and nod and act as though there is some part of you that is still real, that you are still in there somewhere, but it is gone, it is lost and that idea, that particular thought, is a very hard concept to understand. I guess I could compare it to the idea of sitting on a train as you whiz through a city at full speed, or through a forest of trees and you glue your face to the window, determined that even though the train is barreling on at full speed and everything is a blur, that you will make out the people in the distance, or the animal peeking out of the trees. Honestly, you can not tell one tree from the next or determine if there is one person or two, you are moving so quickly that everything becomes blurred and you are powerless to change how quickly that version of life is passing you by. I think that's a good description of depression, it is this idea that life keeps going, at what seems like an incredible speed, and you are stuck sitting at the train station, watching train after train pass by, and never fully being able to get on the train and continue on your journey. It is such a strange thing, for so long I simply wanted to find a way to find the words to describe what it was like, what this felt like, why this was so hard, finding the words to explain something that you can't quite understand yourself is such a difficult thing to do. I still do not know that I understand the complexities of the mind, but I do understand that this treatment, these medicines are helping my lupus, and my mind is far less important than the over arching implications of worsening SLE. So I will sit, and wait, and work, to get myself back together.
Through this though, seeing life from the opposite side of things, I have come to a few conclusions. 1. I do not need to apologize for who I am. Whether I am having a good day or a bad day, the company I keep should understand that I am not perfect, I am human, I make mistakes and their will be good days and bad days, the good will surely outnumber the bad, but during those bad days my character should not be called into question.
2. Appearance is only skin deep. You should never judge someone by their ability to play the character they've been cast to play. I have a very extensive role, wife, mother, sister, daughter, etc. and while all of those roles include attending family bbq's, or getting my nails done, or going shopping, or going to practices and PTA meetings, that while I may in fact muster up the strength or the courage to do those things, that it was not easy. It did not come without difficulty and it does not come without consequences. Everything that I do, whether it is sitting laughing at a silly joke, or making random small talk with a stranger or my best friend, it is all difficult, it all takes effort and strength, and sometimes it is done through pain stricken eyes, and a pain stricken body and mind. When you have a chronic illness you are forced to become an incredible actor. You have two choices, choice number 1 being, let your disease win, lie in bed all day, never get up because just getting up is a struggle, and wallow in self pity. Choice number 2 is far more challenging, and requires you getting up, putting on your make up, making yourself look like a decent human being, finding every bit of strength you have and investing it in all of your relationships, giving selflessly until you literally have nothing left at the end of the day. I give every day to my children, to my family, to my friends, if ever there is someone that needs something, a friend in need, or a family member who needs help, I will be there, even if I have to drag my limp body across the floor to get there, I will be. My selflessness does not mean that I am fine, or that it wasn't a challenge to get there, it just means that I value those around me, more than I value myself. I will always place someone else's worth above my own, because that is what I have to give. It is not much, it is not always enough, but I will consistently give to those who need it, ALWAYS.
I have so many more thoughts, but this is a Wednesday after all, and I do not even know that their is anyone reading this, or anyone who cares to read this. It is real and raw, and poorly written and is part of the story of my life, I guess it is more of a snippet of my thoughts and realizations of myself. I am going through some stuff right now, and I am trying to work my way through it. I use my fashion blog on Instagram as a way of forcing myself to get up, get dressed, and despite all odds, and all judgement make myself at least resemble a put together person. It is all a facade, you might as well call me the Wizard because my life is centered around the concept of OZ.
I will write more tomorrow, or later today, or some other time. If this resonates with you, feel free to comment, misery loves company, and company loves to listen and vent. I am always happy to share my story and to listen to your own. Anyways, this is me, take it, leave it, accept it, or move on to the next blog.
Unapologetic-ally yours,
Serenity
The people whom I share this life with, do not know of it's existence and it is not for them that I am writing. I am here because I live this, "rose colored glasses" life, where the assumption is that I am to behave a specific way or act a certain way, and honestly I am so tired of trying to be other peoples' expectation of me. I would just like to be liked and appreciated for me. For the thoughts and ramblings of my incoherent mind, the depressed and anxiety riddled mess of a woman that I am. It is for those things that I would like to be listened to, to be heard.
My story isn't meant to illicit apologies or confessions of shared experiences, or even accommodations for the life I lead, but I want to be heard. Even if the people that are listening, are few and far between and are not people I will ever come to know, I am glad you are listening.
I must too apologize, for my lack of true writing skills. I would love to be a writer, to sit in a cafe and write life changing, unapologetic literature, the things that invoke such emotion that you walk away feeling as though a part of you as either been ripped out or has been put back. That some fear has been made rational, that some definition of love has been spelled out, that somehow you have found a resolution that you didn't quite know you needed but you found none the less. That's what I want, to be able to write in a way that I can find those resolutions not only for myself, but maybe help others to find it as well.
I must digress though, and remind you, that I am not that person. I am not someone sitting in a cafe writing beautiful literature, sipping on coffee, and writing beautiful pieces, I am the person reading the writing of others and seemingly dreaming of a life where words flowed through me, the same way that they flow through them. That my feelings could somehow transcend space and time, and would just pour out of my fingers all the thoughts and feelings and raw emotions that I feel, that my soul could just be lost in this keyboard and be found on the pages of this blog.
I often feel as though I am a ship lost at sea, I actually wrote a letter once, to my husband, and then shared it with those I felt closest with, when my struggle with Lupus really kicked up, my clinical trial had rounded out unexpectedly and I started a new course of treatment. With Lupus nothing is guaranteed, in terms of day to day contentment etc, but with these new meds, these new awesome infusions come, great, ridiculously great success at managing most of my symptoms, but they also brought on with ravenous force anxiety I had never quite experienced and a depression as unforgiving.
I was lost, lost inside myself, lost deep within a hole, wanting so desperately to find my way out, but alas all that I could muster the strength to do, was to sit, inside my hole, in the deep dark loneliness of my soul and wither away. So, I wrote a letter, I promised, I vowed that while I was a ship sailing in the darkness of the ocean, with no course and no path that I would find my way, to leave the light house lit and I would eventually make it out of this sea of darkness, that my life would somehow come back together, that within my dimly lit hole I would turn and see the ladder that has always somehow been sitting, right there waiting for me to climb up and out. But that right now, in this moment, where I am, the mere thought of moving seemed superfluous, that even the knowledge of a ladder and help and freedom, of a map or a compass to guide me home, that I still couldn't do it. The most that I could do, was confess that I was lost, confess that I needed help, because I wasn't strong enough to do it alone, but the hardest part was to confess that even with all the help in the world, that it had to be me. That I HAD to be the one to find the strength to climb out of the hole, to point my compass, to follow the light and to make it home.
So I wrote the letter, I shared it with those closest and it hurt them, it scared them, perhaps it made them realize parts of them, they didn't know were there, or fears they also share, maybe it was the reality of where I really am, beyond the shiny plastic covered exterior or rose colored glasses and a fake smile, but the true nature of my soul. It is in those moments though, when it is so hard to be selfish, you have to be, relentlessly so, because someone has to take care of you, someone has to be there to get you the FUCK out of the hole, but they are hurt, you've hurt those who are supposed to help you, because they don know how to do it. They have no clue how to heal this hurt that they either can not understand or do not wish to understand and so they mourn, and they pull away and they do the best they can to protect themselves, in an effort to do what they would assume is helping the general outcome of your situation. But it doesn't help, it adds to the frustration, and you sort of implode.
Well I imploded in January, its now November, I do think that I made it out of the hole, but this idea, of depression, of anxiety, it is something that I do not think that anyone can possibly relate to unless they have been in this place. It is not a choice, you do not have a choice whether you can or can not move, you are simply frozen, watching life pass you by, trying to sit, and stare, and smile, and nod and act as though there is some part of you that is still real, that you are still in there somewhere, but it is gone, it is lost and that idea, that particular thought, is a very hard concept to understand. I guess I could compare it to the idea of sitting on a train as you whiz through a city at full speed, or through a forest of trees and you glue your face to the window, determined that even though the train is barreling on at full speed and everything is a blur, that you will make out the people in the distance, or the animal peeking out of the trees. Honestly, you can not tell one tree from the next or determine if there is one person or two, you are moving so quickly that everything becomes blurred and you are powerless to change how quickly that version of life is passing you by. I think that's a good description of depression, it is this idea that life keeps going, at what seems like an incredible speed, and you are stuck sitting at the train station, watching train after train pass by, and never fully being able to get on the train and continue on your journey. It is such a strange thing, for so long I simply wanted to find a way to find the words to describe what it was like, what this felt like, why this was so hard, finding the words to explain something that you can't quite understand yourself is such a difficult thing to do. I still do not know that I understand the complexities of the mind, but I do understand that this treatment, these medicines are helping my lupus, and my mind is far less important than the over arching implications of worsening SLE. So I will sit, and wait, and work, to get myself back together.Through this though, seeing life from the opposite side of things, I have come to a few conclusions. 1. I do not need to apologize for who I am. Whether I am having a good day or a bad day, the company I keep should understand that I am not perfect, I am human, I make mistakes and their will be good days and bad days, the good will surely outnumber the bad, but during those bad days my character should not be called into question.
I have so many more thoughts, but this is a Wednesday after all, and I do not even know that their is anyone reading this, or anyone who cares to read this. It is real and raw, and poorly written and is part of the story of my life, I guess it is more of a snippet of my thoughts and realizations of myself. I am going through some stuff right now, and I am trying to work my way through it. I use my fashion blog on Instagram as a way of forcing myself to get up, get dressed, and despite all odds, and all judgement make myself at least resemble a put together person. It is all a facade, you might as well call me the Wizard because my life is centered around the concept of OZ.I will write more tomorrow, or later today, or some other time. If this resonates with you, feel free to comment, misery loves company, and company loves to listen and vent. I am always happy to share my story and to listen to your own. Anyways, this is me, take it, leave it, accept it, or move on to the next blog.
Unapologetic-ally yours,
Serenity
