Tainted

 

The flame of Odin’s candle flickered, thrown back and forth as if in agony. I took a breath but found no air. I closed my eyes but found no solace. Guide me, I asked. Please, guide me.

The writhing flame only screamed.

Please, I asked. Please.

No.

Every twist of the sacred flame charred my intentions. Please, I cried.

No.

Not when word of self loathing mark your body. Why would I speak to one who is worthless, one who is no one? 

The flame crackled and twisted around its own self as I reached for my blade. My hands were steady even as my heart trembled. Sharp, so very sharp, against skin.

Words of self loathing, I scraped them off. Words of self degradation, removed from my flesh.

When not a trace of shame remained, the flame grew silent.

Such words are not easily erased. The naked eye might not see the hateful lines, but still they are there. 

He did not speak to me. No booming voice nor gentle whisper. Only agony.

Do not approach me so tainted. 

 

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Busy busy, no time to waste!

I have had a number of blog posts almost written this last week. One about the most marvelous wild raspberry jam I made, and one about a this year’s disastrous blackcurrant jelly (it didn’t set, so basically I have lots of sweet blackcurrant sauce). And a couple of cat posts for Katzenworld!

But alas, I have been unable to write properly since I got back from the Netherlands. The reason is no great unknown –  next week is Medieval Week in Visby and I am busy sewing. While navigating a chaotic world of panic and anxiety, as I’m still not really recovered since my last downfall. So basically my days at the moment look something like… this:

Breakfast -> short burst of sewing -> mini panic attack -> short burst of sewing ->anxiety attack -> short burst of sewing -> go outside to pick some berries in attempt at not panicking again -> panic anyway -> collapse, feeling like I just ran a marathon.

 

Yeeah, it’s not great! But it’ll be alright. I’m so far pleased with how the sewing project is coming along, and I think I’ll manage to finish it before Visby. (It’s that or go nekkid! I can’t fit in my old clothes at the moment. *sadface* )

 

So now, blogging will have to wait. Or well, I did manage this little update! That’s a success, I believe. Now I need to get back to sewing, wish me luck!

Rambling

I have not been posting often lately, but do not think I am gone. I’m here, still climbing up from this well of misery the latest failed ivf-attempt brought.

 

It’s silly really, how thin-skinned I get. A single word of critique or insult has me breaking down in tears. The slightest bit of stress makes my heart pound at double speed. I’m fragile, so damned fragile.

 

I hate being fragile.

 

I hate a great many things about me, really, but that’s one of the aspects that causes me the most trouble.

 

See now, this post wasn’t meant to be about such things, but here I am anyway. Falling right back into the well of self-pity that I detest so much.

 

Bloody hell.

 

 

 

Actually I meant to write something about faith, and of the path I am called to walk down. I meant to tell you more of She that is the Night Sky, of what She has taught me, of what I see in Her. But I can’t. As I sit down by the computer to write I feel it with overwhelming clarity: This I am not to speak of. You learn it yourself, or you don’t.

 

It’s surprisingly difficult not to speak of. I suppose there is still a childish part of me that wants to run up to mum and shout “look what I found!” It’s the same impulse now, only in a more adult context. Wanting to share what I’ve seen and learned.

 

But no.

 

Ghraourgh.  Enough. It is time for bed, the dreams await. Good night!

I’m only sleeping

A few days ago, on Monday morning, I crashed. The night before I was crying myself to sleep after some unwelcome news and in the morning everything felt dark and dull. I poured myself a cup of  tea and sat down on the couch. Had a sip and looked out the window. And everything just stopped.

Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just sat there.

My husband got worried of course. I wanted to tell him it was alright, but I couldn’t get the words out. It was difficult enough just to move my eyes to look at him. Stuck, I felt stuck in my own head.

He drove me to the hospital, to this emergency psychiatric place. Thoughts kept spinning in my mind, it may have looked like I was half asleep but it was quite the opposite. I was aware, fully aware, painfully aware of every little detail. My uncombed hair. My husband’s concern. The chatter of others in the waiting room.

There was a woman there, waiting for her turn, who started talking of babies. On and on she went, describing her previous pregnancies and how giving birth was the best thing ever, the best, the best. Husband told me not to listen but I couldn’t stop it. I listened, and felt close to blacking out. My head was about to explode it seemed, I couldn’t breathe and everything hurt. I hurt, the world hurt, the woman’s words hurt.

I couldn’t sit there listening. In a full panic I fled into the nearest bathroom and sat down on the floor, in a corner, crying.

We were at the hospital for half a day. I talked to doctors – or rather they talked to me while I merely managed to whisper a few stray words in return – and got pills.

Once home I slept.

The day after I slept.

And the day after that.

Despite sleeping all day I’ve also been able to sleep all night, so my waking hours have dwindled to barely more than a handful per day. I’m exhausted, absolutely exhausted. All I want to do is sleep.

I wish I could just make it stop. I wish I could be normal. I wish I wouldn’t hurt my husband like this. I wish the pain would stop.

 

They call me from the hospital every day now, to check on me. They keep asking if I want to kill myself. Every day they ask. I keep saying no. They don’t seem to believe me. But I keep saying no. I won’t. Even though I feel worthless, even though I’m sure my husband would be better off without me, I won’t. I want to live. I want to grow old. And I want to see this hell through and come out victorious on the other side.

Hurting

I  am not doing great. It is Friday and I should be happy for the upcoming weekend, for the summer warmth and for the chance to simply hang out with my husband. To enjoy the garden, cuddle the cats, keep writing, keep working on that embroidery too that I’m so proud of.

 

Instead I just hurt. I cry. I do my job but without pleasure, with every minute stretching out to last an hour.

 

By necessity I am trying to face and accept the possibility that we won’t ever have a child. Wondering when to say stop, when to give up, when to decide that it won’t happen. But that acceptance does not come easy. The questions hover over me like a dark cloud, blocking out the sun.

 

I’m not doing great. It hurts, badly.

Needle Time – cycle 2 has begun (IVF)

I am so glad I’m not afraid of needles.

 

Today the IVF process started over with daily shots administered by yours truly. Hopefully this second time around will work better on all levels. I am starting on a higher dose of the hormones which hopefully will mean it won’t take quite as long to get the eggs ready, which in turn hopefully will mean better quality eggs and no overstimulation. Last time was PAINFUL and I spent days just sitting around at the hospital, being checked on every few hours. But that was last time, this time will be better! Fingers crossed, ta i trä.

 

These last few days have been emotionally rough. Very rough even. A fun combo of pms followed by intense period cramps and IVF related anxiety, wehey. Not good. I’ve even been sleeping badly, which for me is super unusual – even through my worst times of depression I’ve usually been able to sleep! But these past few days everything has been off.

 

Right now? I’m a bit fuzzy. That’s the painkillers work. Period cramps are always terrible for me and even light painkillers make my mind a bit… fuzzy. Tired. And well, any pills that are actually strong enough to kill the pain are also strong enough to put me to sleep. Working during the worst crampy days have in other words never really worked, as I am either shaking of pain or asleep. Now I hoped yesterday was the worst day but this morning is starting badly. As I am writing this I’m laying down on a couch and constantly wriggling my legs and hips – somehow the motion helps handling the pain.

 

Oh hey, this post was supposed to be about the IVF start, not about period cramps! So I better stop there. I promise I’ll get back to you on the cramps topic though! Because that is just so much fun. ^^ Isn’t it?

 

Ouch.

 

I better stop now. Wish me luck!

 

Bad Breath – Ill Mind

When I have bad days, when the old depression flares up and my mental state crumbles, my breath changes. I can’t tell myself, but my husband tells me it’s quite clear. Sometimes he can even feel the change before I have fully realized that it’s more than just having a bad mood. It turns sour, he tells me. Smells like illness.

It’s not due to a change in diet, nor due to something as simple as forgetting to brush. It’s me.

Tells you something about how direct the connection between psyche and body is, doesn’t it?

 

On a brighter note, I do feel a bit better. The elephant has stepped off my chest, replaced now by… a medium sized dog. Less painful. Easier to breathe. Easier to think.Still uncomfortable, but… bearable.

The husband agrees. He can still feel the ill smell on my breath but it’s not as bad as yesterday, or worse – the day before. I’ll take that as a good sign!