February Sick

Last February, after my parents left, I got real, real sick.  Walking pneumonia sick, for a couple of weeks.  All my energy was gone.

I saw the first episode of VH1 Celebrity Rehab, and it left me wiped.  All those people, living in their sickness and being taken care of, supported in their healing, understood in their pain.   They get help to do what I learned to do by myself, go inward and buck up.

Still, it’s winter and I hurt, though I can’t let it stop me.  My teeth hurt, and my eyes have trouble converging; neither eye is blurry, but they don’t register together like they should, leaving me struggling and dizzy.  I am often woozy, tired and knocked, and I don’t take care of myself, at all.

I know that this is bad, but what I don’t know is how to just take care of one part of me, to just externalize in one or two areas.  I tend to see all this denial as interlocked and integrated, not compartmentalized, and I know that symptomatic issues don’t get to the core.

My sister talked about stories of women who got gastric bypass and then found themselves sick in a year, because taking away the weight just exposed deeper parts of their wounds and hurt.  It’s being exposed that counts,  you know?

I go back and read my stuff, and while I can see brilliance, I can also see how the intense immersion in what appears to be the same pain can drive people away, can make them feel frustrated and distressed that nothing seems to change.  They don’t assume that the immersion continues to burn away and take me deeper, don’t assume that my commitment counts, if only to me, rather they assume that I am resisting getting better, resisting healing over.

TBB got this, finally, on our last day together, acknowledging that while I may not do what she would, which is to kinestheically take change in my body, that I do explore and expose everyday by shaping words and sounds to express.

But now, it just feels like it will soon be February, and I need to be able to just release the sickness I have held so close for the last year, though I can’t do that because my parents are here and need help.  It’s been over a week and my father still hasn’t touched the broken drier, though I need to squeeze next to it to wash the urine soaked rags and other accouterments of a geriatric household.

I feel February sick, but not able to fall in, and that’s even harder.

At least to me.