A quiet weekend.
At the beach.
With no assignments, just a few readings sorted in about an hour or two.
This was my weekend. I’m home now, and I realise I am still so all over the place at times. My emotions are always bursting at the seams from under the rug where I have them pinned down, to keep them from public view. I have only just started a prescribed VERY strict nutrition and exercise program, only in week two, and I recognised today that it is making me utterly miserable. Too rigid, too little wriggle room. So I am making some changes to it, for my sanity. I can feel the suicidal stuff threatening me from behind THAT door, and I need to change tack, and not open that door again. I have already lost three kilos, so I know I can do this, and I am just starting to feel the positive effects of an increased exercise regime. ‘Just’ twelve to go!
It started with a friend sharing some birth photos online on Friday. They were beautiful, but not something I would share publicly. I had the most wonderful home births with the second and third babies, and the memories of the long, 24 and 34 hour labours, with Roger there with me, holding me, rubbing my back, kissing me, caressing me, in the birth pool with me in the mid stages of labour, walking for miles up and down our rural road – me gripping telephone poles, or trees, or him – as the contractions swept me away on those oh-so-unbearable waves of pain, but he was always there, always encouraging me, always telling me I was amazing, beautiful, strong…and I was…and he meant it…
And yet, here I am all these years later, alone, and no longer amazing, beautiful, nor strong. Or not as any-of-those-things that I thought I was. I am here broken, sad, and not healing. It just seems that the more I achieve, the harder I push through this hell, the deeper I get into it, without getting any closer to the other side.
I’m sick of it, sick of this fight.