As made evident by the box on my living room floor
There’s a box on my living room floor. It has been there for several weeks. Well, if I am being honest, it has been there for several months, and, to me, it represents the decline of civilization as I know it.
The box was originally a bus parcel from my Mother, full of oranges and tea, and other goodies, in the winter, when things were at their dreariest, and then has been waiting to be filled with filing to go into storage. In the meantime it has become a plaything for the cat, who will no doubt miss it when it is full.
But the point is, that it is still there, lying on its side, and regarding me balefully me, as it were, with its gaping maw waiting to be filled, reminding me of yet another of the things which I have hitherto failed to accomplish. Filing is not particularly entertaining. It is not particularly time-sensitive, and it is not particularly rewarding, at least not until the job is completed, and so it is easy to fall into the belief that it is sheer prevarication that has caused me to fail to complete this evenings worth of work.
Clearly I have spent evenings on the sofa, apparently not otherwise engaged. Also, to, I have spent time in a reverie, or pondering, or sleeping when I could have been more usefully occupied. I have enjoyed television programmes, evenings reading and listening to music, watching movies, sewing, crocheting, or doing other needlework, and all while this damned box, and other projects of its ilk lie unattended about my home.
Why this disarray?
Well, quite simply, I have a chronic illness. Once, I was supergirl, and could manage to work, see friends, do the filing, maintain the cleanliness and order of a home, and still have time for hobbies. No longer. With a limited supply of energy at my command, and a constant douleur, I must choose more wisely where to spend my energy, and rest whenever the pain becomes too much. In order to keep my spirits up, a percentage of my energy simply must go into seeing friends, and doing things which I enjoy, and that does, rather unfortunately, leave less time for the filing boxes of the world.
I am slowly coming to terms with the death of supergirl. As I said, she was someone I quite enjoyed being, and it has been difficult not to castigate myself too harshly for not being her anymore. I have had to resign myself to the certain knowledge that things are not all going to get done, and that my choice is to know that in advance, and work within it, or to chafe against it, , and have the choice of what remains undone taken from me as I fall exhausted far before the finish line I have set. I fail often, and the fall is hard.
The chasm between my hopes and expectations of myself and my endurance is wide and deep. Friends and family do help to bridge it, but it is still difficult for me to comprehend that these twisted strands of love are not the highway I so desire, particularly when I am frustrated with my shortcomings. I wish for something to enable me to continue as I was, even if with the hands of others. Instead, there are these spun traceries, each leading to a single objective.
Here, I am supposed to say, that because of their fragility, and their wondrous strength, these fine threads make the accomplishment so much more precious to me, than if it was more easily won. I have not found it so. Adversity, sadly, is not so wondrous when one is living it. It may breed fantastic courage once overcome, but in the moment, it is merely wearying, painful, frustrating, heartbreaking, and the cause of much despair for the one facing it, and for those nearest and dearest as well.
I am most grateful for all who have helped me, and I would not be without the love of friends and family, both blood and chosen, without whom I would not be here.
However, were I to be offered a choice of not having to endure this illness I would not choose to take it on. Save, solely, were it to be able to spare someone I love from having to endure it. Then, gladly.
Life takes the turns it does, and this is mine.
