Sometimes I give up and allow myself to feel sorry for myself. I give myself comfort, as much as I can. I hug my pillow and pretend it's my lost little girl and for a fleeting moment I can feel the warmth of her prickly-haired head against my cheek. I think about the day she was visiting me in the nursing home when she picked up my hand and rubbed the back of it gently across her cheek. Sometimes I do that to my own cheek. It's comforting.
But it's sad because that is lost now. It also makes me happy. My heart feels like it's being twisted by conflicting emotions.
I feel, tucked away in my little corner of a nursing home, that I'm no longer a part of the world. I'm just in storage until I turn to dust. That's one of the problems. I'm almost completely isolated, and there doesn't seem to be a solution for that. But this is part of the human condition for people like me. I'm certainly not the only one.
Somethng inside me is screaming that life shouldn't be this hard, that every way I turn I shouldn't be greeted by an impenetrable blank wall. I feel like I'm trapped in a tiny room with no way out. But I still keep searching for a crack in the wall that I can scrabble at, that maybe I can chip away at until I've created an escape for myself. There is one sure way to get out, but I'm not ready to take that route. It is not under consideration. I'll let you know if that changes.
This March 29 will mark the fourth anniversary of the day I last walked. My, how time drags onward by its elbows.
Keep your eyes on the good, my friends. You don't want to dwell where my heart dwells. I wish better than that for you. ❤
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