I am losing it.
Slowly and steadily, every day we creep further into Winter.
Okay, technically, it isn't even Winter yet, which only makes things worse as I fret over the coming months of cold.
Last Winter was agony. I had forgotten, thankfully, how bad it was, similar to how I cannot recall the specifics of each weeks' pains as things continue to evolve into new ways to hurt. I did remember it sucked, but I lost all specificity, and I certainly did not want to go through my notes to relive it mentally, to see what pains may be on the horizon once again.
I do remember it seemed to last forever, and I remembered how glad I was when it finally warmed up.
I also remember how much I tried to force my rehab exercises, how I would overdo it. Those first months of warmth, I was so scared that I would not be better, better enough, to not be miserable through another Winter.
And now, I remember how I genuinely feared the prospect of making it through another Winter.
The fear is back.
So is the cold. And
My mind entertains death once again.
* * * * *
I cannot help but fantasize. I return to the thoughts of the Mayan Calendar, or the Hopi's New Age, that somehow I am going to become something, untangled, come December 21st.
I couldn't help but be revisited by the Led Zeppelin songs which comforted me through pain so long ago, as the band has plugged their new concert album recently on NBC's Revolution, an interview on Letterman, as well as their Kennedy Center honors. Will I get the bustle out of my hedgerow? Am I on the path that no one goes?
Mental masturbation, all.
I want this to be done. I'm so tired.
* * * * *
Of course, I have thought this before. I endured pain before. I got through Winters before, and I will again.
Only, this time I have an added fear, a completely irrational one. That it is irrational only makes me fear it all the more.
After the 21st, when [crosses fingers and says, "if"] I am not a new man, when there is just another in this seemingly endless set of changes and pains, what do I fantasize about then?
Logic only gets you through so much. Chronic pain deteriorates the mind. Believe me. I've been there. What happens when one of my favorite daydreams is taken away? What happens the next time I feel desperate?
Sure, part of me is excited by the extent of my recent changes, which have been objectively significant, with my lower back and hips changing dramatically while the shoulders continue to shift, my neck and head changing their normal positions (with both ears suffering great pain in the process). It could well be a mere two weeks until I get the final knot untied.
How much of a mindfuck would that be, right? I'd want to believe I was part of some great Synchronicity of change, but I guarantee my logical side would take over (especially if the pain were finally gone), and I'd have somehow created a decade long self-fulfilling prophecy or sorts.
But when ["If, dammit, IF!"] it doesn't happen? What then?
* * * * *
This is depression writing. This is what happens when I am mentally afraid but aware enough to fight of despair. This is exhaustion. This is not good, not good at all.