I say keep moving forward, but it feels more like a 'two forward, one back,' kind of fortnight.
Typically, I have mentally masticated this post for some time. After much metaphorical chewing I had to spit it out and push the restart button.
As can happen (too often) with chronic illness, it isn't difficult to find yourself being sucked into a downward spiral. That's where my musings had dragged me; like jumping into frigid, miserable waters, wearing woolen jumpers and gumboots, where I was certain to wallow, flounder and feel like I had just escaped drowning. At best to come up waterlogged, exhausted - and the smell of wet wool - which isn't a pleasant hypothetical situation.
But it was only a matter of time before her clothes, heavy with the water they absorbed,
pulled the poor thing out of her song, down into the mud at the bottom of the brook.
Hamlet, Act IV, Scene VII
So I decided to 'paint over' that scene as it was leading to a more depressing outlook. By hanging the way I record things here I am trying to 'throw up some life preservers', trying less to dwell on events and situations that have been less than positive, and choose instead- again,
again again, to be hopeful and look forward to the next few steps- because
again again, this week, that is all I can manage. And that is the way it is and I will give my best to rejoice and be glad in it. So I have decided to delete lengthy indulgences on my frustrations and go for bullet points; acknowledging where things have been difficult and giving thanks for
any 'achievements'. I was going to add a list of hopes for the next fortnight, but this sprang instantly to mind:
I also giggle (and am quick to jump at opportunities to do that these days!) thinking of what my son would say. Word for word, he would relate this strip.
