Reading my husband's latest journal entry sparked off the huge mental hammer of Guilt once again. It's not a pleasant emotion by any means or stretch of the imagination, and unfortunately, it's something I've become most painfully accustomed to over the last year. Guilt has been a near-constant companion for me, over something that isn't my fault and that I can't control.

While we're no longer painfully poor, we still struggle ... and I continue to sit at home. My contributions to our welfare are minimal, and the guilt quota increases. At least I do have a paying job right now, and that's what really allows us to have any extras at all. It's still not enough for me, and the guilt keeps on rising, and again there's very little that I can do to make it go away.

My health keeps deteriorating. I need to go back to the doctor, yet I'm almost to the point that I was three years ago, where I had to be bleeding out the eyes and ears and nose, and I'd still say "No, no, I'm all right, I don't need to go to the doctor." I'm scared, man. I'm scared of what they're going to tell me this time ... or next time, or the next. Each visit seems to add something else to the scorecard that states firmly that my body's warranty has run out.

I've lived with asthma and migraines for a while. I was used to that. I was used to the chronic tendonitis in my right arm that would occasionally render my hand useless for a week or so at a time, then drift off into dull aches of reminder.

Then I lost the use of my left hand, ignoring the symptoms of trouble until it was too late and the only solution was the massive surgery that rebuilt my arm and required most of my muscles and nerves to be removed and reordered. The nerves still haven't regenerated totally, and I do have some permanent loss in that arm, along with the oh-so-pretty scar. Then my feet went, chronic conditions that keep coming back just when I think I've got another problem under control.

And just when we thought that was gone, my blood pressure skyrocketed. It's controlled now, thanks to medication. Hypoglycemia, another condition I was used to, added another realm of fun to the equation when my triglycerides soared to incomprehendable levels thanks to my medications and I spent several months on a most unpleasant diet. Unfortunately, the nagging fatigue, aches, and depression that I'd been ignoring for the last year kept building. I, of course, kept ignoring them.

Hell, I had tonsilitis again ... for eight months straight, before they removed my tonsils for the second time. Apparently they missed some the first go-round, or I've developed the world's most useless superpower --- Amazing Regenerating Tonsils. Whee. Mmm, yummy, eight months of expensive antibiotics that don't do a damn thing but make me power barf, yeah buddy, that's what I want some more of.

Of course, when we thought that was settled and done with, and I should be getting better, that was when the fatigue and aches and ... fibromyalgia. Goody. A chronic pain syndrome that never goes away, has no cure, and can only be treated with varying degrees of success. They aren't sure that it's all that's wrong with me, either, and so every trip to the doctor involves me walking out of there bruised and feeling like a pincushion.

I can't help but feeling like it's nothing but excuses.

I still am not *really* working. I'm not *really* contributing to my family's welfare. There are days when getting out of bed is an enormous undertaking, much less doing "complex" things like .... doing dishes, folding clothes, picking up toys, making beds. Little things like this are taken for granted by most people, but for me, they're quite often more difficult that trying to climb K2 without any gear -- in other words, impossible.

And I feel, no, drown in guilt. It's not fun to realize that you're worth more to your family dead than alive.

I'm sorry, honey.

The Queen of ... Blah

While folding laundry (a task involving much swearing and agony, but that's another post), I discovered that I have become exceptionally detail-oriented.

For instance ... there are certain things about clothes that make me refuse to purchase them. Clothing that needs to be ironed every time it's worn does not need to belong to a 7-year old. Collars that refuse to lie down even when still on the rack at the store do not go home.

Yet, while folding clothing, I found these very items in the stacks. This annoys me. I think it's revenge from my mother, to be perfectly honest, for all of the clothes that I just had to have that involved so much effort. It's really ridiculous, though, and I see why it annoyed her so much at the time when I just HAD to have that dry-clean only whatever.

For a few moments, I considered pulling the same stunt my mother had, and hiding the offending articles of clothing. The moment passed, and I let the urge go.

Another discovery gave me a mild case of the giggles, even while groaning in pain over the whole folding trauma. I am The Queen of Khaki. Honest. I had no idea that my wardrobe had become so subtle, so mild, so ... boring. If it wasn't an earthtone in some muted shade, I didn't pull it out of the basket for me.

I can't decide if I've grown up, given up, or stopped caring.

A pin drop

Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.

Have you ever stopped and just ... sat for a few minutes, and contemplated silence? Not just the lack of noise, per se, but true and absolute silence?

It's quiet in the house right now, but by no means silent. I am the only human awake, yet there's a soft house noise serenade whispering in my ears: the watery song of the fish tank filter, gurgling away, the occasional snuffling sounds of a happy cat blissfully gorging on catnip, the hum of the refrigerator, the melodic whir of the ceiling fan.

It's quiet, but by no means silent.

I've no idea what I would do with complete silence. To me, it would be somewhat overwhelming. I can understand how isolation chambers work now after considering all of this. The total lack of sensory input ...

Thank you, no.

What would you do with a few moments of true silence?