Jun 5

 Sleeping a lot. Pains are still there. They wax and wane in intensity across a 24 hour period, but they are always there, always significant, and they wax to very bad indeed.

I'm also slipping back into slower, grubbier, more ill, more fog periods when waking up again. But. This might be where I haven't been so consistent with hydration salts. The effects are real. 3 days off them. And you can feel an anchor thrown out the back. Dragging behind you.

A period of sleep today. I dreamed of nice things. At least there. Something nice. Not in pain. Not in misery. Talking. Flirting. Something that in the waking world is a million miles away from possible. I woke from that into a wall of unwellness. A "buzz" inside me. A feeling of hot, horrible, unwellness. Like a stewing flu. A plague. I mean that kind of literally. There is a horrible *feeling* to it. Something is very very off. Somewhere deep in the torso. And a faint electric buzz to it. Nerves perhaps. It is a faint echo of the same buzz I had when I was very ill, and that buzz was total. Awful. In and of itself, let alone everything else. Where patches of my back would go numb. Just static. But awful. Worse than a dead arm. And then my left side.

The left side of my face has been tingling here and there again very noticeably. The march of the ants around my left eyebrow, down the side of my face. It is, in the scale of things, nothing. But it does serve as another of those yardsticks of failing.

There is no feeling of panic. No anxiety about everything failing. There is endurance. And resignation. A different kind of resignation. A resignation of it's ok if it gets too much and it ends. It's ok. 

I am still not talking about it. I have shut up. I am not seeking people out. Shut down. I am not... especially... avoiding people. A little. Maybe. But I am not engaging.

This evening I went for a walk at night. Not by choice, by necessity. But nevertheless the first time I have done so in years. Not properly since years before Athena went. The evening was cool. The sky was pretty. The pains nagged at me. Walking barely 600m. Where once I would have walked for miles. And I could feel it was nice. But also. Also. It was dim. Dulled. Blocked. I missed to the root of my bones the presence of my dogs. It felt like I could only sense a quarter of the night on a walk. I had a sudden revelation that it was almost as if I could feel out through their senses and presence. Ride on their awareness of the world. More expansive. More feedback. And without them. Deadened responses. But also. Emotionally deadened. I could feel those old bits of me. Dead. Gone. Entirely numb. This is the person I have morphed into. Far lesser. This is the end product of that period of grieving for them, for me, for a life I once had, for many things. This was the end state crash through the other side. Still here. Waiting. Waiting for it to end.

I got home. And collapsed into bed. Too much. 600m. Too much.

We used to walk for miles everyday. At least a couple of miles everyday at our peak. And some days. Many miles. The mutts were super fit. Super lean. Very strong. I think. I did a good job with them. Not easy. But I gave them a good life I think. Lots of cool places to walk. Things to smell. Experiences to be had. Woods and streams and fields and meadows and wildlife. And little of the boring ubran, concrete, couped up. More wolf in nature. Less animal boxed in a concrete jungle.

It makes you realise what we do to ourselves willingly. For we too are creatures of the woods and streams and meadows. We did not evolve in concrete boxes. What are we doing to ourselves and this world. Spinning out of control. A shared lunacy that its all ok. Climate change is ok. AI is ok. Pandemics are ok. Off the rails corruption. Ok. And on. I think our greatest failing. Is not being able to admit errors and move to correct them. We blunder on. It will be our end. A liability masquerading as strength.

I had therapy this week. A return.

I did not want to go. Pain. No energy. Nothing to say. But I went. Dragged myself out.

I asked the therapist how they were. How was their vacation. I pushed a tiny bit. Just checking. Did they do anything interesting. They kept it vague. Some interesting things. Some not so interesting things. Ok. A non answer. Understood.

I slumped and closed my eyes. Drained of energy. Mentally in the shitter. I sat there in silence for a few minutes. The therapist patiently waiting.

I am not great today I said.

Mentally ? Physically ?

All of it. Not great.

We didn't talk about a great deal this week it felt like. I asked them a "naughty" question. 

 Ooh they responded with genuine interest and animation. Naughty they repeated.

I asked that they had said they would miss me. That they were sad we were ending. Was that a therapeutic answer. Or a personal one. Because I said. And I had to pause here whilst my brain fogged and I drifted before picking up the thread again. Because. I had mentioned many times my criticism of therapy. That it does not commit to having skin in the game. Impersonal. Artificial. Weird. Talking about the human. Being of the human. In depth. And yet. Not committing to *being* human. Like a robot talking about poetry.

I clarified that I would not be angry regardless of the answer. I get it. You are I said, contractually obligated to say positive things. It's not allowed for you to turn around and call someone an asshole. 

They laughed. I don't know about allowed they said. But it's certainly not advisable. 

The therapist, predictably, couched their answer in many layers of legalese. They strived to always say something therapeutic. And never to say something untherapeutic.

Uh huh.

I clarified again as they went on defensively. I am not trying to trap you. 

They went on. I let them dance around it. They could see it was important to me. They could see the angle I was coming from. They knew I was asking with benign intent. Not a trap. Eventually they got to the point.

Let me put it this way. I would not be sad about everyone. I would not miss everyone. There are some people. I would very much not miss.

They defensively justified themselves again. That this was natural. Normal. People connect in different ways to people. Some click. Some do not. The implication here being that the therapist clicked with me. But not said.

Sure I said. Interesting.

Really the heart of my question was whether they were blowing smoke up my ass. Not deliberately. Not even really in an artificial way. I stated at the start that I didn't think they were lying or false. This was more like, blowing smoke up my ass on a more gentle scale than outright lies. Or perhaps. What's the motive here.

Although they danced at length. And didn't say it outright. It was personal. But also of therapeutic use. But personal.

I suspect once again I make my therapist sweat. I am difficult. Tricky. You cannot sleep on me. I am not malign. But I am watchful. And I will look at your authenticity. Constantly kick the tyres of your rationalisations. Intellectual workings. And watch your messy human bits. It makes me. A handful. I think. But not apparently toxic. I am gentle. But it's a lot. I get it. The therapist wants this though. They want to know what I see. So. I code switch the least with the therapist. I still do it. I still change gears down. But. Sometimes I spin up. Come with me. And when they can't I spin down and walk them through it. I sit somewhere ahead of them. Letting more of myself show than I otherwise would. They want to know.

Over the last few weeks. I have had supportive messages from a few people. Expressing love. Care. Not guarded. Outright. That in itself. Is a message. People are often guarded. Or masked. See the therapist for example. Where someone is bold with their claims. Tells you something about the depth of it. The earnestness of it. Perhaps they sense in me the dwindling going on. And it is as much of an expression of love as it is an expression of worry. Don't go. I love you. Please stay.

I roughly repeated what had been said to me to the shrink. And said my reaction was always the same. Always weird.

It made me sad. Not happy. Not loved. Sad.

Sad ? Why ?

Yes. Indeed. 

But why ?

Why indeed.

The therapist clearly at this point trained pushed me for my answer. Because I had to have one.

But for this. I don't entirely. But I gave them what I had.

I think I said, it highlights the isolation. It seems clear at this point in my life I can connect with people. Deeply. I am more "wise". Somewhat. I listen more. I fix less. Patient. And I understand. I listen and I understand. I can sort the chaff from the wheat. And also. Empathise. The most important of all. I can feel it. And be sorry or happy for them in that moment. Sit with them. In that moment if it calls for it.

And yet. For all that. I am alone. Both metaphysically. And physically.

Isolated. I can reach others. Others cannot reach me.

We talked about it back and forth. It was, I said, perhaps in the end, back to self worth. I don't deserve that. It doesn't make sense why someone would find me interesting. Or lovable. Or whatever. The therapist said if I couldn't love myself, then someone else loving me landed odd. I got what they meant. Not true I don't think. If it was true. It would have to be so very deep. Not just how I feel this week. This month. This year. But decades.

Possible said the therapist. Things like self worth going back to childhood can be that deep.

Maybe I said. I don't think so though.

I didn't think you would think so.

It's a hot take I said.

They smiled. Yes. A hot take. 

I think maybe it's simpler than that.

My constantly shit health. My mental side that struggles at the best of time with Life On This Planet. It reduces me down. Particularly the shit health bit. I am incapable. I don't do anything. Can't do anything. What use am I. There is a bit of the whole, leper recoiling from being seen thing. Don't look at me ! Don't interact with the afflicted. Within that. There is the burn, the harm, of the psychological effect of it all. Bereft of someone to wrap me up, to be my adult figure. I instead am the support and adult.

My sister complains of the same thing. Where is my support she says. She supports everyone else.

I get it.

I left therapy. All the alarms came back on. I walked 20 steps and had to pause. Hard. Gasping against the pain. Slow down. Breathe. Came straight home. No lunch. No small grocery run. Hit the bed hard. Slump. Drift. Sleep. Escape.

I wish I were dead I said to the therapist at one point.

Not a day goes past where I don't wish I die in my sleep.

What am I doing here.

It is. Insane.

Therapy next week.

I need to stop writing this. Pain in my shoulder is screeching.

Sleep is my best shot at oblivion. Sometimes it all fades away in there. I can be someone else for a while. Coming out the other side on the other hand. Is not good.