The Strength of Shadows 

I haven’t written a blog post in a while. I haven’t been doing well, and I haven’t been posting all over about it. No anguished Facebook statuses expounding on my less than coping condition…with the exception of last Thursday, when I admitted that I had to take a double dose of duloxetine in order to make it through the day.

In one sense, I am better than ever. Musically, things are happening for me, things that should’ve happened years ago. And, I am grateful for finally being in (somewhat of a) demand and appreciated for this music that IS me. I have a diary full of gigs, and I’ve been asked to play and sing on two different artist’s albums (one of which is a national artist). 

This keeps me busy. This also keeps me tired. Tired, on top of the chronic fatigue and pervasive everyday weariness I experience. Am I glad about my musical opportunities and successes? For certain I am! Does it change my brain chemistry and my worn out body? Certainly not.

It’s hard. My musical partner doesn’t know how I struggle. I hide it from him (thus the afore mentioned double dose so I wouldn’t fall apart in him during rehearsal).

My kids are an added stressor and cause of anxiety. One is facing her own set of health issues (‘gee, thanks, mum, for the lousy genetics’)…and, I feel guilty and frustrated because of that. Fucking bad genes! 

I have to force myself out of bed. I want to hide. Escape. The music is worth it, and I feel free and as close to ‘good’ as I get when I’m doing it. But, the anxiety and exhaustion persists. It waits until I step off the stage and then jumps on me with a vengeance. 

Sometimes, I am the shadow. Without substance. Waiting, longing even, to fade out of existence. Other times, I am all too real, heavy, and the shadow over me makes me heavier yet. 

But, dayum, do I sound awesome!

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Why I Just Can’t Do The Semi-Colon Thing

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The Semi-Colon Project is a good thing. If nothing else, it’s educating people about a much neglected member of the punctuation family. It’s also, of course, bringing awareness to mental health issues. It’s encouraging to many people.

But, I can’t personally do it. Not when I so long for a full stop (or ‘period’, for you Americans). I want an end to my story.

The best I can give you is a question as to how much more I can take.

I’ve hung my bra on the door…I guess I’m home.

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Being forced to move house would be stressful for most people, but when one has a number of physical and mental health problems, the situation takes on elements of torture and sheer agony.

There isn’t any place on my body that doesn’t hurt.

My main job yesterday during the move from one house to another was to try to keep the kids occupied and out of the way. I did a poor job and ended up falling apart in town, sobbing uncontrollably in Wilkos; cold and wet from the rain and feeling very alone and without a place to safely hide and dissolve.

I wanted to have energy today to get things sorted in the new place…which I’m sure I’ll eventually get used to, as one does (right now it’s just a weird, uncomfortable place and I have that overwhelming feeling of ‘I just want to go home’). But, I have no energy and can’t even be bothered to eat. And, I wanted to write more here, but my brain is now fogging up and pretty soon I’ll be in that monosyllabic place where all I can do is point and grunt. Pain has a way of reverting me to a cavewoman.

At least the kids like the new house and, even though my grand ideas of being able to sort it out and tidy up and make it a show place of beauty just isn’t going to happen, there’s a roof over our heads and walls to keep out the world. Time and life, as it relentlessly does, will go on.

Yeah, ending this post now. It’s something in my control to end.

I’m Not Complaining (a poem, of sorts)

I am a wreck, a ruin – a life-ravaged soul, aching, longing to be free.

I don’t mean to complain.  I’m not complaining.  I’m hurting, can’t you see?

Am I broken, or was I never meant to be here at all, that I cannot handle this life?

I know nothing any longer but the weariness and longing, the exhaustion too intense to fight.

And, the metre’s out of sync, and the sorrow’s out of bounds,

my fatigue is fatigued; waking leaves me drained – let me sleep away my time –

and there goes the rhyme, along with the metre –

again, I’m a failure…

but, I’m not complaining; that should be plain to all.

I’m hurting, longing, aching –

and, like this poorly written verse,

my end is not forthcoming.

©Autumn Dawn Leader 2015

Too. Hot. Brain. Not. Work.

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Hot weather seriously impairs my cognitive function and even small physical movements are exhausting. This post will be short.

But, I’ve noticed that many of us who suffer with squishy brains (as a good friend of mine calls mental illness) and other chronic illness have this problem with the heat. It has a debilitating effect. While others are lapping up what they call a lovely day, we’re lying nearly comatose wondering when we’ll be able to move and think at the same time again.

Today is supposed to be the hottest day on record in Britain. And, I’m feeling it. Just writing this post is taxing me greatly…and, I’m in bed with the fan blowing on me at the highest setting. So, I’ll end it here. But, if you’re like me, you’re not alone. You’re right…summer, and this weather, sucks!

All I Am Is Tired

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I don’t like life. The always-struggle. Going to bed exhausted. Waking in pain, still exhausted. The ever-failure. Aching. Longing for rest. For ease.

Yesterday, I posted about my endeavour – my obsession – to rid myself of the despised American accent. Today, I don’t want to have to think so hard before uttering a word. Or, better yet, I’d rather not have to utter a word – or a breath – at all.

My body is exhausted. My soul is weary. All I am is tired. I have nothing to give today but pain and frustration. No energy even to scream MAKE IT STOP. No energy left to finish this post…