Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Identity crisis....
Last night, I dreamed I had amnesia. I was in a large building, and at first, I thought I might be a student in a school, so I looked for my locker to see if there was a schedule in there so I could figure out what classroom I was supposed to be in. But then I saw what looked like a produce section, so I decided I must be in a grocery store and started looking for a cart. Before I could find one, though, I came across an office building elevator, so I got in, hoping that it would take me to wherever I was supposed to be working. Instead, it opened to a parking garage/bus depot. I didn't see a car that looked familiar, so I looked for a bus stop until I discovered I had no money or tokens. I ended up just standing around with no idea what to do, my purse growing heavier and heavier on my shoulder. I awakened when I found myself speaking aloud, "My god, I have no idea who I am anymore".
The dream may seem kinda silly on the surface, but I found it terribly upsetting because I really don't have a clue who the hell I'm supposed to be and what purpose I'm supposed to serve in my current condition. It's more than not being able to work; I've had to give up quite a bit more than a job. Being ill has affected pretty much every aspect of my life. It has made me less than an equal partner in my marriage, has distanced me from my relatives more than I like, has forced me to give up hobbies and social activities.
When I first got sick, it was 1997, the year my mom died. During my time of grief, I took a good hard look at myself and decided I wanted to change some things. First, I wanted to become more compassionate and do things to help others. Second, I wanted to become more in tune with my spirituality. And third, I wanted to be closer to my family. Ok, so the third thing was probably destined to fall through because my relatives are more comfortable with keeping their space. But the other two I was actually making some progress on until recently.
One thing I really disliked about myself was my selfishness. I was trying to become more other-centered. But the sicker I got, the more selfish I had to become with my time and energy just to get through a day. And now it seems I am so high maintenance that I have nothing left to spare.
I found the perfect church for me in 1998: open, accepting and willing to grow and change. I went to Bible studies and book discussion groups and benefitted greatly from these. I was just starting to do volunteer work when I discovered I simply didn't have the stamina to do both that and a full time job. When I had to quit work, I thought I would get some of my energy back so that I would be able to participate again. That never happened, and now I can't even get there regularly for services.
In 2002, Dan and I got the computer upon which I compose this blog. I joined Fibrohugs and discovered that I had a knack for online support and for advocating awareness of fibromyalgia. I also joined local support groups for fibromyalgia and Sjogren's and wrote to my elected officials about research funding. I was getting sicker, but I was ok with it for awhile because I still felt like I was helping others. I thought I could get more involved when I couldn't work anymore. Instead the opposite happened: I had to cut back on my computer time due to arthritis, neuropathy and edema. And even when I am able to spend some time online, I have a much harder time than I used to coming up with words of wisdom for someone newly diagnosed. I feel like I am wasting my potential as a human being. What's the point of being sick if I get completely stuck inside myself?
The worst part is that any emotional involvement is exhausting. I mean, I'm not about to stop loving my husband, but it's getting more and more difficult to make the honest effort needed to maintain friendships with phone calls, e-mails and simply getting together and doing things. I haven't stopped caring, but I no longer have the energy to get as involved in other people's lives as I'd like to. That's hard to admit because it seems very callous. I want to love life, I really do. Unfortunately, I'm not always up to it.
When I went to the cemetery yesterday, I brought with me my poetry journal. It sounds crazy, reading poems to my mother, but we were once in a poetry society together, and it kept me motivated to write so that I would have something new to read on each visit. But I realized yesterday I hadn't written anything new in a year. This isn't from lack of effort: I actually have two unfinished poems languishing on scraps of paper. Ironically, one is about the problems I'm having writing! I'm having trouble concentrating long enough to get a strong metaphor and ways to describe it. But tonight I half-finished a new poem, which I suppose I should consider a victory.
Dan is home.
The dream may seem kinda silly on the surface, but I found it terribly upsetting because I really don't have a clue who the hell I'm supposed to be and what purpose I'm supposed to serve in my current condition. It's more than not being able to work; I've had to give up quite a bit more than a job. Being ill has affected pretty much every aspect of my life. It has made me less than an equal partner in my marriage, has distanced me from my relatives more than I like, has forced me to give up hobbies and social activities.
When I first got sick, it was 1997, the year my mom died. During my time of grief, I took a good hard look at myself and decided I wanted to change some things. First, I wanted to become more compassionate and do things to help others. Second, I wanted to become more in tune with my spirituality. And third, I wanted to be closer to my family. Ok, so the third thing was probably destined to fall through because my relatives are more comfortable with keeping their space. But the other two I was actually making some progress on until recently.
One thing I really disliked about myself was my selfishness. I was trying to become more other-centered. But the sicker I got, the more selfish I had to become with my time and energy just to get through a day. And now it seems I am so high maintenance that I have nothing left to spare.
I found the perfect church for me in 1998: open, accepting and willing to grow and change. I went to Bible studies and book discussion groups and benefitted greatly from these. I was just starting to do volunteer work when I discovered I simply didn't have the stamina to do both that and a full time job. When I had to quit work, I thought I would get some of my energy back so that I would be able to participate again. That never happened, and now I can't even get there regularly for services.
In 2002, Dan and I got the computer upon which I compose this blog. I joined Fibrohugs and discovered that I had a knack for online support and for advocating awareness of fibromyalgia. I also joined local support groups for fibromyalgia and Sjogren's and wrote to my elected officials about research funding. I was getting sicker, but I was ok with it for awhile because I still felt like I was helping others. I thought I could get more involved when I couldn't work anymore. Instead the opposite happened: I had to cut back on my computer time due to arthritis, neuropathy and edema. And even when I am able to spend some time online, I have a much harder time than I used to coming up with words of wisdom for someone newly diagnosed. I feel like I am wasting my potential as a human being. What's the point of being sick if I get completely stuck inside myself?
The worst part is that any emotional involvement is exhausting. I mean, I'm not about to stop loving my husband, but it's getting more and more difficult to make the honest effort needed to maintain friendships with phone calls, e-mails and simply getting together and doing things. I haven't stopped caring, but I no longer have the energy to get as involved in other people's lives as I'd like to. That's hard to admit because it seems very callous. I want to love life, I really do. Unfortunately, I'm not always up to it.
When I went to the cemetery yesterday, I brought with me my poetry journal. It sounds crazy, reading poems to my mother, but we were once in a poetry society together, and it kept me motivated to write so that I would have something new to read on each visit. But I realized yesterday I hadn't written anything new in a year. This isn't from lack of effort: I actually have two unfinished poems languishing on scraps of paper. Ironically, one is about the problems I'm having writing! I'm having trouble concentrating long enough to get a strong metaphor and ways to describe it. But tonight I half-finished a new poem, which I suppose I should consider a victory.
Dan is home.
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