Hatchet told me I am a collapsing star.  When I feel well I expand out into the universe, reaching out to everyone in my life and pulling them to me with energy and excitement, questions and concern.

When I am hurting and scared I pull inward, hide inside myself.  I don’t reach out to anyone, and I find myself lonely and afraid in a dark pool of my own making.

When I am hurting, I don’t want to reach out and ask for help. I know I can’t expect my friends and loved ones to know I am hurting. They have lives going on, things that demand their attention with the loud energetic voices used by stars who aren’t collapsing in upon themselves. They are also likely quiet tired of me being in this state. It has been years since I could answer the question “How are you?” with “I am great.”

My voice has grown quiet. Literally. It actually hurts for me to speak up. I noticed this last night at coffee as I tried to join in the conversation of my friends. I lack the ability to do so. My voice cannot be made loud enough to break into the bustle of lively conversation without causing me significant discomfort. That realization has driven me deeper within myself today. Even when I am included, even when they reach out, I am isolated.

Today I am in my sanctuary. As Dan is still mid process of moving in things are scattered about and it is not the calm cave of peace it normally it. However, it is mine, it is whole, it is quiet. It has my cat and the dog. There is warmth and subtle light.

I have set my healing schedule. I will walk once a day, long walks. Far distances with or without people and pets. I will walk to improve my health. I will study and read to improve my mind. I will wait for the medication to improve my head. I will make all my doctor’s appointments. Cardiologists, Neurologists, Anesthesiologists, etc. I will call the clinics and insurance people. I will keep up with my laundry and chores. I will cook and eat healthy meals.

When my children are home I will read with them or play games with them. I will spend time each day focused on each of them. I will carve that out.

I will save the dark hours of the night for despair. The hours when the pain wakes me up or prevents me from sleeping. The hours when I become certain my life will not improve beyond these small accomplishments. Despair best suits the night time. The darkness helps it settle into your bones. The morning always brings with it a little hope and a renewed dedication of purpose.

As scared as I am to attend this pain clinic, I hope it gives me back my voice. I hope I come home with the tools I need to manage this lifelong disability so I can stop being a collapsing star and once again reach out to the people I love with excitement, exuberance, and joy.