The Perfunctory New Year Blog

January 3, 2009

The New Year was ushered in at my house without fanfare. Anyone who knows me for any significant period of time (for this purpose, three months) knows this is aberrant behavior for me.

I love a party. I love to play games, throw streamers, have cake fights, blow bubbles, drink the bubbly. Be the bubbly. We are talking partying like it's 1999.
Maybe not 2009.

I have learned a thing or two about ailing lately. It sucks. It blows. It bites. It is a kill joy. It makes joie de verve hard work. I always thought joy and delight came naturally. Hmph.

My wonderful son got me out of the house for the first time since my health took a sharp dive. I am dizzier than Dean. I am as unsteady on my feet as a drunk. Normal endeavors like walking and cooking are laughably challenging instead of part of the functions of life I have taken for granted as second nature. We ventured out and I held on to my surroundings as if I were on a plane in serious turbulence. I appeared to the world tanked. Stewed. Juiced. I was frustrated on the inside. I walked past a store window and caught my reflection in the glass. I looked older than I ever have and as disordered as I felt.
I followed my young, healthy, strapping son as he applied for work around the neighborhood. And I felt helpless, useless, outmoded. Past tense. There are stirrings of desire for grander schemes in my life. There are flashing ideas of what I could do. But I feel incapable, ineffective and inconsolable.

This was written January 3rd, while I was in the throws of severe Cymbalta withdrawal, that saga continues as you shall see....