Sunday, September 27, 2009


Well, here comes another tale of misery and woe: doom, despair and agony on me. (Don't you love it?) So, sit back, get out your handkerchief, and carefully tune those violins!

Outside, the rain falls in a steady, melodic tattoo. I close my eyes, attempting to sink into the bliss of the dark, stillness, willing it to beckon to me as usual.

No such luck.

Peace, tranquility, serenity: these are not to be my companions this day. This day, the rain serves only to exacerbate a sense of dread. Though such weather usually leaves me shivering with delight, today it strikes me as lonesome and dreary.

Believe it or not, I find myself facing even more setbacks in this oft-discussed move. (Sometimes I feel like the Boy Who Cried, "Wolf!") Yesterday, I had to cancel the movers (albeit, I like to think of the decision as "rescheduling"). Naturally, a van was dispatched anyway, despite assurances that the date had been firmly and without incident changed. Verbal sparring with a cuttingly polite dispatcher who emitted his impatience through clenched teeth was not exactly the best way to begin the day.

It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

In that single act of altering my plans, I put myself in the position of having to face what a truly staggering endeavor this all is. Here I am, a single mother with no outside help--not to mention three teenagers boarding at their schools) attempting to pack up and move across country with questionable health and amid "friends" whose answers to my fears,setbacks, and hardships tend to be, "Oh, if anyone can do it you can," or "It'll all be worth it once you get to Colorado!"

The question is: will I ever get there?

Most devastating about this setback is the stark truth that I have convinced myself the transition itself will somehow replace that which is now missing within me. Somehow, the detachment from healthy human contact, light and optimism developed here has festered into a disinterest in life, in living, in writing. Although I was told repeatedly that, having been as ill as I had been, mentally, psychologically, and even physically, there could be "re-entry" pangs in returning to the land of the living. I was told to be patient, not to panic, and to accept it as a reasonable manifestation of the trauma and damage my body had sustained due to nearly three years of critical anemia (as a result of g6pd and/or MDS) in conjunction with the significant head injury sustained from my very lovely car accident under two years earlier. Logically, I suppose, this all made a degree of sense; nevertheless, with the deepening disinterest in all things once "Chance," the desire to write, to connect with others, to even participate in the daily activities of life waned alarmingly. Frankly, my childhood left me adept as putting on the big smile and plodding through the hard times; nevertheless, no amount of mental cheerleading could resurrect in me the enthusiasm for life which had, there-to-fore, always sustained me and enriched my life.

Maybe, then, I placed too much significance in this single--though monumental--act of "change." It is as if I had tied all my ambitions, all my longings, far too much hope in the recuperative properties of physical change. Because life in New Haven has proven so very miserable in so many ways, the simple concept of relocating to a place of my choice under my terms was enticing, even intoxicating. In my enthusiasm, I found myself again jotting down phrases and images, making hasty entries into the journal which had for many weeks gone untouched.

Then the complications began.

And with every new problem, every new glitch, every new development, that lovely glow of anticipation diminished.

Now I find myself benumbed, overwhelmed, and quite weary. How does one carry out such a tremendous undertaking alone? Certainly, I--myself--don't know. Do I continue on to Colorado, leaving our belongings here, in the belief that somehow, someway I will find some way to "PPT" things to rights once I get there? Do I give up and stay here, feeling the very life's force drain from me day by day? Do I take up needlepoint? Gameboy? Drink?

Right now, I haven't a clue.

I know only that when I call anyone for help or that extra "push" in any direction, the result is usually the same: "I'm sure it's not as bad as you think...If anyone can get through this, you can."

Perhaps I shall one day learn the secret of asking for and accepting help rather than plowing through life expecting to do all, overcome all, accomplish all on my own. I often wonder how many others out there encounter a similar dilemma--having proven themselves so capable and resilient that they are often left to do the superhuman with little or no practical understanding. On one hand, it is a great compliment. To know that others assume you capable of mastering any task, reaching any goal, or transforming any hope, dream, or aspiration into reality is, at times, a tremendous motivator. In short, you can't fail: failing is not an option; therefire, you take a deep breath, plaster on a winning smile, and pray that somehow , you can manage to pull the thing (whatever it may be at the moment) off with at least a modicum of dignity.

Yet,on the other hand, there are always those "panic attack" moments in which one gravitates from abject hopelessness to a sense of injustice and indignation. I ask myself, why must I expect myself to forever achieve the unachievable? Why am I never allowed to be scared or discouraged or overwhelmed? Why is it that the problems of others are considered significant while mine are brushed aside as inconsequential simply because it is perceived that I always "find a way"?

I have to admit, I spent the entire day in bed in my underwear huddled beneath my covers praying for the world to end!

I, in fact, slept for hours after completing my requisite morning walk (which the chronically anemic must take in order to maintain the metabolism), trying to take comfort from the assurances from a woman I met that morning (having stopped in at a church on impulse) that this move was right for me, that I had to make it to Colorado, that there was nothing for me in New Haven...yet offered me no clue as to how I was to accomplish this other than, "Ask for help." Only vaguely did I notice the strains of "Any Day Now" wafting from my Blackberry (indicating that someone, somewhere wanted to reach me); yet, when I did stir myself enough to check the call logs, the calls were from wrong numbers, the moving company (calling to confirm my dates, naturally) and the one person I probably should not have spoken to (a classmate from prep school). Why I took the call, I cannot say, for it seemed tinged with one part glee in my stress, one part dismissal of my concerns, and--at last--the recurring theme of "don't complain to me: you're moving to Colorado!"

It's been a rough day

Still in all, there is no one to whom I can turn:this is a fact. No fairy godmother will materialize from thin air (though I have asked several people if they have one to spare). No knight in shining armor will ride to my rescue. No one is going to delve into the old bank account or run to my side to hold my hand. If this New Beginning is to happen, it will happen because I found a way to somehow struggle through, over, and past the series of rather daunting obstacles all by my little lonesome...even if that means leaving my belongings here for heaven-only-knows how long while I struggle to find the last bit of the first month's rent, a "day" job (until I establish contacts in the area), and some way to make at least the semblance of a home for my children.

Whatever it takes, I have to make this work.

(If anyone out there knows what "whatever" might be, do me a favor: please tell me!!!!!!)