Angel Whispers

A Hard Day's Night

I have spent years complaining about time passing too quickly and wishing there were more hours in the day. The God of Irony has now ensured my days seem endless and time almost crawls. There is still so much to do, but none of it pleasant and it is only the short interludes with friends, swimming or walking that help with survival. Of course I question why I am still here, left alone and seemingly with no purpose. I'm tired, I'm heartbroken and have a stinking cold into the bargain. I admit I feel sorry for myself, but am also aware there are many others in the same or worse positions. Everything in life is comparative.

I guess the adrenaline has stopped racing. The slump sets in and fighting depression is not a new experience for me. But I truly feel lost and without hope, though I know many will remind me I have family, grandchildren, friends, memories and possibly an unknown future ahead. It's hard to hang on to that, particularly as the sympathetic visitors drift away, other news takes over their interest and reality sets in. I have never been a morning person, but waking far too early with this unbelievable feeling of loss and no sense of purpose is crippling.

The evenings are also hard to cope with. I am not a big television watcher, I am finding it hard to read, pursue any interests or even cook a meal. I panic as I start thinking the only way to avoid them is to go out. The dark nights in a dodgy area where there is little to do without travelling on public transport are hardly suitable for a single, elderly woman. Weekends are the worst as people are busy with their own plans and families and towns are overwhelming and far too busy for me to cope with. The meltdowns are more frequent now after almost ten weeks.

I know it's still early days. I know I have to make dramatic changes and take each day as it comes. I know all the platitudes about time healing, clinging to hope, trying to smile in the face of adversity and all that. But right now very little is helping and I think I'd rather be with my lost loved ones than here in agony. Sometimes it's a comfort knowing I am in the last phase of my life, but fear of the unknown isn't easy to brush away.

Writing isn't easy either, but others are pushing me to do it. I question why, but of course there are no solid answers.

I never did like Sundays. Nothing for it but to face the day, see what it brings and continue taking each as it comes. I am clinging to faith by a very fine thread. Life goes on is another worn out cliche.