Vulnerable, no, not vulnerable, what's the word, fragile. Yes, fragile. I would have never before used this word - fragile - in any context to describe myself. Not ever. But there's always a first, isn't there. And so this is it now while I am on the red sofa looking out into then garden, the trees bare, the bright sunlight on the hazel catkins, the sky a cold frosty blue. I want to close my eyes and wake up on another Sunday afternoon in, say, May, with lush greenery and roses and insects and budding pears and and and. Instead, I fall asleep and wake with a start, a bad taste in my mouth, disorientated, telling myself, this is Sunday afternoon, January, you are on the red sofa, looking out into then garden. Waiting for it becoming real I am still in a fuzzy state, could be anytime, anywhere. Is this what dementia feels like? Not knowing where you are, what you are looking at? Slowly, very slowly, I swing my legs over the side of the sofa, lift myself up as if my body was ancient wood about to crack and surprise myself by being able to stand, swaying, yes, but solidly nevertheless. My feet moving forward. Coffee? Should do the trick.
Once upon a time I used to feel invincible, reckless even, thinking it was all down to choice and willpower. You are just exhausted, I tell myself. Give it a few more days of rest. This day last week, I begin to say and cannot remember or rather, cannot begin to imagine who that person was only a week ago, walking through the snow, laughing and talking, cheering, chanting and clapping, at the end of the the anti-nazi rally in our quiet town, singing Beethoven's Ode to Joy with 30,000 others.
Now. That feeling of being hungry, very hungry, and nauseous at the same time. Too tired to eat.
All I do manage is to read, to listen. Even to laugh. For now, enough. Focus on what I can do. So much.
I hear a monster breathing, I hear the breath of democracy weakening. I am glad that you are all here and want to blow its new life into it. I hope it is not too late.
Elfriede Jelinek, (Austrian novelist, playwright, and poet who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2004) this week when tens of thousands were demonstrating against right-wing extremism in Vienna, Austria
10 comments:
"I hear a monster breathing, I hear the breath of democracy weakening." So very disturbing and seemingly true.
that's happened to me, wake up disoriented, not knowing where I am until I recognise something and I tell myself oh yeah I'm at... I don't know what causes it. being overly tired? coming out of a disturbing dream? I don't know. certainly not dementia. I used to dash around, not walk. if I had to go from one building to the other I would not run exactly but sort of jog, not that I was in a hurry, that was just my speed. none of that now. now I walk, albeit quickly, but still a walk, not a jog or a dash.
we are on the brink of change, massive change; our human structures, the very planet. the question is will we fall over the edge or step back.
37 paddington: The body tells us what it needs. Right now, yours is asking you to go slow, to let the memory of invincibility remind you that you still are that, just in a different way now. I get what you are going through so deeply. Sometime I feel that my body has betrayed me. But then I’m chastened, knowing that this body carries me still and better to be grateful for it. Still. Sending love to you.
"... All I do manage is to read, to listen. Even to laugh. For now, enough. Focus on what I can do. So much ..."
Yes, it is enough. All of it. Sending love.
I fear for democracy as well. I wonder if this is how the world felt in the 1920s and 30s. I fear for the future.
I'm so exhausted all the time. It's come to the point where I can barely make it through a shift at work and it scares me. What happened to my body? A familiar feeling I'm guessing. Take care Sabine.
Excellent quotation, as disturbing as it is. I think most of us feel reckless and invincible in youth, and it's only a matter of time before that feeling dissipates. I'm glad you're resting. I remember being very young and sleeping so soundly that it took a while to orient myself when I woke up. Maybe it's a sign that you're sleeping soundly or going deep into REM?
Doesn't it seem like things change so very slowly as to almost not notice changes at all until suddenly- WHOMP! It is baffling sometimes and impossible to believe that things will not go back to "normal" because "normal" is absolutely different.
This was from me.
So sorry to hear you feel so unwell. Your interest in the world, your passion, i am sure you will somehow bounce back... Here me dealing with aging. I do keep finding it kind of maddening, like yes you will rest, yes you will feel better as you did on the day you wrote this post. But i feel this aging is in the end a decline, from here just reading your blog, i think you do it with a lot of courage and grace.
The last twenty years, for me, have been a series of realizations: "Oh -- I thought I had come to terms with vulnerability and aging and mortality: but it turns out I hadn't."
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