October 7th, 2008
Home again, and I keep crying, not in a proper howling way, but kind of randomly here and there while I'm doing something else, and with no clear understanding of why.
I have to be at home, I have to learn to be ok at home again, because the other hospital is nothing but an overheated holding tank, an environment which seems designed to push me right to the edge. I'm frustrated with a system where you have to fight for every little bit of useful help - and where everybody seems to agree with your complaints, but yet you have to go on making them.
I seem to be collecting bits and pieces of poems about depression and the such-like. Somehow it is a comfort that other people have not only known these feelings but been able to express them so well - that nod of recognition that makes me feel less alone.
I found this the other day:
"It wakes when I wake, walks
when I walk, turns back when I
turn back, beating me to the door.
It spoils my food and steals
my sleep, and mocks me, saying,
"Where is your God now?"
And so, like a widow, I lie down
after supper. If I lie down
or sit up it's all the same:
the days and nights bear me along.
To strangers I must seem
alive. Spring comes, summer;
cool clear weather; heat, rain . . ."
- Jane Kenyon
Posted by PRABHU N