I want life to be safe, but it's not.
I want to not have to constantly sift through emotions that surface and seem disconnected to me, in an attempt to figure out who is upset, who is sad, and why I'm feeling so many different things at once.
What I want is to live one life, not 13 or more consecutively. With DID I don't have that luxury or option.
People give me strange looks, tells me I seem angry when I know I'm not. They question the sincerity of my "yes" when a favor is asked of me because my facial expression, or tone of voice, doesn't match my words.
As I said, I want life to be safe. I want to mind my own business, take responsibility for my(selves), and enjoy the little bit of comfort I've managed to find in this cold, often dark, world.
This week has been one disaster after another, requiring more of me than I would normally have to deal with in a month, culminating in a son's grand mal seizure in my kitchen. Today, for the first time, I called in sick from my babysitting duties because I didn't get home from the hospital last night until nearly midnight. I'm not sure how I even managed to drive home. It says something about the depth of my exhaustion that I, who can't take naps, slept much of today away.
I want safe, I want comfort, I want normality.
What happens within my system when faced with the kind of situation I just described? Do all of my parts interact with my son, or just some of them? I don't even know. I don't know who might have a relationship with him much less how things like this affect them.
What I want is what I can't have, at least not on a consistent basis. Troubles come to all, not just those of us who are many, I know that. I'm not the only one who struggles and struggles mightily, but there is no solace in this realization.
As for comfort, well, I've lost the ability to find comfort in those things which used to soothe me. The problem is, I just can't care anymore. I don't know why and I don't know how to start caring again, but it's not there. Everything seems hollow, and beside the point. I used to be able to look about my room and take pleasure in the mere sight of my stacks of books, a basket full of knitting, my vintage marbles and Barbie, etc. Now, nothing pleases. Nothing.
I wonder if I've finally reached an emotional and mental dead-end from which there is no escape. I've always managed, eventually, to find a sense of optimism again no matter what I'm confronted with. Even after my son's motorcycle accident 6 years ago I managed to reach a place where life once more seemed doable.
I want life to be safe, as safe as I like to think it was for the first 7 years of my life. But the truth, I suspect, is that even those years were not as safe as I like to remember them. Being human means living with the reality of just how precarious life can be. There are no guarantees. I hate that this is so even while conceding that it is so.
I'm backed into a corner of sorts and I'm not sure where to go from here. I've run into many cul-de-sacs along my life's journey, but this is a definite dead-end.