BPD, Mental health

A very long weekend

It’s Monday now. It’s almost over, this very, very long weekend.

Soon, not long now, I hear the shouts, the clunks, the scrapes, the sounds of voices, footsteps, doors open, doors close. Soon my place will be my home once more. My respite brief but needed. So much strain. So sustained.

Christmas, Easter always worse. The longest, darkest most lonely times of the year.

Soon I will have a break from the noise, the intrusion, the pain, the knots the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and once again I will be able to breathe. Breathe and clean and scrub and launder and relieve this tension that strains through every part of my body.

I will be able to eat once more. Not nibble. Not graze, but sit and eat and smile again.

This has been a hard weekend. A weekend of memories, of anniversaries, of sadness and further loss. Another life was taken. Another I cared about. One who made me feel welcome and part of a family. Of necessity my pain I put aside, for my ears, my shoulders which sometimes feel as broad as the ocean were needed. I served a purpose of sorts, I hope. Hours of listening, of hearing, of feeling, of understanding.

The loss of this person saddens me, but it was time for him to pass. Dementia, such a cruel and unforgiving disease. He deserved to find his peace this man. But his chirpy smile, his stories of times long past will be missed by me.

And throughout it all, work, work, doorbell ringing, phones screaming, people, people wanting, asking, needing, talking. The long weekend curse of plumbing problems. Smiling through the screaming of my mind; stinking, soaked with sweat and chilled, so chilled I found no warmth, my bones ached with cold.

Easter, a weekend I was raised to think as holy is not such around here. It’s a long weekend. A loud weekend. Of music, parties, gatherings, groupings, incessant pounding, brain-curdling noise. Doosh, doosh, doosh. Boom, boom, boom. Laughing, clanking, shouting, clattering, shattering invasive, poisoned sound.

Amidst the chaos, a small sliver of light. One of my guests kind-hearted noting I was alone stood at my back door with a plate of food. A Sunday roast cooked beside my pond for his family. A plate of kindness shared.

Teary I thanked him and retreated behind my wall to sit on the floor, hungry and confused I ate with my fingers. No knife, no fork. A paper plate, a sheet of kitchen paper, a glass of water behind closed, locked doors and windows. Hidden in the darkness shut off from view by curtains and blinds.

I could not paint. I could not draw. I could not find peace within my tortured mind.

Netflix. I watched and watched and distracted myself from me. Hours and hours of a wasted eternal, never-ending, so very, very long weekend.

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