consistent

The one thing I have found myself yearning for is consistency. Having the intention is no longer 'good enough' instead, it is the beginning, the middle and the end. Without those three I find myself more lost, more inward and often more confused and I have watched this pattern develop and speak truth as my disease has progressed.

I look around from room to room and I see an organized, chaotic mess that for me, represents the rest of my life. And by seeing this, I am bothered by simply the thought of clutter and add the mess and I become overwhelmed, more irritable and less involved.

So much that once was under control, or believed to be under control, is now out of control, as it always was, but just the thought that I thought I could control a situation I was involved in was now realized, total satisfaction. Over the course of too many months I have watched what I thought 'to be' become sporadic and misunderstood, untrusting and different as I was and remain facing the unknown. The area which every being (debatable) must experience and yet no one has offered a blue print, a set of rules, be they right or wrong or even a simple roadmap to show you how, direct you how for the mere topic of conversation let alone a basic need for survival.

I sit alone, for the most part, and watch what once was, disappear. What I once counted on and trusted and often took for granted or even scolded is in a constant state of restlessness and I have become so much more aware of how much change surrounds everything and me and how the human body is not necessarily programmed for such change. Instead, it simply shuts down, often times reverts back to a memory only this memory has a happy ending, making reference to the memory that is now, more perfect, more better and sometimes a stretch from the truth, but consistent

In my everyday I have watched what I thought was consistent: people, places, things, experiences, conversations, beliefs not necessarily change for better or worse but out of matter of fact and this leaving room for further inconsistency, less to hold on to as good and simple and pure. And my disease actually, is no different than everyday life. It changes. It is not consistent and the lack thereof makes me notice and need, not want, but need consistency elsewhere and all around and this does not exist and proven time and again, out of my control.

So I move forward, somedays more methodical than others and hope and although I do not live a memory I now, clearly, can understand why so many people do. There is a beginning, there is a middle and there is an end. And although what was and what truly is may be a complete embellishment as things spoken of usually sound bigger and better than they were, the memory is consistent and accepted as truth.

yellow

Road construction is taking place at the beginning or end, depending upon how you are driving, of the subdivision. I cannot help but notice the yellow cranes and semis and bulldozers of all shapes and sizes and the soot they continuously put into the day's air from early morning to well past dusk.

I watch the trucks and their some how guided motions from side to side, left to right, south to north, over fertile ground and through trees and listen to the commotion when they back up, move forward and bulldoze down another stretch of land to make way for the eventual hospital and all the roads and side streets and office buildings that will lead to it.

I think, for no reason at all, of the tonka versions that are working just as quickly on my internal organs to repair damage that is beyond repair. And as the crane pounds sharply on my left side another pounds sharply on my left side and a bulldozer tries feverishly to smooth out the pounding, leaving a mess of scare tissue that eventually has to be plowed under and paved so that my body can come up with efficient techniques at simple survival. Roads are being half constructed in all directions so that blood can travel to needed areas while others have simply been retired and labeled useless.

And when the sound down the way stops for a lunch break or the evening, the tonka versions within continue to work, sometimes faster and sometimes harder, letting me know through a strange noise, a craving for more fuel and piercing pain or an occasional 'burst pipe' that an overhaul of sorts is continuously taking place within me. I take medication to smooth out the ride, release the soot called toxins built up after years of construction, much of which has been faulty from the very beginning, without warning signs or an indication of the serious trouble that once forthcoming, I now experience for the rest of my living days. And although the primary focus now is on comfort, some of the damage has been so meticulously constructed, the educated and knowledgeable are simply guessing to allow me the, not taken for granted, ability to live for one more day.

monday 11.09

I did not sleep like a log, quite the opposite, eating double dipped, chocolate covered peanuts in place of so wanted and needed slumber. My stomach hurt and my dreams were stretched. The darkness fooled me and I wanted to fool it back, but instead just too many thoughts, not bad thoughts and some good thoughts but thoughts and some should not have been my own...but they lingered and so does my tiredness this morning.