Living in Hell

Luis came home last night and got all bent out of shape that I'd spent all day in bed. He was really ticked off about it. Of course, what does he understand about any of what I am going through? He understands nothing - zilch. He does try from time to time, but truly it is a wasted effort: not because of lack of imagination, but lack of knowledge. He has never missed a day of work in his life. I think he has taken a total of eight sick days with CLS, where he has worked since age 19. He rarely if ever takes vacation, even though he fought hard for CLS to give three weeks (instead of the paltry one) - and let's be honest, here. I was the one who pushed like mad for that. A company is only as good as it's employees, and unhappy employees are not good ones. But I am losing my focus.

Luis has never taken any kind of disability - not temporary or permanent (don't be fooled by the term "permanent" as pertains to working. Temporary disability is for six months, and then the employee in question moves to permanent disability, which might be three weeks or three years. In my sad case, it is indeed permanent as the word implies: without a miracle, I will never work again. And I am not being negative, merely truthful, when I say that there is no cure, no palliative, nothing. Doctors and groups are working on Duchenne's Muscular Dystrophy, but ignoring completely the adult onset variations. Great news. eh?

On 24 August, I was in a car accident, where, against all odds, I spun across the road, and hit only a telephone pole. No other vehicles, no other people, just a telephone pole, leaning majestically over North Beverwyck in front of the new 7-11 (or QuikCheck - I can never recall which is which). I'm grateful that I only beaned the telephone pole (although I'm hoping I won't get a bill for it) and nothing living. I myself ended up with a perfect imprint of the bruises from the seat belt. Those have long since disappeared. I still have phantom pains from the bruised ribs, but I will have that for a while, no doubt, in the nature of such injuries.

My car was not so fortunate. She gave her life up so I could have mine.

And I know I should feel blessed, lucky, fortunate, happy to be alive. But the truth is, I am lost, miserable,  so painfully alone. Lost in depression, lost in the trap I lived in for so long since leaving work - both as an HR Manager and as an EMT. I went from being on top of the world with a life so charmed it was all I could take to not wait for the other shoe to drop. And it did.

I have to live in this new... new... I can't call it a "world", but more like a new Hell. I was depressed a very long time after losing out on everything. I rarely left the house, rarely left the upper story of the house. I hardly spent time in my hammock. I ceased to enjoy all the things in life I loved. I became a recluse. I live online, and sometimes - rarely - on the telly. But this is not really living, and I know this.

This spring and summer I turned a corner and suddenly began to live once again - go places, spend time with my father, spend time out of the house. I was so happy again, and even got a pass for the Renaissance Faire to spend time up there with friends. It was grand to belong to something again, to drive so far, to be a distance from home. I was even beginning to think of vacations and trips.

Until I had my accident. No car. No life. No escape. Nothing. I've been spending days in bed, not eating, just enough to keep my health sort of okay, not doing anything in the house. This isn't living.

I'm not living.

And I am just wondering... is it worth it to go on living a half-life? Or a quarter-life? Or, as more in my case, no life? Is it really worth it? I'm 45 years old. I can't imagine living to a ripe old age of, say, 80 with no life, no living, no car, no freedom. Can you? Can anyone?

I await what shall surely be a deafening silence.