I have been dealing with what am I feeling — or more accurately what am I not feeling — since the fire, storm, evacuations, and near-death experience in the mud with my wife. Lori and I are going to meet a post-traumatic stress doctor this week.
My life had been a large ball filled with “things of interest” and things to deal with, some good, some not good, but things that kept me moving forward, seeking that inner peace we all seek.
But since these events I feel strange. I feel like the ball I lived in has been shattered. Fragments of me are moving in different directions at different speeds at different times. I find myself wanting to gather them in and put my life puzzle back together. But something, some phantom, keeps brushing it away, out of my reach. The result is a painful loss of energy, fatigue, depression, crying over nothing, or so it seems.
I want to do something to help myself, but I can’t find it. I want to just pull the covers over my head and wait for this to pass. I can’t focus on any projects and feel guilty for not being able to do what was always easy. Panic moments crop up that are difficult to push aside. The only things that bring any comfort, if I can call it that, are holding my pets, working in the garden, or taking a walk.
Talking to people is difficult, even for me with a mouth that never used to close.
I meditate twice a day and plan to move it to four times a day. It brings many unhappy thoughts, but I find some comfort in doing something that demands doing nothing. I don’t have to feel guilty about being still and not doing anything else.
I will continue to meditate and play with my cats and work in the garden and try to give comfort to others. I wrote this at the suggestion of professionals who say writing can help. Maybe if you find yourself in this “no place,” putting down a few words might help.