No Silver Linings, No Playbook

Well, today’s been a day. Yesterday was too, for that matter.

Please note that this post makes no attempt to incorporate humorous anecdotes and won’t end with some nugget of wisdom and/or with a playful splash of optimism.

Indeed, it isn’t optimistic at all. Quite the opposite: the unapologetically negative pity party that I’m about to throw is, in fact, completely void of silver linings. (In my defence, aren’t all pity parties by definition negative, silver-liningless affairs?)

“Life’s been a real drag lately” would be a pretty accurate summary of what follows. Don’t get me wrong: lots of positive things have happened and/or are happening. Both moms recently visited, and both were a tremendous help in getting our apartment to a much better, more livable state. We’ve been able to socialize in ways that wouldn’t have been possible just a few months ago, and I’ve been good about respecting my limits and taking breaks from said social activities when needed. My palliative-care team has helped me advocate for additional in-home supports and for follow-up appointments I’ve been waiting for since I was discharged. It’s finally summer weather, and the sun has—surprise, surprise—proven to be a real mood-booster. I’m home, where I can eat as much ice cream as I want to (a lot, it turns out) and sleep in my own bed.

And yet … and yet.

Though I recognize how privileged I am to be alive and well enough to be frustrated and sad, and though I feel tremendously guilty writing this, here it goes.

Instead of improving my morale more than briefly, an unexpected consequence of noticing and appreciating the good is that the bad seems even worse than it did when it was the only item on the menu. Now I get an occasional delicious and enticing amuse-bouche before the inevitable disgusting and bland main course, a beige serving of Food from a vast pan of mushy casserole big enough to provide leftovers forever. And ever. And ever.

The overarching theme of my State of Discontent is “crushed dreams.” Or maybe “broken delusions.” More or less the same thing, in this case. I guess that what it comes down to is that I’ve run out of the resources necessary to project into a future that I no longer believe exists. The positives have become reminders of the negatives, and my weirdo of a brain is really, really good at identifying and dwelling on what I need but can’t get (and, conversely, on what I have but don’t need). I don’t feel fulfilled as a person. I feel so, so isolated. When I’m socializing, or even simply coexisting, with other living, breathing humans, I’m distracted, able to live in the moment. The problem is that this distraction is by nature fleeting, and as soon as I’m left alone with my thoughts, the fact that I spend the majority of my time alone, stranded with those thoughts, punches me in the gut.

I’m not totally sure what the point of this post is beyond its providing a venue for what truly was a grossly pitiable pity party. (Guest list? Me and the scattered heroes who decided to keep reading past the title and second-paragraph disclaimer.)

It’s sometimes impossible to envision the “making it” that could result from the “faking it,” and I think that’s OK. It’s OK to admit that you’ve reached your limit and something major needs to change if you’re to continue doing your best to cope with a situation that’s becoming more and more intolerable. It’s also OK, albeit uncomfortable, to admit that things might never be a version of OK that’s OK to you.