The girl with Kaleidoscope eyes
Lucy Richardson, the woman who, as a child inspired the drawing by Julian Lennon that inspired the song, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, has died of breast cancer at the age of 47.
I wanted to watch TV today but couldn't figure out how to turn up the volume. I don't watch TV much. I think it is chewing gum for the eyes. But after a 5-hour crying jag today I felt like I needed to veg.
I ate a McDonalds cheeseburger and their Fruit and Walnut salad. Not the greatest fruit salad on earth, but I give them props for trying.
I wrote to an old friend, the dearest girl friend of my youth, to try and heal some wounds. But they are my wounds and I have to live with them. She is now completely out of my league intellectually (well, she really always was) and so very far away on this planet.
My cat has lain in the same spot all day, next to my chair, all soft fluffy and white and unconditional.
I have so much to do, to prepare for my long trip to the hospital next week, but I can't seem to focus. There is much laundry to be done. I have to find some engaging things to read, for all those hours I'll be sitting, having my breast cooked from the inside.
I found a pack of cigarettes, and smoked one. It didn't feel like part of me. Maybe, finally, I am no longer a smoker. It's been almost a year since I quit. I'm so thankful for that, and thankful that I didn't like smoking today. I could have been in grave danger of picking up that habit again.
I relish the time I've had today, alone. It's been awhile since I have had any time to myself. That probably explains the crying jag, more than Lucy. It's just been way overdue. And if I cry with my husband around he is convinced, either that it's all about him, or that it's his job to make me stop. This morning before he left he begged me to take a Xanax. He just didn't get it; I wanted to keep my feelings intact, whatever they are.
I don't know why I write here. There are only approximately two people on the planet who read this blog with any regularity (Edith and Stacey...thank you both for being there). It's pretty good therapy to write my thoughts, and without the public nature of it, I doubt that I would ever commit them to words.
I wanted to watch TV today but couldn't figure out how to turn up the volume. I don't watch TV much. I think it is chewing gum for the eyes. But after a 5-hour crying jag today I felt like I needed to veg.
I ate a McDonalds cheeseburger and their Fruit and Walnut salad. Not the greatest fruit salad on earth, but I give them props for trying.
I wrote to an old friend, the dearest girl friend of my youth, to try and heal some wounds. But they are my wounds and I have to live with them. She is now completely out of my league intellectually (well, she really always was) and so very far away on this planet.
My cat has lain in the same spot all day, next to my chair, all soft fluffy and white and unconditional.
I have so much to do, to prepare for my long trip to the hospital next week, but I can't seem to focus. There is much laundry to be done. I have to find some engaging things to read, for all those hours I'll be sitting, having my breast cooked from the inside.
I found a pack of cigarettes, and smoked one. It didn't feel like part of me. Maybe, finally, I am no longer a smoker. It's been almost a year since I quit. I'm so thankful for that, and thankful that I didn't like smoking today. I could have been in grave danger of picking up that habit again.
I relish the time I've had today, alone. It's been awhile since I have had any time to myself. That probably explains the crying jag, more than Lucy. It's just been way overdue. And if I cry with my husband around he is convinced, either that it's all about him, or that it's his job to make me stop. This morning before he left he begged me to take a Xanax. He just didn't get it; I wanted to keep my feelings intact, whatever they are.
I don't know why I write here. There are only approximately two people on the planet who read this blog with any regularity (Edith and Stacey...thank you both for being there). It's pretty good therapy to write my thoughts, and without the public nature of it, I doubt that I would ever commit them to words.
posted by Anna at 6:51 PM
2 Comments:
I was on Wellbutrin, Sonata, and Klonopin. I know what you say about those medications. They kind of num your feeling. And sometimes you just want to cry. I trully believe a "good cry" is GOOD for "cleaning" the soul.
I'll keep praying for you. I know everything will be all right.
GBY,
Edith
Hey now...I read you all the time and greatly enjoy your wit and prose.
Post a Comment
<< Home