The cold does something to me; makes me more creaky and old, stiff to the whims of the wind and weather. Today has been especially painful--my back has been so tight I cannot breathe. For the past few days I have been in so much pain I have had trouble remembering to do basic things, like eating, or sleeping, or writing. I can't sit up, I can't walk, I can't stand, I can't lay down, I can't I can't I can't. It detaches me from the rest of the world; prevents me from thinking about things outside of myself, as I simply cannot hear anything outside my own body's cries. It breeds loneliness. I don't like to dwell on it too often, as much for the readers as for the writer.
Today I vented to a friend about it, as I was trying desperately to have some emotion about a situation and couldn't muster the energy to care deeply. I apologized for my lack of compassion, and she expressed a desire to help me in some way. I appreciated her empathy, and it got me thinking about those situations that cannot be easily solved, that have no clear ending or victory. She can't help me--my back problems befuddle everyone.
I know from experience how frustrating it is to watch a loved one experience pain or suffering in a way that I was inept to help. That inability is overwhelming. It is amazing isn't it; the powerlessness of being human? It is times like this when I realize how small I am; how little my hands and heart can do for myself or anyone else.
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