. . . from Nevermore, who posted this in the Art Journal Caravan gallery:

"Warning: TMI Rant. For the first time since Joe's terminal illness was diagnosed, I am angry. With everyone, including Joe. Yes, even Max is making me mad right now.

"We are currently undergoing a series of stages that are each progressively worse and the collective reaction has been a massive head in the sand. Just one of the sources of anger is all of the people who keep offering me support: Just name it and we will do it. Frankly, if I could name it, I would do it myself.

"I am too tired, disjointed, unorganised to think of stuff. I have had about twenty offers of support over the past two days, the vast majority completely and totally useless. It isn't rocket science, really.

"(I am bad tempered but this is kind of off the charts for me. I guess I feel completely alone and I do wish all these 100% well meaning people would stop deluding themselves that they are actually doing anything and do something instead of making me take energy I don't have to reassure them that I am grateful for all their support but, really, I can't think of anything for you to do. Subtext: not because there isn't anything but because I can't think).

"I really do see the positive intentions, but this is my anger soliliquoy and I am going to let myself be angry."

Journaling: I would like everyone to stop asking me what they can do for me: Like I need to add scheduling your support to my to-do list so you can feel better. Does ANYONE see how exhausted I am? For crying out loud, drop by and make the beds or a pot of coffee. STOP asking me to figure it out. I am too tired.

CREDITS:

Background: Sausan Designs "Zapp Papers" which are letter size with Tangie Baxter "Keep Moving Forward" boxes overlay and Tangie Baxter "AJC" checked border and "Rub Ons". Smiley Face, suitably altered: Christina Renee "Plethora". I did try to use puppet warp to tranform the smile but it was beyond my current skills. Asterisks: Sausan Designs "Big Girl Panties". Font: Tangie Baxter "Alice".

******

My thanks to Nevermore for permission to post this. I know she is not alone in her struggle with these cirumstances, and these feelings. 

I am doing the Art Journal Caravan w/Tangie Baxter again this year. January's Adventure Quest is The Mind, and one of the prompts is This is my brain on ...

Today I received an unexpected bit of solstice light in the mail:

There are poets in here whom I love and admire: Emily Dickinson, Jane Kenyon, Theodore Roethke, Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry, Elizabeth Bishop – well, the list is long. 

And then there's me. My poem Fibromyalgia is the fourth in the book: 

I've become the princess I disdained as a child. I'll prove my
royal blood. Put twenty mattresses between me and that pea.
My bones will feel its sharp, hard curve, here, at the small
of my back. I am only sick, I am not dying, no faster

than I was before. I want to stretch my muscles across
the cool length of the blue pool. I want to walk four miles a day
in the rainforest, through the cedars, beneath the eagles and herons.
I want to laugh from the middle of my belly so hard my breasts

bounce. I want to throw Clancy's ball one hundred times in a row.
Instead, I consider the purchase of a stylish cane, one with an animal
head to hold in my aching hand. I've become cranky and rude. I eat
off paper plates, drink from plastic glasses. China and silver fade

under dust on the shelves. I want to be back where I was before.
I want to wrap my legs around another body. I want to earn hard
breathing. I want to build my own garden wall, bend to place
seeds in the black earth with my own hand. I want to wake

in the quiet morning glad for the day in front of me and the dreams
behind. I want to lie in the sun all long afternoon, hot and easy and
dazed by good fortune. I want to bicycle down the hill with Elizabeth.
How do others move through this with such grace and good manners?

My days are short as winter solstice, even in summer heat. I have no
desire left, except for sleep, solitude, a feathered bed. No, sorry, I'm
too tired, too many people at parties, too much noise in the streets.
There is no prince. There is no heaven. There is no sleep.

~

I knew this was in the works. 

But I didn't really believe it. 

The book image is linked to poemsofconsolation.net, where you can get more information and purchase the book. Royalties will be donated to ME Research UK.

I plan to spend the next several days with this. Consoled. 

(Crossposted from Watermark)

[Click the photo for full credits and larger sizes at flickr.]

The Art Journal Caravan word for this week is challenge. I don't sit about thinking how sick I am, but this word certainly pulled it out of me.

In January, I signed up for One Little Word, and discovered digital scrapbooking. It's snowballed from there, and now I'm doing digital art journaling. For some reason I am finding it easier to "talk" about being ill in images than in words, and several of the pages I've done are about this.

So I may begin posting here again.

It's hard to post about the research roller-coaster. They think they've found the cause! No they haven't. Yes they have.

And so on.

But I can make pages about my day-to-day.

Here is my latest, It's my body...:

Paper and journaling lines from Tangie Baxter. Doll head from Gypsy. Body parts from DeviantScrap. Musical notes from ninascraps designs. Fonts: CuttyFruty & Mom's Typewriter

This was a particulary bad day. I do try not to whine.