I need to go back to basics. There are times when I seem to have got the measure of it all – how it is to have a chronic and disabling condition like M.E. and the reality of living one’s life to a different drumbeat, or no drumbeat at all. There are days when one watches the branches of the trees in the distance, the ones just beyond the house with the grey slate roof opposite mine (I know this view so well, I see it from my bed) and one simply is in the moment, the day, the week, the year of the life that must be lived according to how things are. Then something comes along and clobbers you. Well it’s still real life, so why not? There is nothing like the promise of a cure or the suggestion that you could actually cure yourself if you really wanted to by doing this course, that programme, consulting this practitioner, guru, quack, all-purpose wondertreatment. We have been there so many times, have we not? And still it comes atcha and pulls the rug from under your feet. Even though you are quite certain that those who come touting the latest “cure” and bestowing their saccharine blessings on your unconverted head did not have M.E. in the first place.
But hey. I am sitting in bed using the laptop tray thingy again and the toxicity seems to have mostly evaporated, so perhaps this will be my new friend after all. Son of Signs is home and I am shortly off to see him in concert, playing cello with the youth orchestra. Daughter has been accepted onto a prestigious young writers’scheme by a London theatre, on the strength of something she has written. Mr. Signs is happy, the cat is responding to homoeopathic remedies.
But by the pricking of my thumbs, something dodgy this way comes. It’s just me that is not quite the ticket.