Baskets of Worry

Usually- or at least I fancy “usually”- I try and come up with creative ways to describe my mind- allegories, stories, parables- yet now, I don’t have the spirit to even try. I’m worn out. Down. Raw. Tired. Hollow. Sore. Chris Cornell’s voice is playing on loop in my mind- “… sitting in the corner like wet ashes with x’s in my eyes…”

My house is a disaster. I can’t even find a place to begin, and if I could, I don’t know that I’d have the gumption to start. It’s like the dutch child with their finger in the dyke; if I move from where I’m holding up the wall, another part will just spring a leak. I’m paralyzed, and lying down and going to sleep just sounds so much better than stretching my exhausted, quivering arms to try and stop another breach. So tired.

Eighteen months and counting…

Thoughts swarm my head like vultures on fresh carion. What next? How do we keep our house? Where is the help for us? We just want to work- to pull our own weight. The tunnel is so dark, my eyes ache for a glimmer of light. The darkness plays tricks on me- I feel things, see things that aren’t there, and lash out against things imagined, collaterally hurting those close to me in the dark.

A house of order? My yearning mocks me.

There is no order here except the Order of Waiting. And getting in each others way- while waiting. We have our thick baskets of Worry around our necks. They make it hard to get close. The baskets creak and strain, letting the Other know they are too close- to watch out, or the contents may spill in the dark, and then who knows what will be set free. It’s better to lug them around- at least we know where they are, the Worry.

13 thoughts on “Baskets of Worry

  1. You don’t know me, but I’ve been following your blog for a long time. I just wanted you to know that I prayed for you and your family this morning. I don’t have any answers or solutions or magic words, but I did pray for peace, for relief from the burden of worry, and for a job.

  2. I got nothing.
    But I’m here.
    I wish I was there instead.
    I’d clean your house.
    Or wrangle your kids.

    Darn lack-of-teleporters.

  3. Like Em I got nothing, but I wouldn’t clean or house or wrangle your kids. I would take you to Trader Joe’s to shop for cheese and sit in the parking lot and talk all night however.

  4. I too have been reading here for some time and have been praying for your family often. I wish I could help in some other way but it is all I have. I have no words, no encouragement, no insight. You are doing so much better than I imagine I ever would in your shoes. You find comfort in the little things and it inspires me ….

  5. I am also a blog lurker. I love to read all the creative things you do and stalk your etsy shop to see if you have anything new that is wonderfully creative that I could not even imagine creating. I appreciate you sharing your struggle. Please know that strangers are on their knees praying for you and your family (and praying that the fairy that is supposed to do things like laundry and clean toilets and pick up toys and put away clean clothes and unload dishwashers…oh, wait. That’s mom, not a fairy…I’ll be praying that a mom rescues you somehow).

  6. Tracy, my heart aches for you. There are enough similarities for me to understand the feelings. All I can say is keep plodding along. One day, one minute, one step, one breath at a time. It’s such a difficult thing to do, but I know of no other way to get through these deep challenges, since curling up and hibernating isn’t an option…

    Remember that whatever it is that you can do at that moment is “enduring well enough for now.” My prayers and virtual hugs are added to the millions you are receiving.

  7. Tracy – I’m so sorry you have to go through this. You’ve got a lot of people pulling for you. Hang in there, sweetie.

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