Walking the path



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 I've been an independent soul all my life. Let me clarify that a little. I walked earlier than a child with my diagnosis should, I was always wanting to do things "Self!" despite the fact that I needed people around me. I hated being alone when I was little. Mum says I was never happier than when I was in someone's arms, or in my high chair amongst everyone. I hated being alone in my bedroom at night, always prefering to fall asleep on the couch and be carried to bed later on. I hated waking in the middle of the night and hearing the silence. I felt afraid that there was no one on watch, no one to hear me call.

But for the most part, I have been an independent person; not knowing how to ask for help, not even being able to identify when I need help. I kept up with my family on bush walks, participated in sport with my class at school.

I'm too independent. I hide things well. People ask me how I am and I answer, "Yeah, I'm fine thanks!"

I'm not.

Walking this new path on my own is lonely. The kids are growing up and starting their own lives, just as they should. I am happy for them. I want it for them.

But it wasn't supposed to be this way. They were all supposed to fly from the nest and then there was supposed to be he and me heading off into our future together as "Darby & Joan", keeping each other company and discovering new things together; having the time of just he and me that we never had in the beginning. I was looking forward to it.

Honestly, this feels like a death. I can't describe it any other way. I feel similar to how I felt when my grandmother died. This unfamiliar, empty, mourning feeling.

I feel as though I've woken up in the middle of the night and the house is silent and I know there's no one up keeping watch. No one to hear me call. My throat feels constricted. My chest feels heavy.

I try and remember all the reasons why I am walking this path. I keep reminding myself of all the reasons why I should accept and even embrace this path. Sometimes the remembering is enough to stir up the anger and the hurt and I feel myself marching up the path doggedly, knowing it's for the best. Anger is so much easier to feel. It's proactive. It can even be positive. It stirs me into action. It doesn't hurt.

But this melancholy is harder. It stops me in my tracks.  It causes me to look around the room not caring about what it looks like, how messy it gets. It makes me doubt myself.

I don't know how to ask for help because I don't know what help I need. The body just keeps on going even when the mind doesn't want to. I can cook, I can clean, I can organise things, I can take care of my family.

But I'm doing it on my own. Alone. In the night. And there's no one on watch.

I don't like it one bit.