Polly's Child

To follow on from Saturday's post,I received a nice comment from Friday; the lady whom I refered to as having a cute widget. Apparently, most people are disappointed with their prescribed provenance and want to be another days child. My preferrence was always to be Friday's Child and I am honoured to have been dubbed one anyway!

This got me thinking; and like many of us I realised that from time to time I find myself in a place I'd rather not be. More often than not it is something or other to do with my condition; Fibromyalgia/ME, the impact of which has been profound. I find it difficult to accept or cope with the changes to my health, physical condition and the resultant changes to my life style.

During the dark days I sometimes find myself probing deep into the psychological meaning of it all and wonder if I'm just being a slacker! I know I'm not; but I've spent a lifetime of thrashing myself here, there and everywhere for the sake of other people's welfare.

It has been a difficult adjustment to get to grips with and at times I need reassurance; rather than sympathy or judgement. Isn't it strange how a few ancient words can bring about the relief one needs in these situations - daft really!

The only problem with being Saturday's Child is that even when I'm not functioning physically; my mind is still working away at some new project or other. In some ways this can be advantageous, as often I'll emerge from a nights rest (I don't always get to sleep) with the inspired ideas or the answers to some nagging questions. It isn't always great and I am not always happy about this, but it happens...

I often feel as though I am fighting with myself, as during the day my memory will disappear from time to time. It leaves me struggling to express myself effectively, while words I have used since childhood desert me, leaving me struggling to replace them with another equally descriptive or efficient word. It is frustrating and embarrassing and I feel quite foolish at the time, from being eloquent I turn into a gibbering idiot. It's hard.

The children are familiar with this 'new' trait and understand the peculiar language I speak from time to time. Others are cruel in their judgement of me; which is upsetting and has driven me to wonder if it is something rather more sinister behind it all.

It's no wonder then, that from time to time I wish I was another days child; if I'm doomed to work hard for a living each day of my life and my body's disintegrating as we speak, it doesn't necessarily bode well for my future. Sometimes it feels as though the lights are on, but there's no one at home...

What I also find interesting is the way that within a matter of minutes optimism can change to its antithesis; pessimism. It's a matter of seeing both sides of the coin and adding in a healthy touch of reality and coming up is a less subjective answer really, a poem by an unknown author cannot possibly touch upon the lives of those who read it, unless they are particularly suggestable. Can it...