When, o Lord?

My friend Jane says she likes hearing me complain about my life because it reminds her, on her side of the CFS fence, that once she walks through the gate out the other side into wellness, that life will not magically become this amazing thing simply because she is well.

It would, however, become something more magical for me because a well Jane would mean a partner in crime to go off and do things together.

You know, the five years since I have been recovered from CFS have been just as bad as the six years I was ill with it.  Just in a different way.  Because first I physically fell off the edge of my own world and realised how hellish life could be, and then as soon as I got well I emotionally fell off the edge, and that has been just as bad.

I think I am recovered enough now to look back and think that I had some sort of a low-level nervous breakdown-type thingy, really.

The really cool thing about this whole experience is that I feel like I have climbed back onto my own world again.  Do you know how delightful that is, after feeling like you would maybe just fall and not come back again?  And yet, now it is a tired, a hopeless, and a cold sort of hallelujah, to a god I don't even particularly like right now.  And now I'm back on the world of my life, in summer, on a two-week break, and I fall into bored when I'm not doing stupid things that continue my own suffering (like looking at the Facebook profiele of people for whom it is none of my business what happens in their life now, and which only pangs me when I see).

Now, life is like when your leg has been broken and it's healing and it's getting itchy.  It's like that now.  No more needing to keep myself away, alone, while I bleed all over the floor.  It's over.  It's over.  That part of my life is over.

But oh, dear God, when does the next part begin?  Are you even listening?  Are you even there?  Is it possible, if you are, to get any sort of a sense of forward movement that does not come from my own endeavour?  Is it?  Or are you just a big figment of our imaginations and it's really just all about going on forward from our own dendeavour because that's all there is?  Is sitting here waiting for your blessing a childish caper that I must lay aside?  When, exactly, do you start cutting a bit of slack?  Sending a few rainbows my way?  I would shake my fist at you but they're both typing on the keyboard.

Oh, but it is a freedom to be able to lament, to groan, to hate God.  It really is.