Things fall apart...

I've been trying to find a way to write about what's been going on in my life. It's a difficult time, and I've been having a hard time finding words within my own head and heart, let alone words that I can share with the world.

The last several years of my life have been rough ones.  The decade of the 2000s have not been very kind to me in general.  I have struggled with illness (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, Gastroenterological diseases, obesity, Insulin Resistance (precursor to diabetes), anxiety, depression, and FINALLY I got the diagnosis of Fibromyalgia).  As a result of all this, I lost my job (which already not what I WANTED to be doing with my life anyway).  And in the midst of all of it, my marriage was falling apart.  Recently, it has come to point where it has fallen apart completely.  We're lucky that it doesn't seem to be a bad break-up, but I've been trying to wrap my head around the fact that it is a breakup at all. My world certainly seems to be disappearing around me right now.

I'm amazed I am not currently depressed about this, but I think I am just a bit numb at this point. I'm sure I will write more about all this as the days go on, but right now, I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed.

THE SECOND COMING by WB Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?