Sunday, January 5, 2014

The Death of Iron-y



I haven't had time to post today, but I've been thinking a lot. I've been thinking about those pipes up there, not clay but iron, corroded and caked with roots, inch by inch, foot by foot the men drag them out of the ground. I read an article today about irony, about the difference between it and sarcasm or snark. I love irony, think in irony, write it with roots, corroded. Sophie has languished the past few days, slept innumerable hours, waking only to eat. She is better today, more alert, and I continue to give her the syringe of CBD. I read the threads on Facebook about Charlotte's Web, about the old stuff and the new stuff, about interactions with other anti-epileptic drugs, about toxicity, the liver, something called p460. The voices on these threads are loud and dogged, and I'm not up to the task. What is wrong with me? I think. I am not up to the task. I don't feel like figuring it out. Take copious notes, a woman posts at the end of a long trail of earnest information, it takes a while to figure things out. I don't want to take notes or figure it out. I want it figured out. I am depleted, corroded. Another thread rants, again, about the pharmaceutical industry. Everything is bad, everything. Everyone is against us. The urgency makes me tired. I felt urgent about fifteen years ago. There was no use in it. Time kept ticking by. Am I tired because it's been nearly twenty years of this shit or am I tired because I am corroded, weak, my irony dead? The Buddhist in me refrains from the clinging, skates the fine line of release/letting go and surrender/defeat. When I threw out the baby development books back in the days before information lay at my fingertips, I heard doors and windows slam. Sophie became who she is, despite. She became who she was, anyway.

6 comments:

Denise Emanuel Clemen said...

Maybe we should move in together. I'm not up to the task either. But then, I'm a wimp compared to you. And my plumbing works. Sending love.

37paddington said...

Zen and the art of mothering Sophie. And Henry and Oliver. I'm all for your spirit of detachment. Take the action. Detach from the outcome. If only it were so plain. Hugs all the way from Jamaica.

colleen said...


You should not have to worry about this, whoever is prescribing your antiepleptic drugs should be aware of the addition of the CBD and can guide you. P450 interactions are common with many AED's and unfortunately also common w/ CBD

Carrie Link said...

Sending love.

kario said...

I'm with you. Figuring it out sucks, especially when the end point is so slippery, always moving and darting this way and that, and adding complexity at every turn. For my part, when I start to feel depleted like you describe, it is because I am coming from a place of fear instead of a place of gratitude or hope or equanimity. You are right to remember that Sophie is who she is whether or not you 'figure it out.' The facts (from a place of hope and gratitude) are these: you are a committed, loving mother to your children, a wise and deeply intuitive person whose gifts to the world are many, and the pipes are replaceable. I hope that one day soon your water will run freely and your yard will be patched back to perfection and you will find moments of peace in which to simply rest and revel. Love.

Francesca said...

what a nice comment kario wrote.
hugs.

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