A Little Collapse of My Own

"And all at once, summer collapsed into fall." Oh, Oscar Wilde, your words made me heave a big sigh. You described perfectly my situation when autumn finally arrived. Summer wasn't the only one who collapsed into fall.

Don't get me wrong; I like summer as much as the next person. It's just that this summer seemed a little too hot. A little too humid. And more than a little too long. I was beginning to think summer would never end, and autumn was going to be a no-show.

Some of you may wish a "never-ending summer" were a thing. You must have loved this last one. It was a doozy, full of all the heat and humidity a human could stand. I would prefer a brief summer, followed by a seemingly never-ending fall. But maybe that's just me.

Now that autumn is finally here, I feel like I am coming into my own again, and by that, I mean, I'm starting to recognize pieces of my true self falling back into place. Some of the best parts of me retreat, and go into hiding, when the going gets rough. 

And emotionally, the going got rough, my friends. I feel like I did some backsliding this summer, and I was just hanging on by a tenuous thread, until I could completely collapse into fall, and let the autumness of the season wash over me, and heal me of all the sadness of summer.

I'm no different than you, except maybe this public exposé gig I have going with my blog. I have good days and bad days, but I hit a wall earlier in the summer, and I struggled some days to want to get out of bed. 

It's hard for me to write about the things that trouble me, so I either write about some small distraction, or I don't write at all. I'm still analyzing the part I play in my own demise from time to time, but I think it came down to this caretaker forgetting to take care of herself.

Caretaker? Me? I haven't spoken of it here, and only a few close friends know, but my mother-in-law lives in an assisted living center, and has just  been diagnosed with dementia. Jane and I spend a lot of time together, between taking care of her flower garden, going for walks, and all of the appointments that come with aging. I have grown to love Jane, in a way I had not anticipated, and her frustration and sadness had become mine. 

After an hours-long visit with her, I would sit in my car and cry, wishing I knew how to make her life better. I would wonder who would take care of me in my old age. I would worry that she spends so much time alone, lost in confusion and sadness. As soon as I would get home, I would retreat to my room, and escape my sad feelings, in a cocoon of blankets, with my dog Bristol snoring softly beside me. 

I'm a natural nurturer. My therapist went so far as to say I'm co-dependent. I hate that term because it smacks of sad labels from my past, but she said it's not all bad, this being co-dependent. As a caretaker, I seek out those who need encouragement and uplifting, trying to anticipate their needs, even before they ask. I like to make people smile. But I'm also a woman who doesn't know how to set boundaries. The concept of boundary-setting is new to me, and I only wish I had learned about it when I were young.

Many of you have this caretaker role in much bigger portions than I do. I respect what you do, and I hang on to your every word because I'm trying to manage my small role better, and I want to know how you take care of yourself first, so you don't wear out. 

My thoughts are all over the place, but I wanted to mention this little collapse, of sorts, so that I might speak of it again, and you would know to what I was referring. 

This last week was full of moments that were like salve to my spirit. Chuck has listened to me, and loved me, and cared for me through them all. He planned a getaway day to Wisconsin where we spent time outdoors, and ate good food, and took pictures, and talked and laughed and talked. We immersed ourselves in the fabulous fall weather, and my hope is flickering into a flame.