Missing The Verve

Looking out the front door screen, I was annoyed by the bushy, unruly growth of the two trees in my front yard. The wet summer weather in Colorado this year was a delight, but pruning must ensue. A woman I remember well, grabbed the hand clippers with verve and breezed past me out the door and into action, clipping away at the wayward branches. Stooping, reaching, and stretching she worked as I watched with intrigue and awe. Two tiny hands working together with a tiny, inadequate tool cutting and snapping the branches until they fell to the ground. After an hour of this, I went out and asked if she was doing okay. She assured me she was and mumbled something about "more branches must got"...and the clipping continued. She was fierce with her energy and focus. Two hours passed and I, again, approached her, "are you doing okay?" I asked. She looked at me, seeing right through me, glaring at something in her mind, "You know, maybe I'm finished now." Just like that she walked straight into the house still holding tightly to the hand clippers leaving behind a blanket of limbs and leaves covering the grass.
I didn't see her any more that day and without even a goodbye she was gone. Standing in a daze of exhaustion, I looked down at my red, swollen, blistered, and tortured hands. How could she do this to me again, leave me here drained and battered after her 2 hour festivity?
Glimpses of my former self come to me in small increments. Sadness comes along with it and I long for the woman with the vivacious spirit to permanently infuse my body again. I haven't let go of the hope that she will return, but it has been a long time and her visits come less frequently. When I'm fueled, I tackle a task foolhardily, lacking the where-with-all to practice moderation. I guess, I forget about the new, easily fatigued me, the fragile girl, (the one I refuse to accept) and revel in the gift of strength and energy. Like an alcoholic taking back the drink, I am drunk and happy and with that reasoning goes to the way side. Later, I'm the drunk after the party, suffering the repercussions. My husband misses her too; I'm not the girl he married in some ways. He is loving and supportive. Late that afternoon, after he carried the branches away and raked the leaves from the yard, I asked him, "so, how do the trees look?"...he answered in his sweet accepting voice, "they are perfect!"
Wish I was too...
Diabetes is not the culprit this time, although some fatigue comes from always fighting an illness due to my beaten down immune system and all the viruses that tackle me. Most of my fatigue comes from the post traumatic stress coursing through my nervous system. A dancer of constant vigilance watching for the next life threatening danger dances in a circular formation through my body, round and round, assessing every sound and movement around me until my energy is completly used up. My brain goes silent and still, but the dancer continues to dance. At night while I sleep, she dances to keep the demons at bay, she dances away the nightmare; at the slightest sign of danger she dances me awake. I love her and she dances with grace and beauty, but sometimes I wish she'd allow me an intermission. Go dance on someone else's stage for a while and let me live with spontaneity and fearlessness!
In time, I hope to be free and blessed with a life I can live without fatigue, free of the tireless dancer.