We begin to die from the day we are born, or do we?

I often speak of my last life and my present life. My last life ended on 26 May 2007. Trapped in a motor vehicle, I briefly became conscious. I felt like I was burning from my abdomen down ward. You know that numbing, burning pain you feel when you hit your thumb with a hammer... Like that, but all over. When pain pulses and has more life than you do. 

I thought: it's not supposed to be so painful to die, but so what if it is... And passed out again. 

That was the end of my first life. I'd made my peace. I was ready to leave all the pain behind. 

But as it turns out, that wasn't the plan for me. Instead, I was introduced to a new life. A life of effort. A life of permanent pain. A life of weariness, depression, anxiety. A life of lifelessness, of abandonment. Where even I'd abandon myself, given the chance. 

Everyday becomes a battle of willpower. Irritability, anger, frustration, depression, pain, pain, pain. Pain.  Pain is debilitating. Bone wearying. Life draining. 

This life is not a life. It is an existence. 

Get up. No energy. Kids ready for school. No energy. Go to work. No energy. Pour your soul into work.. tapping into the reserves that would probably be required to one day get you to heaven, or use up the last few ounces of resilience against sickness. Asked if you're run down, you just can't answer. Because the clock has wound down too far for the muscles to move in reply, and the well of tears dried up. 

And on I push.  Misguided people look through their rose-glazed binoculars and use words like brave, inspirational and motivational to describe me. 

But all I need is sleep, quiet sleep, restful sleep, healing sleep. 

It's at times like these that I thank God for my family. They step in when I'm falling. They keep me going. Little hands, voices that won't stop, imaginary stories of knights and dragons. Soothing voices, sound advice, helping to pick up my pieces. Urging me forward until I can move again myself and loving me always... unconditionally. They know they can't take away the pain but they can help me through each episode, acknowledging my fragility without making me beg for help, giving me permission to ask without making me feel like less than I was before. Without humiliation. They see my pain, and, without pity, they compensate for my shortcomings. 

Their love pulls me back from the darkest depths of pain, and they give me the time and space to sleep and heal enough to carry on once more.