The Lonely Landlady
She lives in her bedroom
She sleeps in her bedroom
She works from her bedroom, her bed
Her office next door with a backlog mountain growing daily
Her ability to cope diminishing daily
Her ability to switch-off, relax, non-existant
Her ability to cope with any mental stimulation or stress, very poor now
She dreams not of nice things, but of everything slipping away
She is thrilled to get downstairs, just to watch tv twice a week
She is grateful to get out the house once a week, on a good week
She has been left to rot by the NHS, for almost 25 years now
She is sad, upset, about the way some friends have acted
She hates it when her husband flippantly says “people don’t care, they’re not interested and are bored”
She is among nice neighbours who have no idea, think she has become unfriendly
She writes Gratitude Lists to keep her spirits up
She listens to Tibetan Flute Music, to slow her mind down
She dreams of getting away from home, to recuperate for a while
She thinks wistfully of her last holiday 3 years ago, beautiful Lake District
She feels wretched for her husband, he works so hard. And has to do far too much around the house.
She feels angry at being treated so badly by the system, after years of working
She worries that it has all been for nothing, will all be wasted
She desparately wants time off but can’t see how, it seems impossible.
Her husband agrees
She fears a further descent into severe CFS
And fears that she wouldn’t be able to climb back out . . . .
Footnote :
I’m not sure what to call the above.
Its not really a poem, more a ramble.
And its not well thought out, not really in any order at all.
But I felt it was “better out than in” .
For me, that is.
Feel free to ignore . . . .