The Lonely Landlady
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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 . . . .

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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 . . . .

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