The grimrose

grimrose.jpg

This, for the floriculturally challenged, is a primrose. The first one I ever saw was here in the Great Northwest, in a January, peering out from under snow. Before that, all I knew about them was that they were supposed to line paths to bad ends.

They amaze me. They survive in cold, nasty weather. They survive freezing. They survive icy rains and sleet. They bloom during all this. They are tough as nails.

This one is in the barrel on my deck. I put it there a few weeks ago, about three months into the unmedicated brain journey.

That journey now spans five months. It has been, in the proverbial one word, hell. I’m not going into any greater detail, because it depresses me worse to think about how shitty it’s been and how many times I’ve wanted to cash it in. Life is grim. I have been hanging on by my fingernails. By now, they are torn, ragged and bloody. If I had skin on my teeth, I’d hang on by that, but it’s been worn off, too.

This tough little plant reminds me that I’ve survived so far. One hundred fifty successive days. Almost half a year (which all by itself is depressing).

At present, I have to get through five more days before I see the new doc.

Even if he has a good idea, it will be at least another six to eight weeks before I know whether that plan will work, or if I’m going to have to go through another series of the godawful chemical experiments that turned into 2012.

I am calling this plant the grimrose.

It is still blooming.

I am still breathing.

Posted by wordsmith

0 comments

Leigh-Anne

I’m late to the party, then again I usually am.

Not cheerleading or smoke blowing or nuttin’, but I am very glad that I met you in the Drum. I like your grimrose, it’s like you, tough, not showy, but it hangs on. Also colorful, so so colorful. Just like you

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