Rest

In one of the grief groups, as a kind of throw-away parting suggestion, one of the leaders/counsellors suggested that we figure out what we could do for "rest."  And, a few nights thereafter, while I was lying awake, in bed, so it should have been about as restful as you could get, I realized that I *couldn't* rest.  I had nobody to look out for me.  Nobody.  I was alone.  I have to watch everything.  All the time.  I'm the only one who will.  If I get a pimple on the inside of my thigh, I have to deal with it, even though I can't even *see* it.  I have diabetes, and extremely hard callouses on my heels.  They crack, deeply enough that they can even bleed.  So I have to use moisturizing cream on my callouses (which I *deeply* resent having to do: I *hate* having anything greasy or sticky on my skin, and always have), and file them, every single day, to keep them down (and *even so* one has still cracked, on the bottom of my heel, and I have to be paying attention to trying to keep it from becoming infected even though I can't even see *it*).  And I have to keep up with all of these stupid, *stupid*, *STUPID* details of my *COMPLETELY POINTLESS* existence.  And I don't know which one of *ALL* of these stupid details will, if I miss it, make my life ever worse.  And I am exhausted.  And there is *NO* reward for staying alive, when you are a depressive.  So I wish I were dead.  God also promises us rest.  After we are dead.  I'll take the pie in the sky by and by when we die.  Right now, please.