Among my many words of wisdom . . .

Never EVER marry a man that you wouldn’t be proud to have as a son.

 

 

I

am so stressed that my body is locked and I am in AGONY.  Well . . . perspective . . . I’m not in pain at all compared to pre-back surgery.

 

However, I am in a lot of pain.  Physical manifestations of psychological rumblings.

 

 

 

Like distant thunder

and an old man’s joints know

and the cows lie down

and the leaves flip over

the wind is picking up . . .

And . . .

. . . I typed too soon last night.

 

He blew up because the torte didn’t come out right.  Yes.  You read that correctly.  Screaming, berating, name-calling.  Yeah.  Over food.  Sooooo rational.  (Can you smell the sarcasm?)

 

Then he yelled at me because the smell of my tea “makes me sick” so I took my tea and my computer, and went upstairs for the night.  I don’t mind living in my bedroom . . . I just don’t want to share it with him anymore.
AND . . . I don’t think that I should have to retreat in a house that I PAY FOR.

Things have been almost fine

lately.  Probably because I’ve finally decided that I’m done.

 

When someone who was very special to your wife dies, and your wife attempts to go to her funeral, only to find out afterwards HOW she died, and your wife comes home and, through tears, tells you what happens . . . YOU DON’T LAUGH.

 

It wouldn’t be funny if it were a stranger.

 

I no longer even want to care how he feels or what he thinks.  It doesn’t count anymore.  What little pity I had left for him evaporated with my tears.

 

With all the name calling and screaming and breaking my things and insulting my family and telling me that I’m worthless . . . that one laugh resonated so deep.  Too deep.

 

Finally.

If anyone ever wonders why . . .

. . . I’m done . . . here’s another reason . . .

 

K:  “So, I guess we’re not putting up a Christmas tree this year?”

M:  “I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

K:  “Call my mom.”

M:  “Why?”

K:  “Because she’ll come over and help you, it would be done by now.”

 

Because, you know, I married his mother.

Well . . .

I FINALLY go back to work on Thursday.  I’m sitting here, eating my mac ‘n cheese (Kenny is, obviously, at work) and I hear a crunching noise.

 

I figure Lilly has a toy, and I continue eating.

 

CRUNCH.

 

What toy is it!?

 

I set my dish down to see what she is destroying.

 

My dinner has been interrupted by the sound of one of my dogs biting her back nails.

 

Yeah.

 

Mmmm, dinner.

Well . . . I’m still at home.

It’s been a LONG road, and it’s not over yet.  I am enhausted.

 

Physically.

 

Mentally.

 

Emotionally.

 

Yet . . .

 

I refuse to give up.

 

I am stronger than this.

 

But it is strong.

 

I’ve been making the mistake of using denial and sheer stubborness  as my only coping mechanisms.

 

Those, and humor.

 

But lately, it’s not funny anymore.

 

I’m not ready to laugh about this just yet.  Right now, it’s not funny.  It will be again . . . but for now, it’s not, and I must take it seriously.

 

I’ve been making choices (on EVERY level) that will do nothing to make me better, or help me cope.  This *may* be as good as it gets . . . but that doesn’t mean I have to lie down and take it.

 

I am more than this.  I am more than all of this.

 

But I am small.  I am a speck, a mote, an ort in the universe.

 

Yet my expectations of myself are far greater than anything that I would ever put on anyone else.  I would not place a FRACTION of this on anyone else, yet, in my own eyes, I am a failure.  I am a disappointment.  In my eyes and no others.  Moi et nul autre.  Ca, c’est tout.  Pour quoi?  Je ne sais pas.

 

I have created, for myself, such a level of stress.  Of course I can’t relax.  If I relax, I must be doing something wrong.  I must have forgotten to do something.  I MUST smile at all times, though my body may be screaming and my life feels like it’s falling apart.

 

Make the face that shows how you feel right now.  Don’t smile.  Make the face.  Hold it.   Hold it.  Keep holding it.

 

A single tear falls.

 

And there it is.

 

That is truth.

 

That is honest.

 

That is real.

 

This is real.

 

My facade cracks.  My smile disappears.  And . . . for the first time . . . in weeks?  Months?  Years? . . .

 

My shoulders relax.

 

My jaw unclenches.

 

How much energy do I spend pretending to be fine?  How many hours of the day do I subconciously waste worrying that other people view me as I view myself?  It is EXHAUSTING to be me.

 

Exhausting because I want YOU to see me as I WISH I saw myself.

 

Inside, I’m overwhelmed.  Inside, it’s too much.  Inside, it’s not funny.  Inside, I’m banging my fists against the wall screaming about how unfair it is.

 

Yet, I *know* I’m lucky.

 

That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

 

I wish it did.

Full Day 1 of pseudo medical lockdown

Well, after relapse on top of relapse, and a stubborn streak that could have, or perhaps should have, landed me in the ER . . . I am going to be at home for a while.  I’m hoping only about two weeks.

 

Apparently, I need to learn to relax.  I can’t physically heal until my brain can calm itself to the point of serenity, or something resembling that.

 

I went to church this past Sunday, for the first time in years, and it was WONDERFUL.  I cried through most of it, and it was JUST what I needed.  Music.  Singing.  People who have known me since I was born.  It was so nice to finally be home.

 

Today, I forced myself to only do a tiny bit of “work” from home.  I’ll do a tiny bit tomorrow, and perhaps a tiny bit the next day.  Only what truly *needs* to be done.  Things with deadlines.  Things that patrons want.

 

I took care of some online things (for home) that have been on my “to-do” list forever.  I napped.  A lot.  A lot.  I am still in my pajamas from yesterday.

 

So, noggin therapy tomorrow.  I’m not even going to bother with makeup since I have been such a weepy, emotional mess lately.

 

And now, I have to get some energy together, to get my butt upstairs, brush my teeth, and wash my face.

 

*sigh*

 

This too shall pass . . .

lawn and such

So, as some of you may know, I have finally admitted that mowing the lawn is no longer something that I should be or can do.  So, Kenny mowed it last week, and it looked like shit, and grass was tracked all over my house because he didn’t use the bag because he’s convinced we have a mulching mower (which we do not).

Now, today, he goes outside again (about a week later, that’s fine) to “fix it” and do the rest of the yard work, which, for him, involves a gas-powered edger, a gas-powered weed whacker, a gas-power leaf blower, and the gas-powered lawn mower.  Please bear in mind I can accomplish the same thing with a pair of his discarded mechanics gloves (with holes in the fingertips – not great for the nails, but who cares), a pair of hand trimmers, and perhaps, on rare ocassion, a trowel, and the gas-powered lawn mower (with the bag attached).  He comes inside, sweaty (understandably) and cranky.  I follow him outside while he’s putting away the lawn mower and (lie) say, “Oh Honey, it looks so good!”  “No it doesn’t, I still can’t see”  (He has Bell’s Palsy, in his complete defense and cannot close his right eye all the way, so it is possible that he can’t see fabulously.)

Okay, so he goes inside, towels off the sweat, takes a shower, and lies down . . . he is still sleeping 3, 4 hours later.  So . . . in comes my ego.

I put on my “mowing” shorts (read: the only ones that don’t fall off without a belt), and my “mowing” flip flops (read: I ruined them once, might as well keep it up) and go outside to fix the lawn properly.  It’s AMAZING what following my own advice can accomplish.  Granted, he’d mowed the bulk of the length of the lawn, but I still had to stop to empty the bag 4 or 5 times . . . because THAT’S WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO TO MAKE THE LAWN LOOK NICE.  20 minutes later (if that), I’m done.

So, why is it that I, WHO CAN’T FEEL EITHER LEG, THE LEFT SIDE OF MY BODY AT ALL, OR SEE MUCH OF ANYTHING OUT OF MY RIGHT EYE, WHICH IS TWITCHING MADLY AS I TYPE THIS . . . why is it that I can do all that, and then come in side, to see that he has moved from his napping chair to BED, take a shower and then start doing laundry.

Oh yeah!  That’s right . . . LOTS and LOTS (perhaps too much) of drugs to keep me upright and WILL POWER and stubborness.  Just because I was basically using the lawn mower as a walker doesn’t mean that STILL didn’t do a better job than my husband who would criticize my mowing if I missed a dandelion.  Yeah.

Decision time.  *raises an angry eyebrow*

Moi, et nul autre.

As I said to my guru last night, “I’ve got me.”

In the throes of a multiple sclerosis relapse that has got me worn down to tears and nothing . . . when anger and disgust take over, it’s amazing what I my ego can push my body to do.  I’m spending my days packed in ice packs (wrapped in towels), or floating in my claw foot tub (yes, be jealous, it’s one of the reasons I chose this house), or sitting on my couch trying to find a position that won’t send my legs into spasms that could make me scream loud enough to be heard in Roseland.

I will admit, that, at this very moment, I *know* that I should not have done that, I’m lucky that I didn’t hurt myself or fall . . . and it will probably cause an(other) arguement with Ken . . . and all of my family members who were so relieved when I told them that I finally stopped mowing my lawn will be disappointed . . . but I AM THE MOTHER FUCKING BIG FISH.

That is something that I have to remind myself to NEVER EVER FORGET.

And now, blessed readers, surprises of surprises . . . I need a nap.  (But first I have to put laundry in the dryer and start another load.)

And it’s time, perhaps, for some bold and drastic life changes.  But, that’s a tale for another memoir.  (Which you all better buy, because you’ll be my fact checkers!)  😉

huh

I am in such a state of physical and emotional limbo.  I have choices to make.  Big ones.  That perhaps should have been made long ago, but I held onto hope, optimism, and denial.  As if these would magically resolve the situation.

 

If I were my daughter, I would save her from this.  Tear her from this.  Release her from this.

 

Yet my pity dictates otherwise.

 

Decisions decisions decisions.  I hate change.  But not changing, as I’m learning, is far worse.