A Bad Hour. Or so.

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I don’t want this fuckin bag anymore. This is today, this moment. This is not everyday. But right now it’s too much. I’m doing my best and trying my hardest to not feel deflated. Defeated. Angry. And mostly sad. I’ve tried doing nice stuff for other people. Feeble efforts to shift my stinking thinking outside of me. I know that I’ve got to get past myself. But this is the thing. Between the sweeping up the mess of a stolen purse and stolen car. And the feelings of violation of thieves rifling through my stuff and leaving certain unimportant things that don’t matter, like tampons and essential oil, but taking pictures, important information, and everything else..And  the needing to change my bag, and the being on my period, I cracked. I was already fragile. And I broke. It’s too much. Thanks for the tampons, you assholes. I’m sorry they bothered you being in my purse. Perfect timing on returning those a week later.

It’s hard managing a chronic invisible illness some days. And today is one of them. It’s hard to drop kids off at school, shower, get ready and hope that my thinking, sensitivity and coping gets better. It’s hard to accept the reality. Chronic. Always. Never ending. Sometimes, I just need to get pissed, say some cuss words. Maybe take some glass bottles to the recycling center.

Let. It. Out. Exhale. Exhale. Oh wait. Breathe in again.

Then, move on.

My husband tells me that going through this has made me incredibly mature. He says that if I died, he would try to find a woman who has endured a lot. So she would have perspective. And so that she would not worry so much about some of the small things. It’s really a gigantic compliment, but I would just rather be immature today. Diseases free. I just want to magically take away all of this. Poof. All of it. I don’t want to be in the bathroom anymore. Or in the waiting room. Or in the many “-ologists'” offices. I don’t want to be on the phone reordering insurance cards, freezing accounts or talking to a detective.

Since I can’t make it all go away, I will do one small thing at a time. Because I have to. It’s not one day at a time. Sometimes, it’s one minute at a time. Just those little bitty off-balance baby steps. Wobble. Wobble. Fall. Cry on the ground. Then, push myself back up. I will take a shower, all the while crying, lamenting and praying to the God who knows me best. And yet, still loves me the most. My hands ache from gripping onto the faith that continues to strengthen me and fill me in my weakest, emptiest times. I will take enormous comfort in knowing that Jesus hurt too. And that he loved intensely on people just like me. And He still does. Thankfully, I believe in a God that cares deeply and wants me out of the bathroom too. I believe in a God that places people outside of my door who help me laugh, who help me get out. Who tell me I have snot on my face. And then help wipe the snot from my face. Or hand me a kleenex. And they love on me in a crazy, relentless way. And because I truly believe all of this, I will keep walking wobbly, strongly, awkwardly, and often, with the support of those who love me. I will always share my struggles and the tiny, but oh, so mighty victories too. Like getting out of the bathroom today. Getting dressed. Moving forward. Thank the Lord. Who knew? It’s a beautiful day out.

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