The move was difficult, but we made it. We were happy to be back in our old stomping grounds where things were familiar, at least a bit.
My husband has spent so much time away. Even when he’s home he has seemed to have crawled himself up into his head and found a corner to hide in away from the ruckus and chaos of the three very different childhoods growing in our home. He hates to bring work home and sometimes it takes too long for his Eork file to be put away so the Home file can be opened. I feel alone in this miracle that I must then clean up after.
The kids… Are kids. We have one who is quiet, introspective, competitive, and empathic. We have one who is loud about everything, loves artistic self expression, dances, and narrates stories. We have our last one with cherub cheeks and a devil’s grin, climbs like a monkey, and will jump off anything into anything. Life is an adventure and it’s difficult finding things they can enjoy together.
My husband wasn’t with us much before the move, mentally or physically, but then he became aware of every little detail in that man-on-a-mission mindset while packing that he finally saw me.
He finally saw me struggle with everyday tasks and fail, he saw me exhausted by mid-morning despite having been unproductive, he saw me cry in frustration with myself, and he saw me seize for the first time.
After that, he never relaxed, he told me not to help and then was angry if I didn’t, he treated me like I was glass despite holding the same standards I met before, he saw me desperately fumble with prescription bottles to help make the pain bearable.
He watched me mourn my body and my mind as I questioned what would become of me if my mind kept slipping away.
My children are my life. Their sweet snuggles calm my galloping heart when moments are too much to bear. They both depend and protect me with their need for me to be what I was instead of the tattered husk I feel I am.
My husband won’t say it, but I believe he’s scared and for him to be scared he feels vulnerable and easily hurt. The human reaction to pain is almost always anger, to fight it, to protect from it, to fly if need be. But he can’t do any of those things because it is my own body attacking me and there is no protection from one’s self.
So the anger continues. And the frustration grows. And the hurt of both things lashing out against continued to grow as well.
My father asked to speak with me tonight. While he acknowledged the difficulty of living like I am he stressed the red to stay positive and goal oriented, even if those goals are small.
I had heard this so many times before. I didn’t want to hear it again. No more lectures. No more sideways comments. Please, just let me feel this misery for a little while and try to be okay with it.
I couldn’t do it all, he said, that I needed to give myself time to recover and strive for recovery. That something in me had been injured and it needed to heal.
Somehow, these words caught at the cobwebs in my cluttered and fractured mind and pulled. It was as if his words had caught on the rough edges of a broken train of thought and had re-broken them and set them straight. Not the whole track but just a little bit more than I’d had before.
He was right. I was broken. I was in mourning for the body I once had lived that now felt like perpetual hell. But just enough pieces had fallen back into place that I could see hope for rebuilding. Trying to, anyways.
The more consuming of my own life it is, the bigger the part it will in something bigger than myself.
I am beautifully and painfully broken… And there is a reason for it.