Accepting A Chronic Reality

 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. 


Promptuarium’s Prompt: It’s Okay.

This is a response to Promptuarium’s Prompt: It’s Okay.

A Mourning of Self

First, there was the accident.

Then, they found the window that wouldn’t close in her heart and the doors that became parachutes against the flow.

Then her brain became a circuit, shorted and flickering.

She bathed in the sun and stood watching her husband play in the waves that broke against her young ones but would have knocked her down.

Every hug was given, every kiss a surprise attack, every embrace long and gentle while her eyes sparkled like the ocean and her smile was sad.

Her family met her at the ocean’s edge, their laughter forming bubbles in the tiny bits of ocean she let fall as downtrodden prayers.

“You don’t have to love me.”

“But, Mom, we already do.”

Chaos Monkies

These little chaos monkies are my life. Overwhelmingly so some days, but that’s just the introvert in me screaming for silence.

Here they are after improving upon the couch’s design.  

Life is going to get very interesting in the near future. Hubby acquired some resources to help us with being able to move and keep all of us together. He is so amazing.

Waiting for the Change

There is a lot of stress in my life right now and the lives of each member of my family. Though, while things are difficult and disheartening, we keep looking at our upcoming move with anxious excitement and a small amount of trepidation.

The Hubby and I are talking up the school and the community and, while my husband has seen them and I have not, I hope they are as wonderful as we have been told.

It seems my husband has really hit it off with his new co-workers. I am so happy about that! This last duty station was nothing but stress. He needs some people (guys especially) he clicks with.

Overall, we can’t wait to leave and start somewhere new, even with all the challenges that presents.

Here’s to finding a little bit of happiness inch and every challenge!

Literary Lion Writing Prompt: Pool


Trying my hand at Pool, the latest prompt from Laura Feasey’s Literary Lion Writing Prompts.

The Dying Pool


The beauty was gone.

We had thought he was special, my sister and I.

He wove magic with his words by the big fire. The cacophony had quieted for him and his passion had born infant oceans from those who listened.

We had thought he was born of the sea.


He came to us, gazed in and truly saw us.

We thought he was returning to the sea.

He was not magic. He was not of the sea. He thrashed and churned our home with his panic.

We let him float away when he was still.


Word Count: 96

Literary Lion Writing Prompt: Star

Then the labyrinth lost it’s way. 


The literary lion is in mourning, and so this fortnight’s challenge is Bowie inspired… and rather scarily, the chosen word – Star – seems so very apt. It was F Scott Fitzgerald that dared to tell the great Hemingway that he couldn’t write a story in six words. Hemingway delivered a literary KO with “For sale, […]