One year and one month ago today I started writing Domestic Mischief. I can't believe I forgot my own birthday. HOW EMBARRASSING. I want to write something profound and enlightening to all of you, but today I can't. Up and down, down and up, round and round this week has been. And here I am, still writing. I'm trying ridiculously hard to stay focused, to keep my eye on the prize... and yet people keep moving the prize and then I stumble, trip on my hamster wheel looking anywhere and everywhere to replace my focus yet again on the reward. I call it a reward, but it's so much more than that. It's responsibility, stability, security. I hold my breath as I stumble and pray I can keep running without wiping out once again.
I have depression and generalized anxiety disorder with a healthy helping of panic. On bad weeks, my therapist nods her head and waits until I'm done to take my hand and tell me I'm doing better than I could be. That the medications have dumbed down the panic that could have been, the attacks that might have left me shaking and sobbing, gasping for air on the side of the road. I worry. I worry a lot. More than most people, but I don't do my worrying aloud. I keep it inside, festering and bubbling till it chokes me when I least expect it. These were not the reasons I started writing, but here we are. I do my damnedest to write equally or more about the light and love that surrounds me every day. But attempting to share these moments when I'm so riddled with fear is a marathon in itself. Just to forewarn y'all, this post is gonna be ALL OVER THE DAMN PLACE. Just, you know, hang in there! There WILL be a light at the end of this tunnel.
I am always crazy worried about my Husband, about his physical abilities and the way (ways?) it effects him mentally. I see a whole person in front of me, granted he has physical scars from a myriad of sports and sibling related injuries, but he is whole. No large deformities, no tell tale signs of disability. He uses every ounce of strength and then some that he doesn't have, to tumble around with our children or to thump his chest and do man things (cutting grass, working on the car, etc.). But I'm a black and white person. I have to see things to believe them. If I can't hold the facts in my hand, they must not be true. I'm a "pics or it didn't happen" kind of gal. When the orthopedic surgeon hunted me down post shoulder surgery to show me the HOOKS they had to implant in his shoulder to re-link tendons and ligaments to their rightful places, I all but threw up my lunch. All this time he'd lived with the pain, and because I couldn't see it, I simply patted him on the back and silently muttered for him to "Buck up and walk it off." I'm an amazing wife, y'all... you don't even know. So when he goes into jobs that are once again physically demanding I hold my breath. I still run, and I still hold high hopes for positive outcomes, but I watch the prize dangling in front of my hamster wheel and pray to God nobody snatches it out in front of me again. I'm never allowed to hope and dream and see the final outcome. And I want it made clear that I do NOT blame my Husband for this, as I'm sure he's already reading this thinking that he'd misread a line in our marriage pact and that this is his "loophole." Sorry, mister, you're stuck with me... because I still have his back, I still want him to thrive and do all these manly man things and grunt and thump his chest and feel GREAT at the end of the day. Instead, I watch him strap the ice pack to his shoulder as he pumps the ice water through from the attached cooler. This is the only way I can visually see the pain he is in. My black and white is right there in front of me, but sometimes I'm so blinded with anger by the "prize" being moved from my line of vision that I can't see that it's not anyone's fault that I fell. The shame I feel after stings my cheeks and once again the panic rises.
Today my Grandfather called me while I was out to tell me he'd heard my Grandmother. That after he'd puttered around in the garden and come inside to relax a bit, that she called out to him from the kitchen... asking him if he'd like a sandwich. This was typical of my Grandmother. But this moment knocked the wind out of me. Yes, my Mother talks to her Mother and "feels" her presence at times, but my Grandfather hasn't really spoken about my Grandmother to me in months if not more than a year. He brings her up in conversation, but the last time he'd spoken of her as if she were "visiting" he had told her to go home, that she was dead and therefore didn't belong here. Hearing that she offered to make him a sandwich really shook me. I don't want anything to happen to my Grandfather, I want him to be happy and healthy. I want him to not worry too. Because I didn't get this way with all my "what if's" and other questions just out of the blue. I was born this way and I've got a long line of genetics on both sides of my family that worry much like I do. I don't want him to be sad or upset should we decide to move on and make our way as responsible adults into our own home. I don't want to see him disappear in front of me and only hear his voice in my dreams. I don't want to lose him too.
I have begun to apply for jobs again. I applied to my old standbys (places I've worked before) only to discover after the fact that they are only accepting applications with no thoughts on hiring until after summer. Upon that discovery, I decided to walk my happy ass over to the closest grocery store and apply, because at this point, WHY THE FUCK NOT. Know who wasn't hiring? The grocery store. Next door was a maternity/baby boutique. They? Were hiring. Their hours are weird though, you couldn't work full time there if you wanted to. I accepted an application and brought it home with me, where it now just sits there... staring me in the face every time I walk past it. I'm a little funny about working in retail, specifically clothing, worse, maternity. I want more kids so bad, but I try to keep in mind that my personal biological clock is Michelle Duggar waving a giant I would probably have 15 or more kids if I let my uterus take the reins. So hawking stretchy shirts for the stylish pregnant woman is kind of like a knife to the uterus and/or heart. I'm not so sure I could work there without coming home and bawling my eyes out over these little humans I created that are TOO BIG TO NURSE AND ROCK TO SLEEP WHAT THE HELL, KIDS, WHY MUST YOU DO THIS TO ME!?!??!?? Oddly enough, however, I got a random call today and I sent it straight to voicemail because, hello, I don't have you listed in my address book so therefore you can leave me a message. If it's important, I'll call you right back. It was a company that I'm pretty sure I applied to before Christmas. They wanted to give me a phone interview before sending me to the big boss for a real interview. I called them right back. The only problem I have with phone interviews is I can't stand to talk on the phone, I loathe it. I would much rather see you face to face so I can better read your body language. She told me she was passing me on to her boss and they would schedule a real live interview with her once she comes back from vacation. I've heard similar stories before, so I'm trying really really hard to remain running on this damn wheel and to not get distracted... but it's so damn hard. For once, I'd just like to get off the wheel and enjoy the scenery and all the life I have humming about me.