Sunday, June 21, 2015


Throughout our marriage, my husband and I have often felt what we lack: fathers of our own. Role models, pairs of strong, guiding hands to sort out what's what. Even so, this man amazes me every day with his dedication to being a good daddy, his drive to be completely different from what he grew up knowing. In a life marked by many bittersweet things, you are the sugar. Thank you my love, for all your sacrifices, for all the back-breaking work you've done for our son. I love you.

Monday, June 8, 2015

The Dark Place feat. Profanity and Other Shit.

Chronic pain is a bitch, in case you haven't guessed. I'm talking Cruella de Vil levels of bitchery here--she does not care how cute and fluffy you are; she is here to fuck up your shit.

I don't write about living with fibro much, at least not here. My real-life, paper journal pages are littered with missives, expletives, prayers, ramblings...but it's always been a more private thing. The privacy is something I've been questioning recently, as there's an awareness growing inside of me that keeping it to myself is hurting me more than it's helping. (Actually, that it's hurting me is pretty much validated, due to my severe lack of people to commiserate with about chronic illness. That is, people who are the same as me, who will understand even without the words.)

Not that what I'm writing right now will be a tell-all, no. I don't think I'm ready to list the myriad ways that my life is shit, at least, the life I live while inhabiting this body. I'm not really ready to try to explain, on a blog no less, my love/hate relationship with life and people, and how being in agony mostly everyday affects both dramatically.

Also, I think I'm afraid of being pitied.
Or misunderstood. That someone will think I'm going off the deep end, or worry themselves to death over my impending suicide, which is definitely not happening. I can hate life and still love every second of it, if that makes any sense.

But, I guess what I really wanted to say is this: I am in The Dark Place. It's capitalized because it's very real. If it was a book it would be a tome from the fifteenth century, poorly translated, and making you sneeze from all the book-dust and crumbly stuff. It sucks, The Dark Place. It's rather hard to get yourself out of it once you've fallen in, and I do fall in often. I've learned by now that falling into it is unavoidable. I used to do all kinds of preparatory things, little rituals and prayers, and adopted all sort of various manic behaviors, to keep myself from falling in. I could feel it coming, still can. Smiles don't come as easily, getting out of bed in the morning is almost impossible, and I get this sensation like I'm sort of moving underwater. Everything is muffled, like I'm hearing it and seeing it through a veil. It's no fun. And none of the prep works. It won't keep you from falling into The Dark Place with a rather unceremonious splash, and all the blinky bats look at you like "Oh, she's here again."

Oh, and you can't climb out. Another thing I've learned. You have to go through.

The only way out is in.

And I am okay. Really. That's the amazing part. I'm okay. I know that I can come out of it. I know that all it comes down to is riding the wave. Because living with pain every day of your life, literally without end, is exhausting. And saddening. I'm still figuring out how to do it, which is hard, because the demands change every day. Chronic illness is both the most monotonous and unpredictable thing in the world.

So anyway, if I'm not here, or there, or really anywhere, don't worry. I promise that I'm fine. I'm just resting so I can kick some ass again, soon.