|I'm motherfucking empowered.|
Unless I have spinach stuck in my teeth.
And I should probably start rigging my house with microphones, because every single damn thing I ever say that is profound or amusing or in any way interesting has just been said to a teapot or a houseplant.
Because I talk to myself incessantly. And I'm alone a lot. I'm cool with the alone part, except on a day like yesterday when I hurt so bad I'd have much enjoyed having a dog or small person trained in picking up shit my clumsy self dropped. I do, of course have a trained small person, but she has to attend school. Really though, in many regards I've enjoyed the days alone because I felt a real stress in parenthood and marriage when I didn't make time for quiet in the past. I'm hopeful that I'll be able to fill my time more productively as my pain level improves.
And that's happening, on average. I had two days this week of the severe pain that pulls me to one side and I actually can't straighten myself. That's muscle spasming, and I think it's probably going to have to be addressed later when the wires are securely healed into place. Sadly (and if you're my husband, frighteningly) this happened during a really nasty episode of PMDD so I reacted to pain after feeling great for a week by losing my shit on a Richter Scale level.
Join me in a resounding Southern "Bless His Heart," won't you?
And I should know this by now. I should. In my defense, my cycle's getting irregular to such a degree that my doctor tested my FSH levels to see if I'm starting early menopause. I'm disappointed I'm not, and to get that you might have to have PMDD.
But I know myself, and I don't.
There are days when I write like I've been initiated by way of pain, motherhood, living past 35, or whatever and am now finally wise to the workings of my own mind and heart. With satisfaction, I publish these words and am filled with sweet zen goddess earth peace.
Usually for ten minutes.
There are days when I'm so goddamn self-destructive I'm not sure I've learned a single thing since age 16 and don't think I'm fit to be in a room with a child, far less to raise one. I marked that this year is the twentieth anniversary of my depression/anxiety diagnosis, and sometimes I think I've only rarely left that shadow in those years.
When the chemistry and hormones and stars all line up I know more than anything I'm a change-creature and that I should laugh when I declare anything to be My One True Authentic Self. I'm not bipolar, but I'm an extremes-thinker/feeler. It's very hard for me to realize when I'm letting my current mood color everything.
This is a heartfelt post of gratitude to my sweet, patient partner and my beloved Alexis who are the voices of reason when I'm swimming in irrationality. When I sob because the stars are so far away, these two remind me of the beautiful pebbles under my feet.