deafening

I'm stuck in a crowded room with the roar of laughter, conversation and a promising Friday night unfolding in waves of short skirts and polished hair all around me. The only thing missing is the crowded room. Because I realize I'm alone in my head and the promising Friday night is everything I wish I had instead of the deafening roar of responsibility and a over filled buffet plate in my hands that I keep trying to empty.

In one corner you have my ultimate disgust for other parents. Well, not every single one of you. Just those that cannot carve out a few minutes to send a text, check and email or even give a shit about your kids' school work. You see, I'm battling my feat of parental failure enough while trying to explain to my daughter that I cannot make another parent pick up a phone to send a text (because phone calls are a thing of the past, right?) nor can I make them take interest in a science fair project that they opted to group together to tackle. I get it, you're busy. I am too. The difference is that I measure my successes in happiness... so to speak. I am successful when my children are. And I am a pissed off mother bear type when they are stressed and upset that another mother cannot make time to ensure the success of a fucking science fair project. This heaping pile of shit that I refuse to eat is currently being scooped into yesterday's trash because I have stopped trying on their behalf. My daughter can get shit done. I have pushed her all her life to be resilient because I don't ever want to see her like me. A crying mess of "what did I do to deserve this" when something doesn't go quite right.

Next to the smorgeous board of disgusting things on my plate is my fucking health. Well, you see, this pile of crap isn't really a pile at all. It's more of a gelatinous gravy smothered on every single item piled on my buffet servings. Last summer I accepted the fact that I have a disease that there is no cure for. I get it, I will never get better. I will have good days and bad days, but I can learn to control them. I am currently stuck wrapping up week two out of a four week goal to get over this flu induced flare up. No matter how I try to balance the proper amount of gravy for each item on my plate, I just can't get it right. I can't forgive myself for feeling helpless. I can't, not matter how fucking hard I try, I can't quite the self consciousness of my fucked up limp. I'm 37 and I walk like an old fucking lady with a bad back and a hip in need of replacement. I have always said that I have no issue talking about my health with anyone just because I may, just may, help someone fighting the same thing. Maybe someone will help someone else on the same side of the battle field. Maybe I can bring just a spark of awareness to this shit filled incurable disease we call endometriosis. But something inside me is so fucking scared to say I'm limping because I'm in a lot of pain brought on by muscle spasms that are a result of a myriad of surgeries and procedures that I have undergone with the blind hope of being cured. And now that I know there is no cure, I am still fighting and some days I shouldn't be on the battlefield. I should be in the medic tent taking care of my wounds before I rejoin the front. But fuck, I just can't. Maybe because I don't want your sympathy. Really I think it's just because I don't need someone telling me I should rest, when I know it myself. Resting is for the weak and I still have a lot of fight in me. I thrive on my resilience.

The good looking thing on my plate is my husband. He just may be that one savory dish that, although, touched by gravy and sharing space with the rest of the unsavory buffet offerings, may just in fact be the thing that satiates my hunger. He may be the thing that holds me together some days, even though I try to play the glue and the statue and the keeper of all that this family needs to keep going. I can learn a lot from these musings, though. I can learn that I don't have to be all glue, stone and glitter. I can lean on him and he can lean on me and maybe we should really just try to be strong together instead of standing out alone and eaten alive by an uncontrollable fear of crumbling.

I still have so much to say, but the room is getting quieter, even if just a lull for the day. Instead of saying one moment at a time, I think I can live that for now. And I can therapeutically clear my plate in words on a screen, or journal, or in colors on a page.

I need more coffee to wash this all down and then just sink a little bit into a rest state or sorts. Only when my brain can stop for a bit and breathe or repair the broken synapses from over thinking can I rest. It may only be for minutes or hours, but I will take anything I can get in each little moment that passes. Breathe more. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Sigh. Breathe.