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My Profile
She blinded him with whiteness - 2008-07-25
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11:28 a.m. - 2008-03-04
Relapse. Guh. Like 2 minutes after my previous post my innards smiled the wickedly benign smile of a psychopath who is about to do something extremely hurtful and cruel and back I went into the can. Emerging 2.5 hours later completely wrung out and empty I crawled off to bed. I have left my bed three times to sally forth into the big wide world only to come home exhausted and discouraged. I can't seem to get any traction on the path to Wellville and have come to the sad realization that whatever else is going on I am flaring. Big time. My neurons had cut me a huge break, like almost 18 months worth, and I had sorta, kinda hoped my disease had slunk off back to the hell from whence it came. Foolish, I know, but so much of my life is different now! The horrific stress of living with Mike is gone. The anxious throat clutch of yellow alert panic I lived with day in and day out, so constant I couldn't even see it until it wasn't there, just isn't stinking up my life anymore. Anybody who's done some reading on auto-immune diseases knows about the stress factor and how it, above all other causes, is the pilot light. Without that easy ignition most auto-immune diseases can be managed and even though you're a sickie you can have a decent quality of life. Stress. I'll admit my stress levels have been creeping back up again. No matter the sunny face I turn to Mick and cheerfully remind him that aside from Wolf's medical bills we have NO debt. Not many can say that. We're broke, busted flat broke, but we haven't made it worse with a plastic shovel. Nobody here is scrambling to eke out a minimum payment on a balance bigger than the sum total of our assets. Hell, I'm not even upside-down on my mortgage. Even in this soft market I could walk away with some equity. Still and all, the lack of ready cash is wearisome. Hand to mouth is not an easy way to live. Nor is it easy to live with a child who is a walking time bomb. Dealing with Wolf is like handling nitro. Only doing everything absolutely perfectly will keep things from blowing up. The pressure to maintain an ever calm face, to make sure his routine is rock steady and provides the structure that keeps him from going to pieces, to continually fumble around in the dark with him because he provides no feedback whatsoever and I never, ever know what's going on inside his head…it's hard. Nor is there much levity to lighten things. The ultimate literalist, there's no joshing with Wolf, no kidding, no jokes, no giving vent to frustration with a mock growl or over-the-top mock threats. I can't ever say to him, "Kid, you do that again and I'll rip your arm off and beat you with the bloody stump!" Literal. Literal. Literal. To say such a thing is to get a call from the school and a report of my son cowering behind his desk refusing to get on the bus because an arm ripping beating awaits him at home. Even Mick is not without some stress. Yes the man is mad for me and only wants to make me happy, but he also did exactly what he wanted for 47 years without thought one about anyone except his own self. He'd never had to make room or be in any way accepting of anyone else's viewpoint or methods. There was Mick's way and the WRONG WAY. No other guy's side. No inkling that not everybody's mind works the same way, that not everybody is in on Mick's Rules To Live By. The concept that his priorities aren't everybody else's too was such a huge revelation to Mick that we are still dealing with the fallout every day. Even more mind blowing was his finally understanding that everybody thinks their methods are best. Their shit matters to them just as fiercely as his does to him and more than that, that just because other people organize their lives differently doesn't make them wrong. The hectoring impatient angry scorn Mick ladled on top of everything and everyone was so sad. It hurts to live with that ugliness, and while he has made huge strides forward in gaining a 'Live and Let Live' attitude, when he's jolted by something he immediately reverts. And man that shit is getting old. Throw in peri-menopause and the every 17 day menstrual cycle, the ex and his stonewalling, the fact that Alex still isn't speaking to me, the trickle of technical writing contracts dried up and I'm back to scraping for a toehold in the freelance market, and super double-plus bonus- my looks are GONE, I swear, my recent transformation into the wrinkled baggy mud-faced cow I've become would be amazing if it weren't so hurtful. I do not recognize the woman in the mirror. That wreck with the jowls and the dewlap eyelids and the barrel torso. In a matter of weeks I've turned in to portrait of Dorian Gray and nothing short of radical surgery and/or a time machine will help. So that's the story, morning glories. Nothing life or death, I'm just being gnawed to bits by trifles, wayward neurons, and hormones. I'm sure something great will break my way soon and all will be well. In the meantime I'm hunkered down waiting and trying not to throw up too much.
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