My writing feels broken.
Life still moves at the speed of “slow down, WTF!”
That hasn’t kept the words at bay.
My love life has been moving in a positive direction. It has made change for me and my boys and we’re riding the waves as a family. For the most part we’re okay but in one very specific way, we’re not.
My firstborn is having a hard time with the changes and not having my home whole has made writing a challenge. How do I write about doing what feels good, when so much of what I feel is tied into how my son feels and the ways we’re not blending our lives into ways where I can proclaim we’re all doing epic shit.
Friday I drove myself to an ER after pushing through a job interview and saying I had a little indigestion. The chest pain was bad enough that I was crying. Not sobbing or asking for attention as much as silent tears and gritting my teeth through the nurse’s questions. It was bad. I found my sense of humor. She was hiding out but given free reign, she’s a bit snarky and had no patience for the whiny bitch next to me. (If a nurse or doctor is trying to help you after you go see them for help, don’t bother trying to justify kicking them.) I was sent home after being given really good drugs and felt better through the weekend.
Monday morning I called an ambulance after a night of chest pain, vomiting and being unable to sleep. I know, pretty bone headed of me. I kept thinking, it hurts, but it’s not as bad as the pulmonary embolisms. And then it was. It went from kinda uncomfortable to more painful than full on labor pains pretty quickly too. I think at some point I may have begged for death while running to the bathroom to vomit and it was only after getting through the night that I called an ambulance and had the paramedic act pretty bored as he realized I wasn’t actually having a heart attack. They hung out with me and waited for another ambulance to take me to a hospital where I was taken in and tested and poked and prodded and drugged. The 7 am call included a transfer to my plan hospital and a discharge after 33 hours, with lotsa fun follow up appointments in my near future. Gallbladders are like lungs. They’re supposed to function without using pain to grab your attention. If you feel pain, play it safe and see a doctor.
I kept thinking of my worst possible experiences and I held them up to what I was going through. I held up the past with the present in a way that let me see that I was not actually dying. I matched up battle scars to see that I’ve been through bad situations and it doesn’t make the current better or worse. It reminds me there’s no point in whining about it. I will get through it. There are no other options.
That moment helped me find the funny and crack some jokes. That comparison gave me the clarity to see that I haven’t been able to write, but it’s about me. It’s not the boyfriend. It’s not wondering what I can write or if I should. It’s my relationship with my firstborn that makes me feel so shattered that the words stopped.
It’s new territory. I get to learn and we get to stretch, and in time, this will be one of those battle scars in our relationship I will hold up. I’ll remember how hurt I am that I have hurt him. I will remember how torn I feel by the directions my heart is pulling me in. I’ll remember that in this moment and every moment around it, I’ve been trying to go by my gut and do what is best for me and my family, without sacrificing myself for my family. It’s a marker.
I will see the parts that were broken. I’ll compare them to the next terrible thing. I’ll remember how we managed and the ways that made us stronger. It’ll be okay. The words will flow again.