It’s been a while. I’m sorry.
No, I’m not. Life has been a whirlwind of emotion, illness, and not wanting to talk to people.
Since the last post one child has started Middle School, the other(the one with Aspergers)has finally had the chance to learn a skill and move forward in their job thanks to an amazing new boss, and I’ve dealt with a very close family member go through surgery due to cancer.
It’s been a hell of a month. We’ve had our good moments(took the kids to their first Comic Con-which incidentally was my first as well and oh my god I saw Alex Kingston and Jenna Coleman from a distance), My anime obsessed daughter got to meet and take a photo with one of her favorite anime voice actors(his assistant was just divine and I wish I could thank her for fixing what could have been a bad situation, with grace).
I’ve sat here on so many stories. I’ve sat here thinking about what life would be like if I could redo age 9 on up. Part of me has been paralyzed with fear. I’ve tried writing but the words get muddled. I blame the MS sometimes. But I know this is a horrible excuse.
One of the things I swore when I was first diagnosed over 23 years ago(symptoms started 4 before this and suspected by a doctor) was that I wasn’t going to let it interfere in my life. Yet, here we are.
I’m tired all the time. Except for the times I ingest caffeine. I quit caffeinated coffee 13 some years ago. Two months before my wedding. I had been having severe panic attacks and I didn’t know what they were. After several hours in the ER(where after not being seen for 4 I finally turned to J and said “Lets go home”-I’m surprised he still married me) the Doctor I saw two days later told me my intake was a contributor and go turkey. So of course this two pot a day for 16 years person suddenly gained 10 lbs before their wedding. A first according to the woman who was fitting my 30’s inspired wedding dress. She did not like me.
Let me go back, I have my moments. This disease. This illness. It’s not a disease. You can’t catch it.
I don’t like myself. I hate myself often. I hate myself for not following through on my dreams. I’ve wanted to be a published writer. Ever since I could hold a pencil and wrote my first stories in grade school. Yet, I let the emotional and health difficulties get in the way and take me down. I’ve let the issues with my children and my own self-esteem tear me apart. I’ve let this illness bring me down.
I see other friends talk about how much writing they’ve accomplished each day and I find myself incredulous and angry. Jealous. I hope for a couple hours every two weeks. It’s what I can deal with when my brain is coping in good months. In bad months, with the responsibilities and the anxiety/depression I already I deal with, I give myself no deadline. It’s what I can do when I can do it.