My sister threw a 90s theme party last night. It was the first time in a very long time that both Matt and I have been able to go out together and both drink without worrying about getting home for a certain time. I told Kim I would crash at my sister’s house, and Matt didn’t even think he’d be going to bed at all.
I had a hard time trying to figure out what to wear for the 90s party, considering I was under 10 that decade and mostly wore matching Dalmatian short sets and dresses that my Granny had made special for me. I wasn’t a preteen or teen in the 90s, which is where all the fun was…but I think I channelled my inner 90s pretty well, with tons of help from Kim.
I didn’t “win” for best costume, because a couple showed up as Bill Clinton and Monica haha. “Monica” had shampoo squirted out on her dress (and it looked a lot like…well, never mind) and “Bill” kept smoking a cigar telling everyone that “I did not have sexual relations with that woman”. They were hilarious.
The party was pretty fun, despite me not really knowing any of the music enough to sing along or anything. I drank a – a lot, but not so much that I was puking my face off. I was feeling pretty good actually…until my anxiety and insecurities got the best of me (it was pretty much over nothing but made up insecurities etc… I’ve written about it before). They took hold and wouldn’t shake off…so Matt suggested we just come home and watch a movie or head to bed.
He was just as exhausted as I was. Partying hard with young kids is kind of difficult, especially if you’re perpetually sleep deprived like I am…and Matt too. He works hard all week and barely sleeps at night for the same reason that I barely sleep at night. (Hint: he just turned 10 months old today).
Next time (because I’m certain that there will, indeed, be a next time), I need to find a way to squish the anxiety and insecurities before they take hold like that. And I know the “simple” solution is to not drink or do anything that might increase my anxiety but that’s no fun and I rarely drink anyway.
I know that lack of sleep and pain also add to my anxiety and insecurities. I was in a lot of pain by 1am. Pain from simply standing. I tried to explain it to Matt when we walked home and he kept asking why I was crying. Well, I hurt. A lot. It sounds pathetic, but me standing for 5 minutes feels like the equivalent to him standing for 7 hours. It’s exhausting and my feet kill and it’s just all around a pain in the ass (and legs). My legs felt like thousand pound weights and I was struggling to keep moving forward on our walk back to Kim’s house.
It’s hard for someone who isn’t suffering from chronic pain to understand it. They think saying things like “push through it!” is helpful, but it isn’t because when you have chronic pain you spend every day pushing through it and when it finally gets to be too much, well…it just gets to be too much. The tears come. The anger, with me, any way. I’m angry because I’m in so much pain and it takes away from the fun that I’m having or the simple things that I want to do. I get snappy with those around me because I feel like they just don’t get it.
I’ve been silent for so long about all this that it’s kind of shocking Matt that I’m coming out of the “pain closet” and admitting when I can’t go on, when I’m near my breaking point. I’m admitting it because I’m tired of snapping at him and having him totally at a loss for why I’m suddenly a banshee. So, at least he knows now that it’s not him that I’m angry with…it’s the pain.