The fog rolls in. It’s thick, it’s heavy. I can scarcely breathe. It presses down on me, crushing my rib cage and compressing my lungs.
It’s the fog of pain, and maybe depression too. It blinds me so I cannot see where the pain ends and the depression begins.
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Lately, I’ve been struggling. With myself, with parenting. It’s hard to be yourself when you’re not yourself. It’s hard to do the things you used to do when you can’t, and if you do…the pain makes you angry. Angry because you can’t do those things you used to do with relative ease. Angry because it’s harder now, when it already was hard enough before.
Some days are okay, really. But other days are bad, and I can’t help but want to burst into tears because I’m snappy and I’m frustrated with my healing process.
I still can’t put weight on my heel. I end up holding my ankle at an awkward position so that I don’t put weight on the heel, kind of walking on the side and front of my heel. Naturally, all the muscles in my foot and ankle are enraged at this. You’re not supposed to walk like that.
I went to IKEA today with Matt and Archer. It was a terrible experience. I thought we would be in and out, because I had two desks in mind that I wanted. They were sold out of both, and after walking so much to get to the “warehouse”, I couldn’t look for a different desk. I had to get out of there. The pain was making me dizzy and I couldn’t see straight. All I could feel was the pain. I had no patience for my cranky toddler (and husband). When we got back to the truck, I cried because I didn’t get my desk and it was a pointless trip. (Well, sort of. We did get my nephew’s birthday gift).
I was really looking forward to a new, shiny desk. The one with cube shelves built in. I was so disappointed, in the fact that I didn’t get the desk I wanted…and because I couldn’t enjoy our trip out because I was in agonizing pain. Usually, I love walking through all the displays, daydreaming about the day I’ll one day get to have a pretty kitchen/bathroom/new couch/whatever. I tried not to complain, and I don’t think I did…talking was difficult.
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In seven days, Matt will be leaving. I am paranoid that I won’t survive a month without him. He does so much, even before my surgery…and right now, he does it all. I’m trying to be strong, trying to keep positive. When people ask me “how are you going to cope?”, I just want to scream and cry. I don’t know, I don’t know…ok? The only thing I know is that he can’t not go. He obviously needs to work, to bring in money.
I have thought of a few things to help me, if I need it…and unfortunately, I’ll be leaning on family a lot probably. In April, that is. Seven days doesn’t seem like a lot of time to make a difference.