I’ve been in a weird head space lately, especially the last week or so. There’s so much I want to say, so much that I want to talk about…to write about. So many heavy things that I deal with on a daily basis, that I’m tired…so tired…of carrying. Sometimes, I can set my baggage down and relish in the brief respite from the things I carry, but the baggage is still there. It’s always there.
We’ve been hit by one set back or another every other month or so for years. I’m tired…we are tired.
Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if the day will come when we don’t have to live paycheck to paycheck just to scrape by. My husband works so hard, he’s gone before five every day and works until after five. He works his ass off at a physically demanding job, and has little to show for it. Our bills are paid, but there’s little left over for him…or for us.
And there’s not much I can do to change things. My disability comes with a host of limitations, and I don’t have the luxury of being able to just work anywhere for some extra cash flow. I need jobs that can accommodate me. It’s not impossible, but it’s very hard to find companies willing to take that on. I’ve tried. It usually ends the same way; with me resigning from the position, feeling like a failure because I couldn’t make it work.
My writing career costs us a lot out of pocket, and while I do make it back, the hit sets us back a lot and it’s hard to regain our footing while we wait for my royalties to come in.
Honestly, this isn’t intended to be a “woe is me, writers don’t make enough money, wah” post. I knew my career wouldn’t instantly mean a sustainable monthly paycheck, and it’s honestly not the thing that gets me down. Writing has kept me from completely going off the deep end, because it gives me something to do with my days, some way of feeling like I’m contributing.
No, these dark feelings come from the deepest recesses in my heart and soul, the parts I don’t disclose often, if ever. It’s hard to talk about because I don’t want to admit that sometimes, I feel like a burden to my loved ones because of my disability.
I advocate so hard for others like me, others who have disabilities and are determined not to let it completely consume their lives. It’s so important to me to teach my boys that they can do anything they set their minds to, that we are more than our disabilities. Because they can, because we are.
But it’s easy to forget that, especially when you see people your age who appear to be slaying adulthood. They own their own houses and have booming careers and go on wonderful vacations, all while you’re stuck in the same spot. One step forward is bested by five shoves backwards, and you’re constantly behind and there’s not a thing you can do about it.
I don’t like to dwell in darkness, and I don’t like to be consumed by sadness. I know that we are lucky enough to be able to afford a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. Some people aren’t that lucky. We have each other, and in the end…that is all that matters, and that’s all that should matter. Life isn’t–and shouldn’t be–about the material items.
I am grateful for everything we have and everything we’ve built, and once I pull myself out of the swamp of all my icky feelings…I’ll happily return to my sunny disposition and use hope to keep trudging forward. But for now, I’m sad and exhausted and I’m going to allow myself a moment to feel that way.