Friday, January 18, 2019

Bruised and battered

It started at 3 am on December 22, 2018 and hasn't stopped. I don't mean to be dramatic, come on!

I frequently encourage my kids, er clients, to write about their feelings and tell them about my multiple journals to show them I am not asking them to do something I wouldn't do. But to be honest, words are failing me.

How do you write about the guilt and anxiety of not taking your kid's tooth pain more seriously? Is 4 (soon to be 5) trips to 3 dentists since the 22nd penance enough?

Does lecturing you parent that an ER visit equals a phone call, not a text, no matter the time of day make that ER visit any less panic inducing?

What is there to say about driving almost the exact stretch of highway where the accident happened on your way to the funeral?

And just when you think you are finding your balance again you are thrown an unexpected snow day followed by unexplained stomach pain.  Just when you think the dark cloud of sadness, stress, and anxiety is lifting you learn of the death of another kind, wise, remarkable individual with whom you had a personal connection. What words come then?

When the dog escapes the fenced in yard and is off roaming the neighborhood, when two fights break out at school before breakfast is over, when you pack peanut butter and a knife, but no bread. What then?

For a reader and wannabe writer, words soothe. Words bring understanding. Words heal. But sometimes words don't come easily. Sometimes counting stitches feels too much like work and the hand can't figure out how to draw the jumble of emotions.

Sometimes it is easier to find a Golden Girls marathon on TV. But only when you can't find M*A*S*H. And you shake your fist at the heavens or the universe, or your partner who stepped over the basket of clean clothes rather than carrying it upstairs. And you blast the music alone in your car. And buy the candy bar you know you will regret (but just one!). And you cry at a stupid video of people making wigs for kids with cancer.  And you put on your pajamas at 6:30pm on a Friday.

You ask for a hug. Then remind yourself that you are stronger than what life throws at you; that the tooth is out, and the stomach is better, and the scar is barely visible; that your sense of humor will return, the stitches will come together, the hand will make sense of the madness, the sadness will lift, and the words will come.

Bruised and battered. Sad but strong.