I am lonely.
I am lonely as a parent. I am to only person emotionally available to them. I’m the one doing all the extracurricular enrichments. I pack all the lunches. I kiss all the booboos.
I’m lonely as a homeowner. I want to do things with the house, paint and garden and new floors. But if I do these things on my own it steps on toes.
I’m lonely as an adult. My dearest friends are so far away.
I’m lonely as a wife. My spouse has zero time for any of it.
I’m jaded. I’m bitter. I’m burnt out. Maintaining this mask is exhausting and I don’t understand what I need well enough to ask for help even.
It feels like I’m drowning.
Then there’s this medical burden hanging over me like a dark cloud.
I want to be more for my children. I want to be a better friend.
I don’t know how to be a better spouse, he’s never here anyways. Even when the hours weren’t this extreme, he never chose us over work. The sad thing is, is he’s working for us. But us doesn’t feel like home anymore.
On Monday I saw the new physical therapist I’d been assigned to. He hadn’t seen my file yet. On first greeting me you could see he doubted I needed his services. His face, though not unkind clearly read, another spouse with a trivial ouchie.
While hearing my specifics and patiently listening to it all I could see his opinion visually change. By the end of my history the abject horror was plain to see. The man pitied me in a way I’m not used to seeing.
He carefully explained the nature of injury most of his patients saw him for. The types of injuries that require a few sessions of PT, the kind that are recoverable. He told me his practice was not suited to the ongoing twice a week soft tissue maintenance care I needed.
He let me down easy. He promised to send my referral out to someone who could help and get me in for a session if the new doc had a long wait time. I couldn’t have asked for a kinder practitioner.
The surgeon I saw today was unprofessional. He took a quick glance at my mri, didn’t listen to much of my medical stuff, told me I was too young to have these issues and that I didn’t need surgery.
Then he suggested treatments I’ve already tried without success. And he suggested treatments I’m allergic to. Then he said even if he did operate, the success odds were so poor he wouldn’t bother anyways. He told me it’s just pain. It won’t kill me.
He asked me what meds I took. I told him. He told me muscle relaxers were the same as having a drink. That I may as well just drink instead. I explained that the celebrex I was on earlier this year left me with so many ulcers I could no longer process gluten and alcohol just exacerbates the gut issues. He told me that sucks and how much he likes beer. He mentioned beer quite a bit after that. Told me I couldn’t take anti inflammatory meds.
No NSAIDS, jee I just fucking told you all of this but you were too busy dismissing my pain.
More anecdotes and bullshit later he tells me to go to a pain management doc (I’m already scheduled to go see in Jan) and tells me to go to physical therapy (again the referral is already in but somebody couldn’t be bothered to listen). He told me I didn’t need surgery because it wouldn’t help and nobody would tell me better because things are too degenerated to fix but I don’t need surgery because I’m not even that bad yet and then strolled off like he was god’s gift to the injured and weary.
I went immediately to my primary care office and asked for a different surgeon.
So now I wait.
Insert rant here.
I think it must be human nature to want to bitch and moan.
I came here to do just that.
But truthfully, I can’t really complain…
Not to say that the degree of suffering of others invalidates my own experiences, that’s a wholly different debate.
I’ve been worse off, but my stress is at an all time high. I’m aware of and utilize stress release techniques. I blog, I have support networks, I even have a hobby.
It’s something to ponder.
A simple hobby has been molded into a side business and wouldn’t you know it, those customers I’ve been hoping for for years now finally looked my way. Mid flare, mid move, mid existential crisis. Not only do I not have the spoons for yarn or monkeys, I don’t have the spoons for moving. I can’t find the spoons to pay attention to the latest novel of a series I’m invested in. I hardly have the gumption to whine about my lack of gumption. Fuck.