On those days, I can comfort three sons, teach six classes, write my blog, make a bad-assed dinner, help with three kinds of homework, and remember I love my husband all at the same time. Some days nothing can fuck with me. Some days no one can take me down. Some days I am an avatar of what I care about. Some days I am someone I'd want to be. Someone I look up to.
Other days, Life is like a piece of sand embedded in a wound. Some days I have no patience, and I can't even remember what it felt like to have patience for my kids. Some days I don't think I even like them.
Some days I resent the Hell out of my chronic illness, and my deep resentment of its constant, never-ending presence makes me irrationally angry at all the people who pass by me, just trying to live, who happen not to offer to set the table or move the laundry over. Some days that resentment gets the better of me, and I quietly hate myself for my bitterness.
Some days the pharmacy that doesn't have my Lyrica and the workplace that demands so much of my energy and the children who have left lights on all over my house and the cat meowing at the door again and the migraine that still won't go away feel like a conspiracy to take me down, and I want to yell at some Superhuman Force of Nature that it is an asshole.
But I don't believe in God, so I get mad at my husband because his shoes are in the hallway.
I have forgotten a lot of what I learned in Alcoholics Anonymous. I have not forgotten this:
"This too shall pass."
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