Can I just talk about myself for a minute? Oh, wait, this is a blog. That's what we do here. Never mind.
I don't like what I'm becoming. I'm losing my patience, my compassion, and at times, it seems, my humanity. I'm seeing myself harden to the constant demands of my ill spouse, because no matter how many times I respond, there will always be more, and more, and more. There has to be a self-defense mechanism in the face of the constant demand on me, and I seem to have defaulted to a terribly unattractive one. I'm irritable, short-tempered, and LOUD. I'm becoming bitter, hard...cold. I think I had a passing urge to vote Republican.
I need a break from all this. I know it, my doctor knows it, everyone who's had any interaction with me in the last month, including the poor kid at Sonic who failed to make my Route 44 Diet Dr. Pepper with "easy ice" like I asked, knows it. "Here, ma'am, I'll make you another one, maybe even slip some Xanax in there for you, just please stop crying in the drive-thru." That's an easy call to make, especially if, when being in my presence for more than 5 minutes, you experience tears, self-pity, and desperation. "Hey, umm...have you thought about maybe, uh, getting away for a bit? You know, just until your, um, essence of nutbar fades just a tiny bit?"
I'm in total agreement with that sentiment. I would LOVE to go away somewhere. Anywhere. Or just to be alone in my own home, for that matter. For even an hour. But it's just not possible. I can't get into another room, and I mean that literally--I cannot go to another room--without bringing along a sad, confused, demanding shadow. I've managed a lone trip to the grocery store, but I only pulled that off by resorting to trickery, and the ensuing guilt kind of made it not worth it. Plus, I was grocery shopping. Not exactly a massage or a mani-pedi.
Why am I even whining about this? Maybe just to get it out. Or to see if maybe anyone has any real for actual, even temporary solutions. Mainly, I think I'm trying to just stop and recognize what's going on, so that perhaps I can halt, or at least slow, this gradual calcifying of my spirit. I used to be fairly happy with who I was, and I'd like to be again. Maybe a miracle will happen. Maybe an amazing and benevolent doctor will find this case study so fascinating that he or she will actually care about our outcome. Maybe Hezekiah Walker will call me up with some inspiration. Maybe Oprah will give me a German cuckoo clock.
You never know.