I started to write about how tempted I am to give in to my simmering emotions and just let myself freak out. Frustrated with how poorly my legs are functioning, how hard it is to walk, to stand, to get dressed, to get anywhere. If I look at the calendar I’m totally overdue for my bi-annual trip to Losing My Shitsville. I couldn’t be blamed.
But what’s the BFD? MS is old news. I turned my attention to what’s going right in my life. My essential needs are met. The people I love are safe. My puppy is snoring happily in my lap. I have wine. I like my hair. Suddenly I felt less like having a cow. And I deleted everything I’d just written.
Then The Banker, who didn’t even know I was on the edge of a meltdown, texted to tell me he’s leaving work early so he can drive me to my singing lesson. He doesn't want me to have to negotiate this freezing, slippery rain by myself.
Yes, it fucking sucks that if I want to cross my legs I need both arms to lift one over the other. It fucking sucks that I need a cane on one side and a railing on the other just to heave myself up one tiny step. It fucking sucks that I depend on all the walls and furniture in the house to keep me upright.
But that’s enough. I’ve acknowledged the bad and now I will put on some lipstick, kiss The Banker hello, and use my not entirely broken body to sing some big, loud notes. Because singing is pretty therapeutic for me. Maybe because it's a lot like screaming.
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