Expletive filled post

I was going to write about Morgan's EEG today.

Today, I was going to say, "To hell with this shit! I'm going to go buy pants. The boys need pants. I need pants. I'm their Mom. I'm going to buy the fucking pants."

And then I woke up and rediscovered that I'm still me. I'm still in pain. A lot of pain. So much fucking pain I can barely see straight unless I'm on enough Vicodin and Bentyl to render me to my couch for most of the day so that it wears off and I'm able to parent when my friend brings the kids home. And no, I don't get messed up. I only take enough to take the edge off. I hate being stoned, okay? Save any criticisms about pain killers use for someone who gives a shit today.

It's two weeks (nearly) into this crap and I'm so sick of being sick or whatever you call this. I'm done. I hate this. I feel like throwing a temper tantrum. Or screaming (which I just did, in my shower, when I fell over trying to shave my legs because of a muscle spasm. Stupid shower. Stupid legs.).

I just want to know, what the hell did I do to get myself into this? I know, I know... God's will. Well, you know what? I'm pretty fucking angry with God right now. Don't hate me for saying that. I feel like it's my right.

I have had moments stolen from me in the past several years because of my health being crappy. Moments like missing family excursions. Moments like field trips. Moments like hugging my kids. Or picking them up because of the abdominal pain from endo and adenomyosis. And then I get to add in RA and possible lupus (because my asshat doctor thinks the jury is out on this one, once again. Also, I'm looking for a new doctor).

This is not how I pictured parenthood. I never dreamed that I would miss out on things because of  me. That I would tell my husband I need him to take over, not because I've had a rough day due to autism, but because I've had a rough day because of me. 

I can't outrun my own body. How unfucking fair is that? I stay short tempered because of pain levels. I hate the medications which are essentially poison and are highly addictive, but sometimes the only damned things that work. And honestly, I don't even use the damned things until I'm in a situation like this. They scare me too badly.

I hate my body, so much. I hate having moments, chunks of time, stolen from me. I'll never get those back. I miss being spontaneous. I miss the old me. The adrenaline junkie who sailed. Who said, "Hell yes!" to life. Who skinny dipped at night around a coral reef in Mexico because "why not?"

I barely recognize this woman now.

This is temporary. I know that I'm usually not this morose, this pessimistic. I know that tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow, I might have my funny back.

But dammit, I just wanted to get into my car, drive the mile down the road, and buy some fucking pants.

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