I find myself in the throes of a county-music song as of late:
“My dog’s blind, I’ve got no car, I’ve run out of Bailey’s and my husband’s run off…(to work)”…
Shittastic start to the week was this piece of awesomeness:
That’s a streak of “fuck off” from my non-existent brakes staining the newly paved piece of driveway, right there.
“Dude, brake lines are *totally* fixable…”
They are, yes. In reality of non-chaos, non-asshat Cosmos kind’o’life.
When in the blue hell have I *ever* had a life like that? *eyes narrow*
Here’s the thing…my car is a 2001. It’s…old. It’s needing repairs more than it’s not. After the great brake snafu of 2012, and then the riDONKulous E-test fiasco of this past June, I stated, “The next thing that needs repair will be it for the car.”
The brake line needs repair.
Ergo, my car is done.
We’re still paying off a fecker of a vet bill. I’m still reeling from the back-to-school stock up of the “Everything.” $211 for socks and underwear alone. Not just because. Had to. Impending Yule and holiday season. That kind of thing.
In my publication of the snafu online (because honestly, where else would I post the lyrics to my country-music theme song?) my friend graciously pointed out the following:
I liked the perspective.
Because it didn’t invalidate my emotion on the matter and/or circumstance.
I’ll be honest, Facecrack isn’t the place to post shit like this, because someone, somewhere, will view it as a challenge to either 1) destroy your well-deserved melancholy, or 2) take it upon themselves to issue instructions on how best to overcome the situation.
I require neither.
I’m sad. Very sad. I think the general population, including my family, misunderstands the gravity of:
– having only one asset to my name, and now it’s caput.
– having eleventy-billion errands to run that they cannot see because I do the shit before they’re even home…
– having a ridiculous amount of nurse appointments for kidney screens, occasional blood work and the proverbial chronic disease doctor/patient sideshow of, “I’m so sorry.
– having set a training program to keep said chronic disease at bay as best as possible. I own my shit. I’m good like that. Until I also have to walk a half hour with inflamed joints just to get there.
Can someone else take me to the doctor’s office? Sure. In theory.
Listen, I don’t feel the need to tell my husband all of my going’s on, because I don’t need him seeing me as “Lupus.” I sure as shit don’t need/want my friends to, either. That’s a choice of “Me.” and I expect it to be respected, regardless of general public perception. “Don’t be silly…I understand doctor appointments.”
My appointments, because I feel the need to articulate what I reeeeeeeeeally hope others understand: Chronic disease causes me embarrassment. Not because I’m sick, but because I pee in cups. All. The. Time. And I have to talk about things that no one should have to. And, often, it gets emotional. And, here’s the kicker: It’s nobody’s business but my own.
My life. My disease. My rules.
Can I get people to take me on errands? Sure. That’s just a control issue, for me. I suffer bouts of anxiety and, honestly, it’s not even just about not wanting to ask…it’s about not having gut-wretching intestinal distress in the company of someone else. I run errands on the fly, and, often, time them in between chest-crushing pain and stomach reflexes.
In a nutshell, I haz the sadz at the impending loss of my car. On SO many levels.
So, having the perspective of a “plot twist” certainly allows me the validation of my emotion AND allows me the cognitive understanding that there’ll be something coming up that will make it fine/okay/better.
I’ll spend the next couple of days pre-planning, I suppose. What we’ll do for camping, for example. We can’t take three gingers and all our gear in one van, and renting Uhauls or trailers or whatnot challenges our already stressed recreation budget.
What will be, will be.
My friends get a huge “Thank you!” for allowing me the perspective and validation of the journey through some pretty personal emotions.
I shall call you a collective “Jimmy-John” and write you into my song. 😉