all the things i wanted

What the hell does it say about me that a few kind words from a complete stranger can have me sobbing like a three year old? Is my life really that pathetic? Or am I just feeling sorry for myself?

I really don’t think I feel sorry for myself on a regular basis, certainly no more than anyone else.

In all I am a lucky person and for all intents and purposed my dreams have all been realized.

Granted, I may have dreamed “little” by other peoples’ standards, but they were my dreams and when laid side by side next to what might have come of my life, the kind of person I could’ve turned out to be – and in my own eyes – I have been blessed.

I remember one night about twenty-seven years ago. BigD and I had been living together about four months and there was a possibility that I might be pregnant. At that point in my life I had thought – I had WISHED AND PRAYED – a thousand times that I was pregnant. Not with BigD’s baby, but with my previous husband’s baby.

Until that night, sitting alone in a little bitty rented house, with this man that I had fallen so completely in love sleeping in the other room, this man that made me realize that all the “men” that had come before were just so many practice runs, I was doing more than praying, I was begging and making deals with God.

I can’t remember all of the trades that I offered, but I do remember telling God that if he let me be pregnant THIS time, I would give one of my legs. There were other equally ridiculous offers and three weeks later, when I found out that I really WAS pregnant, those promises and deals faded from my memory as those types of covenants often do.

The years rolled on and I was blessed with not only a son, but marriage to the most wonderful man in the world and a daughter. I was granted so many wishes and given so many gifts – good friends, healthy happy children, jobs that I loved and most of all the continuing love of a good, good man.

I sit in the living room of THIS house, twenty-odd years later, the one with the sign above the door that reads “This is the House that Love Built“. I rock back and forth and cry, the pain in my back and joints and hips SO bad and I remember those promises and barters and deals with God.

And I can’t help but wonder if payment of those decades old promises and barters isn’t coming due in some way.

All that aside though, I DON’T feel sorry for myself and while I DO complain and whine, mostly in a self-deprecating, let’s make everybody laugh kind of way, I really don’t have anyone to talk to when I am hurting the way I do.

I’ve been to doctors, though it’s been about three years, but they did NOTHING for me.

NOTHING.

They wanted to talk about my alcohol consumption. Really? I drink MAYBE once a month these days and then half a dozen beers is about all I can handle, if that. Compared to my glory days, THAT is NOTHING. Jesus, I used to drink six nights a week, two of them ALL NIGHT. Yes, all night, as in from 6pm until I fell into bed at 6am the following morning. I was a bartender in a series of dive bars in Wisconsin – that’s what we did. Six beers once ore twice a month is NOTHING.

They want to fix the Fibromyalgia. Nothing I’ve tried has done any good – I’ve been on every anti-depressant from Amitriptyline to Lexapro to Zoloft. I was prescribed everything but Prozac and I drew the line at that.

None of them did anything for me but make me fat and sweat and have TERRIBLE technicolor dreams.

Lyrica? Oh yeah, THAT worked, lol.

But I really don’t complain – much.

But when someone gives me a few compliments on something, when they say they understand the kind of pain I’m in … I fall apart.

Of course, no one sees me and no one knows it.