I’ll Get By With a Little Help From My…

There are days I almost make it. I can almost smile and believe life is going well. Then out of the blue I’m reminded of who and what I am.

A close relative texted, basically told me to take some time, call a girl-friend and get a massage or my nails done, etc. Cuz, you know, that’s what women do. Along with drinking wine or shoe-shopping together, I guess. *eye roll*

I own five pairs of shoes, and three of them are backups for when my sneakers or sandals wear out.

I’ve gotten my nails done once in the last five years because someone insisted I accompany them for a bday spa day (their bday). It was my first massage, too. The whole experience was hell. Then the gel nail color looked bad within a week because of how much I have to wash my hands.

It’s been over a year and a half since I got a haircut–a fix for a cut I’d tried to get sometime before that. Shoot, I can’t remember the last time I even had a chance to shower–week or so ago? *shrug*

As for that friend I should call?

Wrote me off almost two years ago along with everyone else. No one needed my negative life messing up theirs. That was made abundantly clear over and over as doors slammed in my face.

So thanks, relative, for the stress and the reminder of how screwed I am as a singular being.

My job is to take care of my husband and get him through this latest crisis. It’s been that way for many years, as I was shown over and over that my worth is only tied to what I do for him. Any concern about me is wrapped up in whether I’m there taking care of things.

There is nothing else.

Period.

I Must Keep My World Small

It happens without warning, and yet it’s been often enough that I should be able to recognize it before it starts. That damned knowledge that there is a larger life out there.

That realization leads to nothing but pain.

My world revolves around getting my husband and two cats fed and through the day. It’s a wonderful existence when it’s all I concentrate on, when I don’t think about the outside. Though my closest link to that larger reality is going to the grocery store or local department store, I’m usually disassociated enough that I can skate there and back with my sanity intact.

But it’s when that reality intrudes that problems crop up. (And, unfortunately, we can’t say no, or stop it when it happens.)

Recently had two separate visits from a small part of my husband’s extended family. We went out for a few meals and even some sight-seeing.

But the conversations left me deeply depressed for weeks.

And despite being told that the visit was “eye-opening” for them about what we deal with on a daily basis, there’s not a “checking up on you” or seeing how we’re doing after they leave (which means life has snapped back into its previsit normality).

I’m not complaining. There are benefits to being a forgotten one. Personally, I’ve learned to love being invisible.

But my husband needs people. Mentally and physically. He can’t get into his chair without another person helping me, so he is bedridden. And going crazy.

Sometimes, we have someone (usually his mom, rarely a distant friend) come help. Those are stressful days of trying to fit in what’s needed before we lose the help again.

I don’t remember what life was before these years. I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful that I can entertain myself without needing other people—because they aren’t there anyway.

But my husband is not so lucky.

So for him, I hurt when I see that he’s a forgotten one. It’s not fair to him.

Then there are the months it’s just the two of us and the cats, and life progresses in it’s own puttering way. If we could just keep it that small, we’d be able to make do and be fine until the last breath.