No More Bowls

This is going to be a fast one, and not very eloquent.  I'm crying because all of the bowls are in the dishwasher and I wanted a bowl of cereal.  Not a good place to be in. 

That's what caused my breaking point.  I'm mad, tired, stressed, crabby, short, annoyed.  I think the reason why is because I've tried so hard to overcompensate.  I do this to myself.  I hate being knocked down.  I hate being weak.  I hate having limitations put on me.  I stopped my meds on Sunday, 2 days after surgery.  I wanted to prove I didn't need them.  I went back to work on Tuesday.  People said I was either crazy or amazing.  I took pride in either.  I want to go twice as hard.  Imagine a race track, and you're running mid-stride, and you trip on a shoe lace.  You take care of business, and then you take off.  Annoyed, frustrated, and running harder in order to catch up.  That's me.  Running harder, trying to catch up.  Catch up to what, I don't know.  Normal life?

I think I'm mad today because I realized that running harder didn't help or make things go faster.  I saw Dr. G today and she asked me to lift my arm out to the side.  She asked if it hurt, I said it felt tight.  She said it should because she took a good amount of muscle out, and would be like that for a while.  She also said I had fluid in there, and hopefully it will go down and the body will absorb it on its own, but if it doesn't Dr. P will have to drain it with a needle. 

I was supposed to see Dr. P next, but he's at a wedding in Texas.  I suppose he's entitled to his own life, right?  I saw his PA and was not impressed with her.  At all.  She took off the steri-strips.  It hurt.  I looked down.  For the first time saw the incision.  It was bigger than what I had imagined.  She seemed pleased with how it was healing.  I wasn't.  She put new steri-strips on.  I'm still tender and red. 

The rest of the day was good.  I should have been happy.  But I wasn't.  I'm finally angry.  I hate having to take time out of my day to go to the hospital every week.  I'm there so often the receptionists and nurses know me when I walk in.  My life is already so hectic as it is.  Work, the house, Julia, cooking, family, friends, time for myself.  Now I have to fit this on the plate.  (Now I'm angry at myself because I sound like such an elitist, first-world, white, brat.)

I was mean.  I was short.  I yelled at Eric.  I yelled at Julia.  For little things.  Stupid things.  But I didn't know how to convey or communicate the volcano erupting inside of me.  I went upstairs and laid in bed watching the Great British Baking Show for an hour alone.  I needed to cool down so as not to cause any more damage. 

It worked a bit.  I put Julia to bed.  As I did, I told her I was sorry for being crabby and mean.  She, of course, forgave me.  We had fun doing potty, pjs, story, and prayers.  I love her. 

Then I went back to bed and felt anxious, headachey, and tired.  I took some Motrin.  That's when I thought a snack would help.  I thought cereal would be good.  That's when I discovered all of the bowls were in the dishwasher.  And that's why I am sitting here, puffy faced, eyes red, face wet.