Rumpelstiltskin! Rumpelstiltskin! Rumpelstiltskin! Screamed My Grief

I left Palenque in a mood. You probably caught that from my last post and my negative comments about our time there. I was probably unfairly rough on the seedy little city, after all not all areas can be full of charm and culture. The chaos and filth did bring images to mind of Dante's 7 circles of hell, but it wasn't all horrible. The tacos, of which Jesse has focused his vacation in Mexico around, were some of the best. The area was also known for exceptional fire cooked chicken, which I very much enjoyed. In addition, with the guidance of our chef friend who was born there and happened to also find himself on vacation in the area, lead us to a stone street with cool cafes and sassy little restaurants that hinted at a side hidden off the obvious streets. But what I discovered there, more than anything else, was a serious bout of pain and I realize just how much pain can filter my view of the world.

A friend recently texted me, surprised to find us returning to the coldest area we have explored in Mexico for a long stay, remarking that I looked so happy in the warm places. My quick response has sat with me for days, an attempt to be sarcastic and funny, I responded to my friend with "I'm not happy anywhere, I'm still stuck with me". And while I do absolutely agree with the sentiment, happiness is not found externally, for some reason, it seems this statement is reflecting my life in new ways. As the words roll over and over in my mind, like the ripples in a lake circling out from a sinking stone, each a new glimpse of a relationship expectation or a goal still unachieved, it shines brighter and clearer. The longer I sit with it, I find myself riding waves of anger and I realize that there were two days toward the end of our time in Palenque that I had been trying to harness my anger, stuff it down and ignore it. Obviously that didn't work and it came out sideways all over my family and poor Palenque. 

I've struggled for years with reckoning expectations of various relationships and their reality, sometimes painfully reminded by small acts of nothingness that scream the truth of what that relationship really is. Am I making sense? Having been deeply ill once before, this train of escaping souls from my life is very familiar. People have a hard time with chronic pain and don't know how to deal with someone that is inconsistent, sometimes jolly, sometimes depressed, sometimes totally normal, and I get that. I've seen this a lot, and I don't blame you if you are one of those that would rather stand over my grave one day and say "I wish I'd gone to see her one last time or reached out a little more", that is really alright. I have done that very thing with a friend who's eminent death was far more than I could stand to see in person and I hate myself for not being at her bedside. This does allow me understanding for those that are sneaking off stage right for me at this time. I also am not dying! This is severe and intense in my world, but certainly does not effect anyone else, well except my husband and daughter who have to deal with my cranky ass. And it is also round 2 for the drama of illness with me, an exhausting ride even for those most committed to be by my side, so I really get it, it just stings when it is a relationship I believed had a depth that I realize, again, does not.

The truth is the exhaustion has hit me too. I realize I am really frustrated and angry that at 42, I would end up with an autoimmune disease, and one that I had reserved for old people to boot. And not only did I get this stupid thing, but I have a severe and progressive version.  Having only recently been given my best "healed" test results from the brain tumor saga, and be thinking I had an all clear, to be slapped with this is just so unfair that I feel the rumbles inside of an inner Rumpelstiltskin angrily stomping his foot through my chest. I feel like the volcano is about to blow and pretty much everyone should take cover.

One bad street taco, yet another issue with the car, my daughter's computer breaking and a pain in the ass work project later, I ended up in bed for the last few days. We barely made it to our Airbnb in San Cristobal de Las Casas in time for our "A Fern Between US: Emotional Sanitizer Wine Show" Facebook Live show, all of us arguing as we tried to figure out which way was up in our new location. Seconds after wrapping the short show, I was stung with sweat on my brow and an ominous feeling in my gut... oh yes, after 6 weeks I finally got hit with "Mexico Tummy". It was almost like the tornado of crap manifested in ... well a tornado of crap. Sorry for the graphic note there, but you know what I mean when you feel like you somehow digested all the things driving you crazy and become physically ill? Or is that just me? Anyway, I was literally put in a timeout from the world. This could have been a blessing for the world.

This morning, having broken from my cocoon, I sat in a cozy upstairs loft looking out beautifully arched wood windows that gaze down to elaborate gardens and pathways. The fire is crackling downstairs, and I lazily scrolled through my phone's apps. Then, a simple message posted on my therapist's Facebook page stopped me in my tracks, "I sat with my anger long enough, until she told me her real name was grief" read the text laid over a melancholy image of two women sitting side by side, maybe even a painting, it was beautiful, but it was the words that hit me like a ton of bricks and hot tears streaked down my cheeks. 

I am grieving. At the heart of my anger, my perceived betrayals, my frustration, I am grieving. The idea that I had achieved good health once again only to have it smashed to pieces like a wine glass on a tile floor hurts so much I hardly have words for it. I am grieving a life without pain. I am grieving the way I thought my life would look. I want to scream and punch things. I want to claw my way out of my skin and away from the blistering pain. Why me?!?!! 

I fluctuate between wanting to voice this and the idea that in round two I don't have the right. People are sick of hearing me complain, I am sick of me complaining. I don't have a hopeful message as I conclude this post. My depression is desperately tugging at my entrails and it is a struggle to not give in. I hear my husband and daughter laughing while they play cards downstairs as I watch the storm move in and darken the windows. I try to steer my thoughts away from deeply dark ideas and decide to scrape myself out of my chair and join them. I will pour a glass of wine and take baby steps to mend. The first of which is giving myself credit for recognizing the root of my anger, looking my grief in the face and letting it have a drink with me as we get to know one another.