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Most depressing picture ever

My life has always been relentless. But this is ridiculous.

Everybody suffers in this life, and I really really dislike it when people stay stuck in their pain and treasure it. When they insist that their pain is THE MOST SPECIAL PAIN. When they refuse to gain empathy or perspective and just canker. I’m not one of those people that falls for the “someone always has it worse so you don’t get to be sad” trap, but I am someone who believes that pain is not an exclusive club and you are never alone in your grief. Which is why I blog.

I’m not a war refugee or a torture survivor. I’ve never been incarcerated for something I didn’t do. But that’s pretty much how far I have to go to find someone who has had it worse than me, and in a way that reveals either my total brokenness or my health and resilience, I can never decide which, I find that somehow comforting. And hilarious.

It’s hilarious because I have a twisted sense of humor and an appreciation for the absurd. It’s comforting because this world does not know how to deal with pain. Every negative emotion is a problem. And if you are a religious person, it’s of the devil. We’re supposed to fake it till we make it and look on the bright side and have a positive attitude. And those things are all fine if you’re grumpy over daylight savings time or frustrated with the people you have to share a living space with. It does not work for tragedy. And it DOES NOT work for mental illness. But that’s what we get anyway. One size fits all advice even when it binds us.

Because of that, we often need permission to feel those feelings. We need someone to say, “That is really hard. It must make you sad.” or “That would make me feel really angry.” Most of the work I see happening in group therapy or among friends or in my role as a peer counselor is validation. “I see that. It would make me feel frustrated too,” feels like salve on a burn. “You are right to feel that way,” is like an incantation. We spend our lives either hiding and ignoring our feelings, or fighting for the right to have them.

So when I am *this* sad, and *this* weary, it actually feels perversely comforting to look at the facts and go, “Yeah. You should be sad. The only thing that would be worse is if you were trying to escape Syria right now.”

Atti’s surgery went really really well, but his recovery has been super rough. He had to stay twice as long in the hospital as he was expected to because a body with Cerebral Palsy is like a beautiful 150 year old house. Even in the renovations you’re going to run into problems. Atti’s bladder refused to work, so he had to be catheterized for far longer than expected. And the catheter kept clogging leaving him writhing in agony and screaming “I’m Sorry! I’m sorry!” over and over again, but unable to tell us where it hurt or what the problem was. His spastic body ramped up with fear and pain until his whole body was tied up with cramps, and every treatment for one thing caused a new problem somewhere else. He was in such turmoil that he could only be calmed if one of us stood at his bedside petting his hair and playing his special lullaby over and over and over again. For seven straight days.

And in the middle of all this, I started bleeding.

For two years we’ve aggressively been pursuing fertility treatments. Treatments that forced me into a mental hospital and major surgery. And, because, of course, when all the conditions were finally right for embryo transfer, Atti was about to go in for the surgery we’ve been waiting for for a year. Of course. And while he was in this painful recovery process, that’s when it became obvious the procedure failed.

It’s hard to know what to call this. It wasn’t that I just got my period – this was a rejection and far more physically involved, but since I wasn’t technically pregnant it’s not exactly a miscarriage either. But those embryos meant something to us. To Bear they were babies. To me they were possibility. And either way, they’re gone.

And we just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other to be there for our boy.

We took Atti home a few days after that and it’s still been harrowing. His catheter got caught on the wheelchair when we were trying to load him into the car and broke and partially pulled out. Atti was screaming, I thought we’d have to be readmitted, and there was a moment where I honestly began to collapse and prayed for death to claim me there and then in the hospital parking lot.

His pain has been so intense we’ve had to keep him medicated around the clock, which meant we were waking up every four hours to screams of pain and had to soothe him back to sleep for another hour, like we had a newborn that couldn’t be removed from their crib. His catheter clogged again, only, not being a medical professional, I didn’t realize what I was looking at and thought it was opioid constipation, so he screamed all day until a nurse friend came over to help us. Then it happened again the next morning and we had to take him back in to the hospital and spend the whole day there while they tried to see if he was ready to leave the catheter behind.

Atti in recovery

Today he is outside in the sunshine playing on his ipad. He has left the pain medications behind and is now soothed by music and attention. He’s still strapped into all his immobilizers and can’t sit up, but it’s only boredom we have to fight now, not pain. Which means that all that grief I’ve been shoving away is sneaking back up on me now. So I tell Atti I have to work and go into the bathroom for a 5 minute break down. Or I’ll cry at his bedside and tell him that I’m sad we don’t get to have more babies in our family right now because I think it’s important to show him how to cope with hard emotions.

I’ve been hiding in work – work I haven’t announced here yet because there was too much hard stuff in the way, but I’m developing a media startup, complete with keeping startup hours – but over the last couple of days I’ve been blocked. Completely blocked over the dumbest stuff. I need to work on our social media campaign and just write a bunch of FB statuses, and I can’t do it. I’m staring at cursors and debilitated by depression. Because now that the crisis is over, it’s time to process. And I don’t want to.

But that’s another thing about having a life as hard as mine. You only have two choices for survival: 1) ignore and deny it all and let it corrupt your soul, or 2) deal with your shit. So I’m dealing.

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