Fifteen months into this unexpected, unwelcome hot mess thrown into my lap. November and December were pretty rough, I have to admit, with the anniversary of the day of discovery, compolicated by some unrelated health and family issues, December, indeed, was not a graceful month for me. I felt stuck, trapped, backslidden into a muddy, sucking rut and feeling guilty abut it. Guilty? Yeah, like I had no right to feel as rotten as I did and to want to inflict some misery on him, the author of mine.
My husband claims that I was not as miserable as I thought I was. He endured my mood swings with grace and understanding, maintaining that I still had every right to feel resentment, and for as long as I struggled with it. Sometimes this annoyed me even more, since he was being mature and I certainly didn’t feel very mature. I felt vindictive, but, not being a vindictive person by nature, all of that evil swill simmered inside of me, like a sick, sour stomach full of vomit I refused to let pass. Just as I had feared vomiting for most of my life, and fought it, I seemed to fear releasing my rage. I think I was afraid if I let it go, it would be out of control and the damage would be irreparable. I had worked very hard at keeping my reactions civil over the past year and I certainly did not want to undo all of that work with a freaked-out meltdown. I consciously set my turmoil to “Pause” the week leading up to Christmas and actually felt some relief. I could still make decisions about the quality of my life, even feeling impaired by anger.