Ours is not to wonder why...

I was raised to not complain. So sometimes I have a hard time explaining what's going on in my head, unless I'm in with my therapist, or can trust to whom I'm telling. I'm 43, look lots younger, but I don't look like I have a disability, except for the cane I use. I used to get mad (and sometimes still do) at the people who don't move out of the (my) way when I'm walking in a highly-populated place. Like WalMart. So I decided to not change my course. And have almost walked into many people. It's easier for them to move than it is for me. I've gotten the reaction that I must be faking walking with a cane. I'm too young and I don't look sick. Well, guess what? I'm not!

It's been so hard at times trying to come to terms with having AMN, and all that I've lost the past 10 years. I feel like I used to be so pretty, so vivacious, I feel like I'm neither anymore. Granted, the boys and I were with an alcoholic who I let tear me down to nothing. I understand his psychological makeup, and he's dead now. I wonder how much my disease has progressed because of what I went through with him. The world may never know...

I don't mean to sit here and complain. I've just had a hard time lately feeling at all good about myself. I look back over the past few years and think about all I've lost. My mobility, my car, my drivers license, my looks, my vitality, my strength, my faith, my energy, my health, my possessions, my art... So I sit back and look at what I still have. My boys, my sense of humor that drives Patrick up the wall, his and my unspoken connection, my Andy Rew, my mom, our small living space, each other and the love we all have.

Okay, so maybe it's not a perfect life, but it's the one I have. And I'm dealing with the rest as best I can. 💟