Yesterday I was overjoyed to recognize that I’m doing the best I can. Today I’m curled up on the couch — head pounding, tummy aching, sensitive to light and sound — and I’m angry.
The farmers’ market has brioche doughnuts for a special bake sale today. Many extra vendors are set up, selling local crafts. I want to be eating deep fried buttery dough while strolling the aisles for a perfect gift. But, no, I’m at home for the fourth consecutive day with a level 8 migraine.
Hart’s cleaning the house for my mom’s visit, spending his free time taking care of me. He works, in part, to support me and keep me with health insurance. I bring in very little income, so he has to make sure the bills are covered. Instead of relaxing in his non-work hours, he does the full share of housework. And he doesn’t even get to listen to music while doing it because music is too much for my head right now. He’s not even sick and yet he suffers. He clams it is worth it to get to spend time with me. Today I find that hard to believe.
I’m mad that I don’t get to live the life I want to live and sad that my husband can’t either. I know it isn’t because of me, but it is because of my illness. I know I shouldn’t feel responsible, but I do. I’m mad and I’m sad and my freaking head hurts. And I can’t even comfort myself with a latte because coffee is a suspected trigger. Grr.