God won’t give you more than you can handle.
Who said that?
“Ok,” I tell myself just when I am about to snap like a dried up twig.
“I can handle this. I can do it.”
Bring it on. I am invincible!
The cracks started to show in the summer of 2015. I began to seep venom and bile. My words came out in a hateful rush. They sliced away at those near and dear. It was time.
I upped my regular psychologist sessions and added a psychiatrist.
I played music loud.
I worked out for two hours every day.
I took photographs.
I fought hard.
Seams about to pop. Uh-ho.
“Well, let’s try this. Take two of these in the morning and one of those by midday. They should help your mood and your depression.” said my Psychiatrist.
Music played – even louder.
Nights filled with vivid dreams.
I don’t remember when the last time I dreamt was.
It was a welcome visual spectacle – even if those dreams were nightmares.
Then in December of 2015, to be precise, the dial of what I could handle was turned to max. I caught the first flight home, one of my parents was diagnosed with stage four cancer.
Landed. Rented a car, and pushed that little plastic box on wheels to 100 mph. Drove fast and furious after no sleep, straight to the hospital. Straight into the ER. That was the beginning of our 30-day visit. We celebrated Christmas, well not really, in ICU. Thirty days of brown water labeled coffee. Freezing temperatures. Broken hearts and tears.That was how 2015 waved goodbye, and that was how 2016 started. We were the lucky ones who still had our family member, who still was bedridden in the hospital. Thirty days. Funny how time drags when you are exhausted and scared.
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