Battle scars


There are times when we need to roar.
And there are times when we need to whisper.
And there are times when we just need to be silent and listen.
I don’t always know when to do these things.
But Lord knows I’m trying.
It’s a hard slog these days when I feel especially pushed by the winds of fate, stressed, and stretched to my max.
And yes, I’m very very grateful that we are all safe following what could have been a very tragic accident during Hurricane Sandy.
But sometimes, as I discovered while punching during my workout this week, I’m just a tad angry.
During our session this week, my physical trainer–who’s helping me get ready for a possible high risk pregnancy–encouraged me to hit his gloved hands as hard as possible.
Not loving our temporary displacement, the red tape of insurance claims, the uncertainty of whether our home will be repaired properly, and not knowing when we can move back in.
Ticked off that every extra day that I’ve had off–including today–for the past four months has involved moving and related details in some shape or fashion. Exhausted from trying to juggle all of this moving while covering the election.
And I can not believe we’re about to start another IVF with things so up in the air. With the needles, exams, and outpatient surgeries followed by months of sickness if we happen to get lucky. I can’t believe my child bearing time is up and it’s now or never time. I’m still young!!!
The trainer winced as I punched a bit too hard.
Sorry, I said sheepishly.
That was it. I’m angry.
I’m angry with my original house–my body.
I’m angry at my body for not doing what I hoped it could do. I think I’ve been angry at my body for a long time.
For miscarriages.
For infertility.
For HG
For a precancerous condition.
For getting old before its time.
I think these past few weeks have been about trying to love my body, fix my house.
That’s why I’ve been stepping up the mani/ pedi routine, treating myself to hairdos, new makeup and clothes, and pushing myself in the gym.
But falling in love with this house again also has to come from within.
A big tree may have crushed my actual and metaphoric house, but love mends.
And to do this I’m going to have to roar.
And whisper.
And get silent.
And listen.


About domesticpolichick

My life is a crazy jumble of sitcom-level domestic hijinks and fast-paced political reporting in the nation's capital. Breastfeeding while doing a phone interview with a senator...yep, I've done it and no, I won't reveal the name. Toddler calling a member of Congress on the cell..yeah, that really did happen. Pregnant in high heels on Capitol Hill trying to chase down a particularly grumpy senator, yeah...that was nuts. But what can I say? I'm just one domestic polichick trying to figure out the work-life balance.
This entry was posted in Diapers and Deadlines, In the Oven and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Battle scars

  1. HR Hughes says:

    Glad you found my blog- best of luck to you and hope your stamina is everlasting!

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