Here I am again, and I cannot even remember the last time I wrote. I’ve been thinking about the blog a lot lately, and it turns out that it’s good for me. Writing my feelings, my thoughts, things which strike me as funny or heartbreaking, is a great way to process my emotions. It seems to be ok that I overshare here. You don’t seem to mind and I need it, I guess. Sure, it’s not how everyone works, but it’s good for me. With beginning my full time job, though, I can’t commit to three times a week like before. I’m going to try to get my thoughts out to you by Monday each week. Take them or leave them, up to you. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

It’s been a hard few months for me. I had been handling things well, I thought, in the grand scheme. Processing my new breastlessness with careful thought, occasional humor, and the rare stroke of grace. Although prone to deep caverns of depression and anxiety in my best times, I’d been avoiding the potholes well. I was feeling sort of invincible on my good days. And why not? I handled losing my one physical asset which had given me confidence. I got a job doing exactly what I wanted to be doing. I was cancer free. Everything was coming up roses. All I had to do was get through these little hidradenitus surgeries. Piece of cake.

False.

I’ve had one hidradenitus surgery and it has been one of the worst experiences of my life. From the day of surgery things began going wrong. I had reactions and illnesses that I’d never had before and it all kept getting worse. My worst day was when my darling husband looked into my underarm area as it flowed liquid and discovered a hole about the diameter of a baseball. I was at my lowest point emotionally on that day as well, feeling crushed by a sense of doom and failure. I felt completely broken. Husband tried to console me as I told him I felt like a thing, an object, a novelty to be poked and cut at. I had long ago lost my sense of humanity. I was a wreck. Not for his lack of trying, I felt lost, unloveable, and utterly undesirable.

Soon after this bottoming out moment, I received word that I’d have a wound vacuum and began healing again. It was a huge boost to my heart, and I began to be hopeful. But then insurance was taking too long, and I was about to begin work. I couldn’t walk around with a hole in my arm, pouring liquid every time I bent down or twisted, while meeting people for the first time and attempting to set up a classroom. My spirits began to fall yet again. I was attempting to hold it together as best I could when I was driving Daughter home and noticed something. “My gas tank is full.” I said. She asked what the big deal was and I told her, “Daddy used this car the other day. He must have filled it for me before he gave it back.” I teared up. “It’s one of those little ways that he never talks about which shows how much he loves me.” In that moment I realized that I was so wrong.

When Husband came home that night I thanked him for taking care of me so well. He hugged me, hard. Hard enough to let me know that I wasn’t a precious object, I was a loved woman. I was a desired human. I was home.