Squidge, the Big Sister

Amongst the hardest few months we have ever lived, we can finally share the best news.

Ever since the day Squidge was born, I have known I wanted to do it again, to savour every moment and not be so scared this time. I have agonised many times and for so long over whether it is possible. But Mother Nature has stepped in.

We discovered I was pregnant 2 days after Kev’s mum went into hospital in December , some wonderful news to hang on to in the start of some hard times for us all. A beautiful surprise.

Baby #2 is due in August. Our lives are finally taking the best direction, because we know we’re going to be centred around our beautiful little family, that we’re going to be complete. Nothing else has to matter now.

Squidge has been fantastic the whole way through. She found out the news very early, because she wanted to know what kind of doctor a midwife was when I went to book in and I was too tired to lie quick enough! She helped us share the news with our families over Christmas, and even announced the “baby in Mummy’s tummy” when we bumped into friends at the hospital.

She has been so attentive and involved, asking every morning whether I have taken my vitamins and “fed the baby”. She tells me to be gentle when I move, because of the baby.

The first trimester has flown in all the stress of all the family hospital stays. I have waited for the niggles of SPD that were rooted in my hips at just 8 weeks along the first time around. Nothing. I am so relieved. I have been exhausted and ravenous, but am very proud of how I have coped.

With our first scan, we finally announced to everyone, although the news appears to have been a slow trickle this time because I haven’t been able to remember who knows and who doesn’t!

But look at this face, she’s so excited. She talks to my belly, giving kisses and whispering to “the baby”. I ask her every day whether I’m growing a baby brother or a sister. She seems quite set on a baby sister, but we will have to wait and see a few weeks more. I’ve loved being able to involve her and we talk about “our baby” a lot. We’re going to let her choose things for the baby, and make sure that the baby provides Big Sister with lots of toys and treats.

But in the midst of all our chaos, it has been so strange. We know there’s a baby, we’re thrilled there’s a baby. I even think I can feel movements a bit like bubbles popping. But it doesn’t seem real to Kev and I yet, however much we talk about it. We’re going to have another beautiful baby.

Squidge came home from nursery the other day with the first picture she has ever drawn of our family. I almost cried with love and pride.

Because while it seems so strange to the parents, to our little girl, our baby is already just what is, part of who we are. Already, we are all so keen to be a family of 4. What an adventure this will be.

Love Letter to my Little One vol. 3

Oh beautiful girl,

We are going through so much that I forget you are just 3 years old. Times have been tough for you & I, the world has barely stopped for 2 months now and shows no signs of slowing down. Nanny was unexpectedly in hospital and she and Granddad are such a huge part of helping us help you become the amazing young lady you are. It was hard. It was scary. We missed her lots. But Nanny came home for Christmas, we all took a little breath and hoped that her recovery would be kind and that 2020 would allow us to get back to normal.

But the world had other ideas and I’m so sorry for all that has meant for you Squidge. Your daddy, never ill a day in his life it seems, ended up in hospital for 3 long weeks like Nanny and I don’t think the shock has left us yet.

I’ve never had to be without your daddy, not in our 10 years together. I’ve never had to take care of you by myself. I’ve never had to worry about Daddy being poorly, or hospital visits or keeping on top of clean clothes and meals and work so that we have money.

I have never been so tired, so worried. Those weeks went on forever.

It has been one of the hardest times of my life and I am so sorry for every way it has affected you. More than I can even count, but this is why I had to get it all out.

Because in all of this, little one, you have been my rock. You shouldn’t need to be that at just 3 years old and for that, I am sorry. But I need you to know, I could not have faced any of it without you, much less survived it all. I genuinely think had I been on my own, your lightweight mother would have been in the pub every night, drinking wine to soothe her soul to sleep.

But you have been the motivation I needed. In all this time, when you must have been so confused and worried, you have never asked too much of me.

When you have seen me cry, you have wrapped your little arms tight around my neck and said: “Don’t cry Mummy. No more tears. I love you so much. Daddy will be better soon.”

You have shown empathy beyond your years as I have cradled you and let your warmth and love fill me up.

And if my tears still have not dried, you have wiped them away and hugged me again, as tight as you can squeeze, because you know squeezes make me happy.

You have become more independent. You will get yourself a yoghurt from the fridge, or ask to put the cheese inside your own sandwich. You’ve used your potty training step to climb safely in and out the bath so I son’t have to lift you and you have bravely shouted “Tangles!” when I brush your hair rather than crying through the knots.

You have blown your Daddy kisses every night to his hospital bed and inquisitively asked to see his healing “owwies” regularly so you know where to be gentle. You give the gentlest hugs and kisses and always say “I will not hurt you Daddy.”

It has been so hard. But as ever, you have taken everything in your stride. I feel horrifically guilty, because I haven’t had the time or energy to take you out and do something fun in weeks. You don’t know how important it has been to Mummy to just sit on the floor and do Peppa Pig puzzles with you, or watch you fall in love with the Aristocats for the millionth time from under our “snuggles” blanket. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give you more when you deserve the world.

Daddy came home this week and I was so relieved to have him back with us, so that the house didn’t have to feel so empty and so quiet, that I stupidly forgot that he is not recovered yet, that there is still a lot for you and me to do.

You are a wonderful little nurse, diligently helping Daddy count out his medication, or taking your Paw Patrol pups to his bed so you can play together. This is clearly the thing that you have missed the most and your Daddy strives to feel better every day so he can make you smile. THe first thing you did when Daddy came home was climb into bed beside him with the Thomas the Tank Engine story book we bough you on your birthday, which you have read to Mummy every night since Daddy has been in hospital. My heart was so happy that day, so happy to see you together and you so determined to be gentle, but close.

You got very cross with me the other day when I told you a nurse would be coming to check on Daddy whilst you would be at nursery. You wanted to know exactly how the nurse was going to take care of Daddy’s owwies and clearly felt like this warranted a day off so you could make sure she was doing it right. It made me laugh and I haven’t laughed much, so thank you. But it is important to give you back some routine, you have been through so much, you need your play time.

I know Mummy has not been the most patient of mummies recently and beautiful girl, I am sorry. I try to apologise every time and explain. But i’ve said the word “stressed” now so much, you often don’t need me to explain now. You are such a kind-hearted girl, and you often apologise to me, your head flopped lovingly on my shoulder. I feel pride and sadness in equal measure. Proud because you don’t want me to be sad, sad because you think you’re the cause.

My wonderful Squidge, you are too young to understand a lot, and yet you seem to understand so much. And so, this letter is here for you when you are older, to help you understand that in all the stress and pain and worry and tiredness, all of which you are hopefully too young to remember, you were what pulled me through. My little girl, with her heart of gold, her endless patence and the best squeezes in the world.

Truth be told, on the days you have not been here and I have found myself alone, I have felt lost without you. It has felt like I have lost an arm and I haven’t felt that way since I dropped you off to nursery that first time when you were such a tiny baby at eight months old. I miss you terribly and only make sense of myself in all of this madness when you are back here with me.

We will not be going through all this forever. When Daddy is better, we have lots of plans to spoil you rotten, because you deserve it so very, very much.

Just, thank you. Thank you for being here, for being my wonderful, loving daughter. Thank you for being you.

All my love for you my darlin’.

Mummy xx

Happy 2020 – 10 years in review

Another year has rung in. Everyone on social media is doing the #10yearchallenge to contrast (and hopefully celebrate) the decade gone by.

But it’s more poignant for me. At the end of the month, (January 30th to be exact) it will be 10 full years since, a bit worse for wear, I met a man outside my favourite nightclub. We didn’t know it then, but I would become this man’s wife and I would become the mother of his children.

In the last 10 years, I have hit so many milestones, so many I never expected to, because I just didn’t believe I could.

But that’s OK, because Kev did.
In the last 10 years, I have

❀ fallen in love

With a wonderful man that loves me too, when I never thought it could be possible

🏠 moved out of my family home

πŸŒ† moved cities (twice)

I hate moving. I’m very glad to call South Wales my adopted home now.

πŸ’ got engaged

πŸ‘° got married
It will be our 5th wedding anniversary this September. I have absolutely no idea where that time went, but am so pleased to report we are still very much where we belong. Together.

πŸ‘©β€πŸ’» started my OU degree

This is one of the things I am proudest of. I started my six year course 4 weeks into married life, because I’d finally run out of excuses as to why I couldn’t, and so I knew I had to try. This is the one thing that is simply for me, and I am on course to graduate next year. I don’t know how the time has gone so fast, but I love it so much.

✈ gone to Disneyworld

Here I learned that if you’re sat in a wheelchair (because walking hurts when you’re 3 months pregnant and have CP to contend with) most of the employees assume you’re deaf and mute and just talk over you! It made me feel so sad.

πŸš„ gone to Paris & the Moulin Rouge!
I have wanted to go to Paris since I was young, after falling in love with the film Moulin Rouge. I finally made it there with my best friend in the world when I was 5 months pregnant and snuck Squidge some prosecco during the show. Not gonna lie, she loved it – and so did I! A total bucket list weekend and I’m so glad I had a friend that was determined I would live it – even if it meant her pushing me in a wheelchair up the hideous inclines of Parisian hills.

πŸ‘Ά met Squidge and finally understood what I am for 😍
What can I say? After the trauma of our birth story, this little girl is my greatest gift.

🏠 bought our forever home
Not going to lie, in places it is a shambles. But like I said, we’re never moving again without a lottery win, so we’re determined to spend our lives making it our own little peace of heaven. I love having somewhere to feel safe that is all mine. I never thought it would happen and credit one incredibly hard working husband that I am incredibly proud of.

πŸš— got my driving licence after 7 years
Hardest won fight of my life I think. I can’t say I enjoy driving and I am not confident and even a year later only go where I have to. But that doesn’t have to matter does it? The point is, I’ve given myself choices, because someone believed in me enough that I indeed proved I can.

🏝 gone to Cuba and swam with dolphins
I’d recommend Cuba as a holiday destination to anyone. I have the beaches at sunset as my background on my work laptop for when I need a bit of peace. I was so scared to leave Squidge for the first time, but I swear, that island was paradise, and in contrast to Disney, I couldn’t believe how attentive the locals were to my CP. They didn’t know what it was. They didn’t ask. They just looked me in the face and asked if I wanted their hand. It was wonderful to be treated like a person, to feel the beautiful sun on my skin. If you ever get the opportunity to go, go! You won’t regret it.

πŸ‘¨β€πŸ‘©β€πŸ‘§ took Squidge on her first family holiday

A week in Devon contrasted against Cuba somewhat. But it was Squidge’s first holiday and it was honestly heaven. We were just a family. Time was a concept that went out the window and I felt so peaceful. Squidge took the lead on our activities and we showered her with attention and it was bliss. It taught me that my family is the centre of everything for me, and put me at peace with the idea that work will have to end soon, because my body demands it. I have so many much more enjoyable days at home to look forward to.

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I know it probably feels like I am bragging horrendously. Maybe I am. I apologise, that’s not the intention.

2019 has been a year of self care for me. Investing in CBT courses and private therapy because I did not feel at peace with myself, despite the enormous blessing of my family. It has been hard not to slip back into the lingering darkness that is depression. It has been hard to fight against the voice in my head, which I believe implictly to be myself, which seems so angry at me.

But it has been the most important battle. Highlights like the ones listed above show me how much I have achieved, when there was a time in my youth I honestly believed I wasn’t capable of achieving anything. It is so important for me to recognise the things I have done well, to recognise the invaluable support I have had from my family, whom I love so much.

More than anything though, as I took a deep breath on New Year’s Eve, I realised that I am worthy of each of these blessings. Some are made of good fortune and luck, but others I have seriously had to work at. I deserve happiness. I do. Because what is life without it?

Wasted. And in this body, with the challenges I have to face year in and year out, I really don’t have that much left to waste. And life itself will never stop challenging any of us will it? So why fight it? Why spend so much time feeling drained for battling against the things I cannot control? My energy is too precious, time is too damn precious.

2020 I shall strive to make the most of them both.

I sincerely hope you do too.

Happy New Year.

My physical disabilities do not equal intellectual ones

The title of this post feels uncomfortably like a public service announcement. A few experiences these last few weeks tell me that, sadly, that’s exactly what is needed.

It took me my whole 30 years to accept that I must help myself in any way that will make living with cerebral palsy easier.

I am between physiotherapists at the moment and my muscles are feeling the strain. I booked an appointment at a clinic in the same building where Squidge enjoys gymnastics so I left her with her dad (and my shoes) in the gymnasium and went up to the appointment.

I was asked to explain my reasons for seeking regular physio and cited the cerebral palsy.

I explained that I needed someone to physically help me stretch because my husband couldn’t bear the brunt alongside every day life.

“Can you not wear shoes? Where are your shoes.”

“My daughter’s playing downstairs with her dad.” I explained.

“You have a daughter?!”

The surprise was not kept from her voice. It hurt.

“Yes…” I said, nodding slowly.

“It’s just, I’ve only met one woman with cerebral palsy but she couldn’t speak or care for herself.”

I felt a familiar dread creep over me. The need for people out there to see every disabled person as the same. Except, I didn’t expect to have to explain to a professional the range of cerebral palsy, the different types.

She also asked about my studies. I don’t know why it seemed relevant, but she was polite enough so I genuinely believe she was simply curious. But I have never appreciated being an object of curiousity in this world. It’s just not necessary. After all, I’d been astute enough to make the appointment for myself, to recognise that physiotherapy is important to my maintenance. When I reported that I’m currently studying for my degree, another look of surprise came over her face as she congratulated me.

I do think she was trying to be sincere, but it is so easy to stray into patronising. And I wasn’t there to be patronised, just wanted someone to help me stretch. But she didn’t seem to understand when I explained that very little movement would translate to my left side. The response over and over was:

“Well, try!”

It was at that point that I absolutely knew this was not the professional to help me. I intend to make other plans.


It also took me my full 30 years to admit that a walker would help with my mobility and confidence. I still hate that I am in a place where I need to use it, but I certainly appreciate its presence more and more. I very rarely go further than the end of my street for some milk without conceding I will need the walker for support.

This weekend, I was walking to the library in town, my laptop bag strapped into the seat of the walker so that I had all my study material. There’s a pelican crossing halfway down the hill. I will always stop and wait for “the green man”. In her vulnerability, I fully expect Squidge to stop and wait. In recognising my own vulnerability as a disabled woman, I now appreciate that I must lead by example and do the same. I must not endanger myself. I have been reminding myself that a walker is a sign of such vulnerabilities. Anybody that sees me can rightly assume I have some difficulties.

So imagine my surprise when a driver with a learner plate on stopped at the lights, honked his horn at me and impatiently waved me across.

I stood fast. Firstly, as someone who is an anxious driver anyway, I would never insist that another driver, or indeed a pedestrian should move on my say so, much less as a learner! Out on the road, your life is in your own hands, you make your own decisions. So I made my own choice, knowing that the crossing signals backed me up and it wasn’t safe to go.

I wondered, what made this learner driver think that his course of action was helpful, or even appropriate?

The only conclusion I was able to draw was a sad one. Seeing a young woman with a walker didn’t signal to him that I might in fact have difficulties crossing the road in good time before the signals. What it in fact signalled to him, was that I did not know how or when to cross without his indication. But his action was not driven by concern for a vulnerable woman, it was driven by his own impatience and the assumption he knew better than I did, even though he clearly didn’t both to check the pedestrian signals I governed my movements by.

I struggle to walk. That realisation is hard enough. As I get older, I am more and more things I am not comfortable with. I am slower, more tired, more dependent. But one thing I am not as a result of having cerebral palsy, is intelletually disabled. Some CP warriors do have these disabilities, but some is not all. We are not all the same, our challenges are different.

I am perfectly able to be outside my home alone, to cross the road safely at a time of my choosing, to attract a marriage partner and to make the decision to have children. It is no-one’s place but mine to make any other assumption.

It really does concern me that in this day and age, any of my life actions have the power to confound and confuse others.

I was a person before I acquired any of my disabilities. I so wish that people felt more able to see the person I am before making judgements about what I am able to do.

We Are The Champions

Full disclosure: I fucking adore Queen. The ability to time travel would put me front and centre at their Live Aid show. If you cannot comprehend this adoration, then I am not your kind of person right now. And that’s OK.

Full disclosure 2: This post was written by a thankful wife in a happy rosΓ© induced haze at the request of a deserving husband. I cannot be sorry about that.

This morning the dreaded brown DWP envelope arrived. It was due. In fact it was late so hardly a surprise, but oh how we dreaded the outcome.

# I’ve done my sentence, but committed no crime #

I tore at the envelope and under Kev’s watchful gaze, scanned for the words “cannot award”

Instead what I saw were the words “enhanced rate”.

Twice.

I have received the maximum award on both elements of the Personal Independence Payment for the maximum length of time.

*exhale*

It’s more than we could have hoped for. But even I know it’s not undeserved.

# We’ll keep on fighting til the end #

I didn’t fight. I didn’t have it in me. I couldn’t face the reality of my diminishing capabilities, especially for money. Even though we need it, it seemed so cheap and crass.

So Kev wrote the reality down for me, determined I should have a chance at what we needed to survive.

And they listened. I never could have expected that, the system is such a shambles. The relief is indescribable because right now, it isn’t real.

I no longer have to push myself to work. I can choose to devote myself to my family. I don’t have to feel guilty about forcing a financial burden onto my husband. I don’t have to push through chronic pain to make ends meet anymore.

For the first time in such a long time living with this condition, I have choices. That is everything.

And if you are suffering in yourself the way I have these last few months thanks to this travesty of a system, I beg you to hold on. If for no other reason than I know you bloody well deserve to.

Priorities vol. 2

Whenever I have been faced with needing to make changes, to practice acceptance of my changing capabilities, my wonderful, loyal, supportive husband has only ever asked one thing of me. “I’ll support you in whatever” he says. “You are living your life, you know best. But please, don’t make any decisions based on your emotions.”

Yesterday, after a very long day at work (all-day conference in the city), I fell over in the dark street having just got off my bus. I got up slowly from the ground and felt a familiar pain coarsing through my arm. I’m still not over my most recent bout of whiplash, so it feels like the aches, the pain and the limtations have been lingering for weeks. I called Kev, and asked him to come get me, as I was just at the end of the street. He raced down and as I saw him coming, I burst into tears. Because I knew I could now, that someone was here to understand.

We walked to the next corner and I lost my balance coming off the deep kerb. I screamed. Not because of pain. Kev caught me, I was fine. I screamed like a wounded animal. Because I feel more and more that I cannot be safe, that I am not allowed, I am not able to carry on with the threads of life I am trying (too) hard to hold onto. I fell over yesterday exactly at a point where I was allowing myself the thought “I am doing well. All these treatments are allowing me to keep up.”

I screamed because it felt like my body had heard the thought and just decided “Let’s remind her how wrong she is.”

Kev was worried that neighbours would come into the streets, wondering about the woman screaming in such pain. He tried to shush me. I stood in the road, clinging to him for my balance and sobbing. Sobbing about how unfair it is, how useless my body feels and how much I don’t want to live like this anymore.

I know the way I have to live cannot change. I grieve for that fact every day and I do not apologise for it. But sometimes, I am just too tired. Tiredness is the precise reason I was able to fall in the first place. I’m not sure it used to be and it makes me so sad.

The sound was awful. I knew it was me and yet to hear it, to have it be so desperate to escape from my chest and throat, it was like I was listening to somebody else. All I could see through the tears was the blur of the street lamps, and all I could hear was this awful sound. That poor woman, I thought, she sounds in so much pain.

Because it always changes. Part of my experience with disability and depression has always been, rightly or wrongly, that if I am depressed, I cannot be caught off guard when the depressing times or events come. It cannot impact me, they were expected. I don’t mind admitting it’s a horrible way to live. But that’s always been my rationale.

This weekend, I had what I call a peaceful moment. A realisation of true peace, calm and contentment. They are very rare to me. In fact, I cannot remember any outside of the 4 years Kev and I have been married. I’m sure this is not a true representation, but it does show what an amazing impact my husband has had on me as a person.

The first one was the day after our wedding. We’d booked a nice spa hotel for a mini-moon, to let us adjust to married life. Spas are ridiculously important to my physical maintainence and I remember just climbing into the warm jacuzzi. The sun was setting, sending beautiful red streaks across the sky as we looked out onto the Welsh hills. We held hands, our new wedding rings shining on our clasped fingers. There was nothing to do, no-one else to worry about. All we had to do was be.

The second was a weekend away around the first anniversary of my dad’s death, when work had been hectic and my grief heavy. It was to the city of St. David’s, which is in fact this beautiful little village. It was pouring down with rain pretty much the entire time. So all we did was walk between the hotel, the little chocolate shop and the pub with a roaring fire. It was as if the world couldn’t touch me there.

The third was the perfect day we had in Cuba, swimming with dolphins and eating lobster, drinking rum on a catarman as the sun set. An experience in a beautiful part of the world I could never have imagined I would get to see were it not for the husband so determined I deserved to see it.

The fourth was our first family holiday, where nothing mattered other than our little girl’s happiness.

The fifth was just this weekend. We went for a nice autumnal walk in one of our local parks, me wanting to crunch leaves underfoot, Squidge wanting to play in the park. There was no rushing, no clock watching. We went for hot chocolate at the cafΓ© and I looked at them both, my husband and daughter, and I was so peaceful, so content. Right in those moments, I had everything I need in the world.

And I think that’s why it hurt me to hear myself so distressed over a fall. Because I know it was because I was tired, a reult of wanting to work too hard. It is not my fault. It is not what matters most. Yet still, I get so absorbed in what people must think of me, all these shortcomings that make me so pitiful and abnormal. Except, I am slowly realising, those are not the opinions of others. It is me, projecting my own. And I don’t want to waste my precious energy on being so angry with myself. What use can it possibly be when I had that moment in the park, that wonderful moment of knowing I have everything I need?

My family is everything. They are what ground me and who make me feel whole. I refuse to care any longer about whether I am working hard enough, or how much longer I can work to put coffers in the pot. A job is not what I want. My family is. I would like nothing more than another baby and I am determined not to wear myself down working. I know too that Kev would adore another child. So much so, that he refuses to wrangle with himself as I do over the finances. “If it’s something we want” he says (he knows it is) “then we will manage.” I have spent a lot of time and energy arguing with him, but what for? To see if I can make him as worried as I have been? It’s useless. The two of us are too determined in our aim. And what a beautiful aim it is.

The idea of managing has always stuck in my throat, like it cannot be enough. But I don’t care anymore. Somewhere safe and warm to sleep, with food in our bellies and love for each other. That’s all we need and we have all of that. I don’t want to struggle anymore. I want walks in the park, at my own pace, not having to think about what the rest of the world needs from me. Because what I have to give is not for the rest of the world, it is for my family. It is for that poor broken woman whose screaming is still ringing in my ears.

The Dangers of “That’s life!”

Today is World Mental Health Day. When we have to recognise a potentially fragile and neglected part of ourselves or someone we love, or barely know at all, and promise to do better at nurturing and protecting ourselves because we agree that we deserve it.

This is the exact thing I swore to work on this year. To be honest and raw and to let myself feel my own strength and feel deserving of each happiness.

It can be so hard knowing who to trust with the everchanging state of our mental health, especially when we’re not to grips with it ourselves.

Even now, all these months later, I can barely get past the recognition of “I don’t feel well.”

They are just 4 words. And yet they are just 2 words out there that I have heard with alarming frequency recently. Two words that can keep me from ever being honest with you, when I might most need your help. They stop me trusting you.

“That’s life.”

Many things Are. Life.

Births. Marital squabbles. Your Amazon parcel being delivered 10 doors down. The car breaking down.

All normal things I accept are happening to all of us every day.

But please, I beg you, never brush off anybody’s concerns with a “That’s life.”

Because if I am feeling brave enough to share with you the worries and fear that keep me from sleeping, or feeling like a fully functioning human, then that fear, it is consuming me. I am losing a battle with darkness and I cannot feel the ground under my feet. I am lost and frightened. I am reaching out to you, for a hand to steady me.

It may be life. But in uttering a word of my concerns, I am acknowledging I cannot cope alone. “That’s life” dismisses the nerve I had to work up and worse, it leaves me alone still in that darkness.

Rain makes puddles in my kitchen. That’s life.

Except I’m now not safe in my own home. Which means now that nowhere feels safe and I live in constant fear of slipping or falling, because so long as it’s wet outside, it can’t be fixed.

CP has finally claimed my ability to work. I accept I am made too tired to carry on. That’s life.

Except without my salary, I don’t know if we’ll be able to fix the broken bathroom floor I worry about tripping on, or fixing our patched up electrics.

Worse, without my salary, I don’t know if we’ll be able to afford a much longed for second child.

That’s life right?

Except being a mother has given me the only peace this world, this body has allowed me. It is the only way I hav been able to make sense of myself or stand the pain I live with everyday.

If I cannot do it again, I will be heartbroken and though he’ll never say, so will the man I love more than anything.

It may be life, but it’s so unbearably hard. I would never presume to understand the life any one person lives. We will have experiences in common by virtue of human nature.

But it is so dangerous to presume that this life, anybody’s life is bearable everyday. It is not simply made so because “That’s life.”