Pour some grace on it

Lately, I am a bundle of cranky-ness and problems.

I am struggling with these seasonal allergies, which have in fact never gone away since I started experiencing them hard-core two years ago. I am unhappy in my skin, frustrated with my living space, trying not to hate the way the humidity wraps itself around me and it’s only JUNE, there are at least two more unbearably hot months to come before this damp sticky air goes away.

I can’t seem to get out, or do anything, because the timing is always off.

It is always time to rest instead of doing.

Time to sit and drink tea and wait for the headache to pass.

Time to think instead of acting.

Time to stay indoors out of the thunderstorm.

Time to wait, to be patient, to sit on my hands.

I really fucking hate waiting, you guys.

Yesterday, I wrote a letter. It’s partly to my step-mom and partly to my dad — to her, because she was the one who wrote me the letter I’m responding to; and to him, because his thoughts and his beliefs have become her own, and half the letter reads like it was dictated by him. It was a difficult and upsetting letter to write, but there are things in it that I have needed to say for years. And I have said some of them now, and that does feel good.

I haven’t sent it yet. I’m doing that tonight.

Last week I went to the doctor, because now that I have insurance, I was beyond excited to make an appointment for a physical. I asked for all the tests and all the bloodwork I was allowed to get, within reason, because it’s been so long and I want to take care of myself. I found out that I have one of the myriad strains of the HPV virus, and then I found out that I had an abnormal PAP result — some abnormal cells, nothing pre-cancerous, but we’re going to take care of it now because that’s the safe, smart thing to do.

I sat and was stunned and then I cried a lot and then I wondered what would happen to my kids if something were to happen to me, and I told my boyfriend and then I told a dear spiritual friend and then I told my mom and then I told my sister. (And now everyone can know.)

Sometime soon, I will go to a gynecologist and have a colposcopy. My mother is going with me. I am afraid and I am nervous and I am pretty sure I will be just fine, but it’s on my mind all the same.

Why am I telling you this?

Because there is shame here that I want to uncover and wash clean with grace.

I have no shame that, in my searching for love and meaning, somewhere along the way I contracted a common STI. I’m a human being, and some of us get sick. Actually, I’m sure each one of us gets sick at some point in our lives. Being sick is not a thing to be ashamed of.

At first I thought — here it is again, just like when your first husband left you — you’re a dirty used sock, and until you’re cleaned up you’re useless. Disgusting. Leftovers.

But right away, I remembered that NO, that is bullshit. I am whole. I am nobody’s leftovers. And there is no shame here.

Also, I want you to know that if you have health insurance, use it. If you can figure a way to get some, get it. Call your local community health department. Find out if there is even the smallest of chances that you can get care, and take all of it that you are able to. Make sure you are healthy, and if you aren’t, figure out what to do next. You matter. You are loved.

I’m spinning my wheels but I’m also surrounded by love.

My mom is here today visiting. This summer is the Summer of Cousins — my brother’s daughter and my oldest nephew will both be here for several weeks.

My boyfriend’s mom is moving literally around the corner from us. My sweethearted friend Lynn, bearer of tea and brownies, is close enough for hugs and in-person conversation any time either of us wants it.

Thank goodness for all that love, because otherwise I’d just be a cranky bitch who hates humidity.

This post originally published at rhiannonllewellyn.com – it has been lightly edited.

Rhiannon Kelley
Stargazer, medium, druid, student. Activist & rabble-rouser. Married with four kids. Really fucking sweary. Genderqueer & poly. They/them/theirs.

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