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Grinch-ily Accountable…

When you force yourself to belt out “Frosty the Snowman” in your ice-covered car first thing on a Tuesday morning, you know you might be a little stressed.

But, there I was, TOTALLY non-voice-abled due to a frabjous flare of everything I could possibly have flaring (in this case, Sjogren’s), belting out a drunken moose-sounding rendition of this generational holiday fave.

Let me be specific.

I WANT to love the holidays. I do. I really, REALLY do.

But, when you’re afflicted, making lists (of lists…I’m clinically OCD), forgetting the list, making new lists (of lists…sensing a theme?), running around for giftables, losing your list in a Dollarama, planning for company and dinner for “the big day of unspecified celebration”…I get a little pissy. And tired. And deliriously Grinchy. And then I walk into a tree branch. A really thick tree branch.

No one should have to walk into a tree branch.

Thus, when I feel the need to score 500 points for every pedestrian I hit see, and XP points for every cart I mangle bump into…I make sure to force myself to take a moment to do something crazy. Well, at least something crazy enough to do while you’re in your car belting out a drunken moose rendition of “Frosty the Snowman.” And, legal. Societal norms…*eyeroll*…

I found it. While driving, ironically.

Yesterday was a “snow day” here in Ottawa, which actually meant “rain that freezes your roads, sidewalks and car doors shut”…much like Pablum. That shit shellacs itself EVERYwhere.

I digress.

It was a city frozen over. So today…on a beautifully bright (read: buggernackle-fookin’-cold) December day…well…

…the tips of all the trees looked like diamonds. 🙂

Everything sparkled, and in the good way.

That was my #gladitude for the day.

The rest of it was spent overdoing my lower lumbar capacity and hunting for giftables (and cat and dog food…there’s no relevance to that, but it was done nonetheless).

WHY I would like to love the holidays is because I feel that the entire process of the season falls upon my broken, drunken moose-sounding carcass.

I’m so tired. So very, very tired.

And all for one day?

No. It’s at this point where I start seeing Tarder Sauce memes on Facebook and I’m all “OMG! I sooooooo totally get you!”

I may or may not need therapy.

Oh yes. The most important part. You may have also noticed perhaps a short hiatus in my posting since, uh, I can’t remember….ANYway…what really lies in the heart of all that is holiday is family.

This year I have ALL of my children…my year…even my Mom and  her husband are going to come for the big day…

…and then we get to the part where my oldest son battles his addictions…to an upward climb into the illegal where no mother ever wants to see and/or know about…

…and a year and a day after his leaving the home last December…we are once again in a similar place.

It fucking hurts.

Like a pain no lupus or fibro or Sjogren’s could ever touch. There is no pain scale, no Hyperbole and a Half…no “funny.”

Having to do the things I’ve had to do this past week due to revelations and findings out of….things…well…

There is a hole in a part of the fibres of the essence of my soul.

I live not day by day leading up to the most wonderful time of the year (barring back to school…cuz that shit’s awesome)…but minute by minute.

I cannot bear to go into his room.

And then I remind myself of the hardest thing I’ve had to learn to date:

I do not own this problem. 

It is not mine to bear.

I am here for guidance and support (should he choose to accept it)…to be here when he’s willing and able.

Thus, I must continue to move forward…continue to move through the chaos of my reality…to remind myself to find #gladitude in places I’d least likely look…all for the purpose of enabling myself to continue my journey to lead, inspire, care for and grow each and every aspect of my life.

So, Martha Stewart be damned…I refuse to be made to feel inferior with all of those “happy-as-pigs-in-shit” women who freakin’ make their own glass beaded napkin rings and serve their dinners on chargers and shit like that.

Chargers are a football team, not a necessity for social dining etiquette.

This year, like EVERY year…is about me and my family…and continuing to make memories… for at the end of days…one of my children will speak to my family and friends on behalf of my virtuousness and generosity of time and care.



  1. Chris Dean

    This is such a beautiful, dead-on post! As a mother, I understand all too well the feeling that our child’s successes and failures are our own and the constant need to remind myself that they’re not.
    As a patient, I understand the rest of it as well.
    Your words speak volumes about you as a person and a mother. And they speak well of both. *hugs*

    • Brynn

      I sincerely appreciate your words…regardless of whether or not I “own it”…it’s still nice to hear that I’m doing well in the eyes of others who could have easily jumped on the judgement bandwagon. xoxo

  2. Claudia Hernandez

    I am right there with you. The thing is that I love Christmas and I try so hard to live up to my own damn expectations of it that it messes me up. I also have Lupus, and Sjogren’s and Fibromyalgia, and whatever else I can get too. Yesterday after taking a day off from work because I felt crummy, I went Christmas shopping for a few hours. Long story short, I ended up face first on the pavement next to my car. Luckily I went with my husband and he scooped me up and took me straight home. I did too much and my damned body couldn’t handle it. So my point is that even if we don’t care what others think or expect, sometimes we patients need ignore ourselves and what we expect out of the holidays. Spending time with our family is what is important.

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