Open Letter to my love….

Limping my way thru the night, making every trip up and down the stairs _count_, I’m struck hard by a thought.

“I am sorry.”

I am sorry for this illness stealing me for the last year, robbing and rubbing little bits of me away. I am sorry you never knew me as ‘well’, or as well as I was before this. I am sorry you have not seen me dance crazy in a bar after two too many; have not seen me run across a faire-field in the rain to make a show; have not seen me flexible and grinning and breathless.

I am sorry this monster sleeps between us, needle-teeth sunk in my knees and ankles and back and gnawing my fingers and toes. I am sorry it has erupted red un-dragon-like scales on my skin in spots I long for your lips to graze. I am sorry that this body is in thrall to the whims of an immune system constantly at war with itself and imaginary demons.

I am sorry hormones are washing me like tides and I cannot focus on anything but the numbers — the mg/dL, the A1c, the balance in the accounts. And you stress and I see you stressing but cocooned and entombed in these layers of Fear and self-doubt my reaching out feels an empty gesture, a grasp for space I don’t deserve to take. I rage over what-is-wrong-with-me — a Goddess has stalked inside this skin but I didn’t get my shit together enough to seize the time before the money ran out. Runs out.

I’m sorry I’m not bringing in money. Feeling like a mooch, the lazy one who barely keeps the house together and doesn’t cook often enough for having no job. I’m sorry I don’t cook more. Clean more. Raise more peace between these walls.

I’m sorry I don’t try harder, do more, love myself enough. I’m sorry for the insecurities and the roughness of my heart. The stress it brings you and the damage it wreaks. That I’m hard to love.

I love you, I’m sorry; I’ll work harder on believing I’m enough.