The House of DisrepairThe House of Disrepair
I once lived in a house that I circled. I circled the garden, I circled the rooms, I circled the walls, the windows, the roof. I circled and circled — picking, plucking, doing, cleaning, seeing, fixing, loving, embracing, highlighting, adding, turning the house of broken declarations and falling-apart edges into a gift-wrapped present, a ready-made love nest, a nest of love. But slowly, as I carried everything on my back, as I went round and round, I did less and less and less. I couldn’t do all the things. And before I knew it, I’d stopped. The house of dilapidation stood still. All I could see was too little, too late, a back broken, a house in disrepair. I’ve tried to change my mindset — fixing one thing at a time instead of circling like a tornado, repairing everything in my path. But one-at-a-time doesn’t seem to get anywhere. And the disruption, the destruction, the falling apart outweighs the fixed, the repaired, the okay. The plasters have peeled. The mortar is falling out. The windows have misted — a slow film forming, almost a cube. The weeds have overtaken. The thorns have claimed the garden. The rat circles with happiness because nothing gets done and it can move freely. But the birds come. And the birds — they still give me joy.The House of Disrepair I once lived in a house that I circled. I circled the garden, I circled the rooms, I circled the walls, the windows, the roof. I circled and circled — picking, plucking, doing, cleaning, seeing, fixing, loving, embracing, highlighting, adding, turning the house of broken declarations and falling-apart edges into a gift-wrapped present, a ready-made love nest, a nest of love. But slowly, as I carried everything on my back, as I went round and round, I did less and less and less. I couldn’t do all the things. And before I knew it, I’d stopped. The house of dilapidation stood still. All I could see was too little, too late, a back broken, a house in disrepair. I’ve tried to change my mindset — fixing one thing at a time instead of circling like a tornado, repairing everything in my path. But one-at-a-time doesn’t seem to get anywhere. And the disruption, the destruction, the falling apart outweighs the fixed, the repaired, the okay. The plasters have peeled. The mortar is falling out. The windows have misted — a slow film forming, almost a cube. The weeds have overtaken. The thorns have claimed the garden. The rat circles with happiness because nothing gets done and it can move freely. But the birds come. And the birds —they still give me joy.The House of Disrepair I once lived in a house that I circled. I circled the garden, I circled the rooms, I circled the walls, the windows, the roof. I circled and circled — picking, plucking, doing, cleaning, seeing, fixing, loving, embracing, highlighting, adding, turning the house of broken declarations and falling-apart edges into a gift-wrapped present, a ready-made love nest, a nest of love. But slowly, as I carried everything on my back, as I went round and round, I did less and less and less. I couldn’t do all the things. And before I knew it, I’d stopped. The house of dilapidation stood still. All I could see was too little, too late, a back broken, a house in disrepair. I’ve tried to change my mindset — fixing one thing at a time instead of circling like a tornado, repairing everything in my path. But one-at-a-time doesn’t seem to get anywhere. And the disruption, the destruction, the falling apart outweighs the fixed, the repaired, the okay. The plasters have peeled. The mortar is falling out. The windows have misted — a slow film forming, almost a cube. The weeds have overtaken. The thorns have claimed the garden. The rat circles with happiness because nothing gets done and it can move freely. But the birds come. And the bird
Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter. So if I got paid for every time someone told me my daughter looks fabulous, I’d be a millionaire. A millionaire for every doctor who ignored you, for every professional who let you slip through the cracks, for every moment when the full information, the full picture, the full respect wasn’t given. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Today is for you, Molly. And for the future generations of our family — because this is genetic, because this is inherited, because someone needs to notice and someone needs to ask the right questions. I have become, by necessity, a hormonal expert. A mother who had to learn what the system refused to teach. And through it all, your husband — your rock — has moved mountains beside you, carrying what others refused to see, loving you through every unseen storm. I wish PMDD looked like your arm falling off. Because if people could see it, they’d care. Docto...
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