You have got to be kidding me...

There is no greater joy in all the world than a Saturday afternoon spent watching my spirited son sword fight his way through Chuck-e-Cheese while I savor the unrivaled culinary delights of an everything pizza, thin crust. Sarcasm, my friends. Sarcasm.

I hate Chuck-e-Cheese. Heidi, if you are reading this, I love you, love Paul, love your friends and family, hate Chuck-e-Cheese. In fact, my willingness to drive 60 miles to spend the afternoon in a circle of hell with you, is evidence of my tremendous affection. And, of Iain's love for his friends. And, of my love for Iain.

Unfortunately, I left the party with tremendous abdominal pain, indigestion, and cold sweats. If only it were food poisoning.

This has been an awful season for me. My life is like a tire with a slow leak. I have no idea when i ran over the nail, and I didn't notice the leak until the tire was so flat I could no longer drive. Sure, there have been signs of a problem. For two months I fell asleep every night at 8pm and woke up at 3:30am. For the next two months, I used my insomnia as an excuse to catch up on every Showtime and HBO show produced in the past decade. I stopped exercising. I gained weight. I passed up social invitations. I stopped seeing friends. I quit getting pedicures. I started having chest pain. I obsessed over possible catastrophic illnesses I might be suffering from. I canceled travel plans. I felt sad. I felt lightheaded. And now, I'm angry all the time.

You're thinking hypothyroid, right? Well, maybe. But now I have another possible culprit - delayed grief. You have got to be kidding me...

On Saturday, in my 5th circle of hell, I met a woman whose husband had died when she was pregnant with her son. As she relayed her experience to me and explained the delayed grief she encountered 6 years after his death, I felt my chest begin to tighten and my mind begin to shut down. I knew that I needed to hear what she had to say, but I desperately wanted to get the hell out of there. Not this. Not again. I was done!

The idea that I might have more grieving to do is exhausting, infuriating, embarrassing. I'm strong. I'm resilient. I'm capable. I'm a testimony to God's grace. That might have been me two years ago, but if I really am suffering delayed grief, then it was all a sham, a neatly wound cocoon everyone thought was surrounding a butterfly instead of an ugly old silkworm moth that can't even fly.

I'm still going to get the thyroid checked. It's on tomorrow's agenda, and a thyroid disorder would probably be much easier to fix than trying to connect with my grieving soul. Either way, something has to change. I don't like waking up angry, being irritated by everything my son does, feeling hopeless, anxious, unable to breathe. I hate panic attacks and I hate feeling blah.

As an aside, this wasn't what I would have planned as a kickoff post for the spunky, spirited blog of a widow boldly plowing through life with a take no prisoners sort of attitude, but I guess that one may have to wait until next time. Until then...