May Tree

I woke up yesterday at about a 4/10 on the pain scale—normal for me.

That number doesn’t mean “pain-free.” It just means functional. It means I can move around without biting down or bracing too hard. It means I can start the day.

Nicky and I woke up late—almost 7. I took her out, fed her, and started my meetings. Or tried to.

The whole morning, she was demanding. In and out. In and out. Squeaky toy symphony during my calls. I couldn’t concentrate. By the time my second meeting rolled around, I was so distracted and overstimulated I just left. I had really been looking forward to that one, too. That threw off the whole rhythm of my morning.

One of the things I had to do yesterday was send out a weekly email update to some family members. We’re in the middle of enforcing boundaries right now, and this email is our compromise. It lets them know I’m okay, gives a few highlights, and holds the line.

But writing it always makes me feel awful. I wish I didn’t write it first thing in the morning because it derailed my energy. It pulls at something deep in me—grief, guilt, the quiet question of why does this have to be so hard?

After that, I laid down. Talked to David. Regrouped. And then—finally—I got back up and did the one thing I’ve been trying to do for days: I started painting.

I focused on the Easter tree. It’s already May 1st, and I know I’ll have to take it down soon, so it felt like now or never. I did what I could. I made some progress.

By 4, the pain came back hard. I crawled up to bed, and when I got there… I broke.

The tears came fast.

All of it hit at once: the relief of feeling better, the frustration of being pulled in every direction, the grief of trying to paint and never getting the space, the push-pull of family, the longing for peace. It crashed into me in one wave and I just sobbed.

But I made myself stop fast. Crying with trigeminal neuralgia is no joke—and I just had my nerve block. I can’t get another for 11 days. I don’t want to flare. So I cried silently, and carefully.

David came over. He took Nicky to the park so I could rest.

Then he came home, curled up next to me, and stayed while I was drifting off to sleep. I fed him cookies.

That was the end of the day. Not perfect, not peaceful—but held together with just enough softness to get through it.