Monday, October 20, 2014

Leaving the In Between

There's a certain appeal to those in between places. Like the waiting area outside the gate at the airport. You've made it on time, the security nonsense is behind you and you just have some time to fill. All you can do is wait (and try to ignore all the TVs blaring CNN), so there's nothing to stress about. You even have enough room to sit comfortably until boarding time.

But in between is no way to live a life. And that's where I've been living for the past 2 years. Since things ended badly with The Kid, we've been waiting to dive back into the whole fostering/adoption thing. The first year, we had to recover emotionally and financially. Adopting a child from the foster system is cheaper than other methods, but it's not free. We spent more than we could afford on the months of visits before she moved in with us, only to spend even more buying her a new wardrobe because her previous foster mother didn't buy her anything and nothing fit anymore. This was going to be OK financially because you get a $20,000 tax credit when you adopt a child, so we'd be getting all that money back. Plus there would be some reimbursements from the system when the adoption was final.

But when you end up not adopting the kid, you can pretty much go fuck yourself. Even when the adoption doesn't work out partially because of things workers in the system did. Or when the kid shouldn't have been placed for adoption in the first place because their past made living in a family setting so upsetting that they harm themselves and others.

So we had to get ourselves back to the point where we could afford to buy another kid a bunch of clothes if we had to. All while paying out of pocket for a shrink to help me deal with everything. (You know how incompetent new mothers feel? Try being a new mother with 3 social workers criticizing everything you do.)

But we got back on our feet a year ago. Yet we didn't move forward with the kid thing because we knew it would be hard enough without me getting a migraine every other day - and that was what I was averaging a year ago. So we agreed to wait for me to have a good month. Not a whole month without a migraine, but a month where I had more than one good day in a row several times. 

We're still waiting for that, though I did have 4 whole good days in a row this month, so progress. Though that was followed by 5 migraines in 6 days, so fuck my life.

All this time, we've been paying to live in a two bedroom apartment without using the second bedroom. His Awesomeness started making his evening business calls in there. But I kept my office where it was - in the living room. I kept the door of that room closed as often as possible because that empty, useless bed only reminded me of my failures. Not just as a mother, but as a human being healthy enough to leave the apartment without getting winded.

Meanwhile, I've been stuck trying to work at home while the hearing impaired retiree upstairs blasts the TV at all hours of the day and night (and slams the door in my face when I ask him to turn it down). Of course, his TV is directly above the part of the living room where my desk is. Wireless headphones helped with that, but then I realized there's a better solution.

I told my husband that I was tired of living in this pathetic in between state. The bed needed to go into storage so I could reclaim my office space in the spare room. He even figured out a way to rearrange the closets so we could store the bed ourselves instead of paying for a storage locker somewhere.

It took him a couple of hours to move things around. It took me a couple of weeks to get everything in order, and I'm still not done, because migraines, but things are running smoothly at least. And I don't hear the jerk upstairs while I'm working.

So I'm no longer in between. It doesn't mean much. We're still planning on adopting when I'm feeling better. I'm still in too much pain too often to get my novel revised. I doubt I'll be blogging daily any time soon because I still have to save my scant energy for work writing. All it means is that I'm no longer in a holding pattern waiting to get physically better. Because who knows when the fuck that's going to happen.

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