Hey Darling Ones,

I desperately wish I were the kind of person who, after going through something something tragic, like, you know, a debilitating stroke that leaves you basically disabled and wondering if you’ll ever get your life & body back would come out the other side as a person who is relentlessly positive and encourages you to find joy in the beauty of two kittens asleep on a yellow sweater.

I want to be the kind of person who would reflect on my trials & tribulations and then impart tons of relatable yet wry wisdom people would want on coffee mug.

Maybe I’d be like a wellness coach or a guru of positivity or I don’t know some sort of influencer. I’d be both financially secure and beloved by thousands of adoring fans.

Instead, I’m a person who went through a tragic, debilitating stroke with serious vision problems who is cheerfully cranky about my limitations and how hard every fucking little thing is while reminding myself that I’m grateful for being able to do hard things.

I’m the person who roared at the adorable kittens this morning because Fergus bit me hard while I was getting dressed and now I have two puncture holes in my arm and when I came downstairs to dress my wound I discovered they knocked over the garbage last night while I was sleeping and spread citrus peels, pistachio shells, and a bloody pork shoulder bag, all over the floor. They also broke the beautiful little saucer with violets painted on it my nephew Cade gave me, and they knocked over the lavender on top of the China cabinet, and while I was cleaning up all the mess Fergus & Mortimer batted pistachio shells around the kitchen in the pork blood and Wendell puked between the couch and the coffee table, which is really hard for me to clean up because of the aforementioned disability.

And I am not at all aglow with positivity or full of wise words perfect for coffee mugs.

I’m cranky that I can’t easily clean up the barf. I’m cranky they knocked over the lavender and I can’t right it because standing up and moving my hands above shoulder height makes me super wobbly and afraid I’m going to plummet to the ground.

God, I wish I could be the kind of affirmation-spouting, relatable person instead I’m just this messy-haired, bloody-armed, cranky old giant who is resentful about all the mess, but super fucking proud that I cleaned it up.

If you ever need someone to help you rage at the tiny injustices or minor inconveniences of life, I’m your girl.

Love,
Jodi.