This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

TW: Mention of exercise, body image, suicidal thoughts, fitness.

Brains are assholes.

My brain is one of those brains that constantly moves from one thought into the next, constantly creating connections between all of the different thought trains.

It’s one of the reasons that I am so insightful about my mental health,

I’m always looking for the connection.

But, it’s not always a good thing.

Overthinking isn’t a great trait.

Especially when it’s mixed with depression and negative self talk.

My thoughts move relatively fast, and they are

always

always

going.

Mindfulness helps,

and I’ve learned to catch it when its going down the wrong path and redirect instead of spiraling,

and I don’t always get sucked along with the trains, they slide by behind the scenes more often than not anymore.

But this particular train has changed and morphed and while I realize it’s completely illogical, the way it got to where it is now, makes perfect sense.

“I need to get more active again.”

“I was doing so well, and I stopped.”

“I remember telling myself I’d never get back to where I am now, and I’m definitely back here”

“I always end up back here.”

“I can’t follow through with anything.”

“I’m never going to get it right.”

“I need to just die.”

At that point the alarm bells go off and I realize what train I grabbed onto and I let it float away instead of spiraling with it.

But over the last couple of weeks, the thought process got shorter.

“I should do yoga this morning.”

“I can’t follow through with anything.”

“I need to just die.”

Nope, not the answer, lets go somewhere else brain.

But it keeps getting shorter.

Now the thought process is . .

“Yoga? ::Gunshot sound::”

And then I have to get off that train, which means I stop thinking about yoga, because yoga makes me think of shooting myself.

But it’s not actually yoga (or intentional movement) that’s making me think of suicide.

It’s the hopelessness, and the shame, and the overwhelm with the shape I’m in now.

But my brain doesn’t take to time to go through the whole process anymore.

“Walk around the block? ::Gunshot sound::”

I’ve spent the last couple of years training myself to let go of suicidal thoughts.

Since my last hospitalization, I’ve gotten pretty good at it.

When that thought crosses my mind (it happens more often than most people would be comfortable with), I’m able to redirect, mostly without thinking about it.

It’s just habit now.

But because intentional movement and suicide are paired right now, I’m also immediately redirecting from that concept.

Which means multiple times a day I’m thinking I’d like to do something active, but before I can put that thought into action I’m running from the suicidal thought that’s paired with it.

So today I spent part of therapy going “how do I fix this?”

And the current plan is to make the distraction process more intentional again, so that I can actively start separating those thoughts.

So

“Gym? ::Gunshot sound:: Um, no, how about we go to the gym first?”

It’s going to take time, but I’ll get there.

One thought at a time.

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

Today I remembered what it was like to be in Middle School again.

Or Elementary School,

Or High School.

They all blur together.

Someone posted something,

I don’t know them very well,

but I thought they were hurting.

I misunderstood the post.

I’ve never been very good at reading a room.

I also don’t do small talk.

I don’t connect to people over “Hi” and “What do you do for a living?”

I connect to people over really real shit.

So, I thought they were hurting.

And I reached out, to say things that felt right to say in the situation.

From the little I knew.

From the bits and pieces I’d seen come across my page.

Nothing specific, but just generic, heart felt, ramblings.

It’s funny, it was about how we are all both the hero and the villain in a situation depending on who is telling the story, and how that is okay.




It turned out their post was actually about the cat that was pictured.

And not a vague book with a random cat photo attached.



And I quickly became the villain in their telling of the story.

And in their friends telling of the story.



And that is okay.

I know that I did what I always do.

I tried to be really real and open and honest and heartfelt and vulnerable.

And I got reminded why it’s dangerous to do that around people you don’t know well.

And how it can be unsolicited advice.

And how it can seem like I’m standing on a soap box.

And how it can appear that I’m being overly intimate.



When the situation was over, I told myself, and those around me, that I was fine.

I understood.

It was no big deal.

But I wasn’t fine

I had reached out.

I had been my big bright shiny self.

And I got my hand slapped.

And the second my hand was slapped I checked that persons facebook to see who our mutual friends were, who was I going to be embarrassed in front of.

And I fought back and forth between dirty deleting and leaving it there.

And I started questioning all of my good intentions and wondering why I wasn’t normal like everyone else?

Why I can’t just see a cat picture as a cat picture?

Why do I talk to strangers in grocery stores and have us hugging before we leave the line?

Why do I have deep conversations with Lyft drivers?

Why do I have no conversational boundaries?

And as the day went on I shrank further and further into myself.



It isn’t a big deal, most likely.

I was out of line, I didn’t know this person and it wasn’t my place to help even if they were hurting.

I was too wordy and had no idea what I was talking about.

I was butting my face where it didn’t belong.

I know better than to comment on posts, I don’t do it often, because I’m afraid of that embarrassment when I read the “room” wrong.

I often read the room wrong.

Its why I’m super quiet in a group,

but talk non stop one on one.

It’s harder to have that large scale embarrassment if only one person is there to witness your fuck up.

So, today I remembered why I’m both quiet and loud, depending on the situation.

Today I remembered why I try so hard not to be too much.

And I’d love to say that this doesn’t bother me and I can move on,

but that’s not the case.

I learned my lesson.

And, before someone reads this wrong, no one responding to that post did anything wrong.

I came out of left field with some big emotional response to something where it wasn’t warranted, and there was a reaction of “WTF” and, because they don’t really know me, “Who the fuck”

But, it was still a stark reminder that I am not like everyone else.

And sometimes that really really hurts.

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

It’s quiet.

Even with the music playing there’s an underlying quiet to the night.

She’s already sleeping.

My brain is slowing wandering,

not racing,

just gently moving from one thought to the next.

Gentle,

but not kind.

I’m trying to counter each thought as they come.

I got up early this morning,

got out of the house.

I had plans after.

Errands that needed to be run.

Instead I slept.

After waking up early, I figured a nap was fine.

But that nap didn’t want to end.

Wonder Woman picked up the groceries,

and brought them in,

and put them away.

I barely registered that she was home.

Eventually she let me know that there was dinner.

I dragged myself out of bed.

I feel like there’s so much I’m not doing.

I’m blaming myself,

as if its some character flaw.

If only I tried harder,

pushed myself more,

I’d pull through this.

I had more I wanted to write.

Counterthoughts to these thoughts.

But I’m yawning.

My eyes are heavy.

Time to go back to bed.

This is a Really Real Widow post.

A few days ago, the last picture I ever took of her came across my TimeHop.

A couple of weeks before that was the video I took right before she went in for surgery.

The surgery that technically had nothing to do with her death.

But stress adds up.

For a long time, I wanted to blame it on the anesthesia.

It felt like she was off from the day of surgery,

but I also think desperation was setting in.

Who knows.

It won’t change the outcome anyway.

It’s only the 6th . . .

her actual death day isn’t until the 8th.

Or the 7th if you consider when she actually took the pills.

These final few days before the yearly anniversary of her passing are so so hard.

They drag out slowly.

Little memories popping up here and there.

Emotions running on high.

I know the actual day will feel like I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding for the past week.

It always does.

I talked to Kidlet about having a virtual get together with friends.

Friends that knew her.

Maybe even friends that wanted to get to know her through our stories.

When I brought it up to him it felt like the most important thing in the world.

For him, the day doesn’t hold as much weight, but he wanted to go along whatever was most healing for me.

I don’t know what I’ll end up doing that day.

Right now the gathering doesn’t seem as important.

Honestly, each year I feel like it’s not a big deal this year.

And then I find myself holding my breath anyway.

This year I keep trying to relax.

Trying to unclench my shoulders.

Trying to stay in the moment.

Trying to remember that these days are important where I am now.

That it’s far more important than wrapping myself up in the emotions of the past.

Today I stood quietly while the vet administered the medications that allowed Trillian, the grumpy old lady of the house, to peacefully drift off.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in the room for that process.

I wasn’t sure I’d be able to be there for this one either.

But I stood there beside Wonder Woman,

rubbing her arm and reminding her that I was beside her while she pet her sweet kitty through the whole process.

I wondered if Parker took her last breath that peacefully.

I wondered how different it would have been if we had been able to offer my dad the same humane way to end his not so gradual demise.

Death is inevitable.

It’s the only thing we know for certain will happen when we take our first breath.

It still comes as a shock on the day it arrives.