This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

I started a new form of crafting last week.

A tiny little stamped cross stitch project just to see how I liked it.

After finishing that one, I went to Walmart and got a larger one, as well as a printed embroidery project, because honestly I didn’t notice they were different.

I can see myself doing both of these on a regular basis.

One more calming meditative skill to add into the rotation.

I love that this one is so portable.

I sat on the front porch in the sun the other day working on my current project,

I haven’t been able to do that since my chainmailling days.

I’m sure that particular craft will come back around at some point as well.

There’s still a bin of supplies in the basement.

The house feels foreign and strange.

While Wonder Woman hasn’t been deeply depressed for our entire relationship, there’s always been some level of it there.

And she’s never had energy or motivation.

That’s different now.

Even positive change is stressful.

Right now it’s entirely possible that she’s running a bit too high, medication induced hypomania,

but she’s been so low for so long that it’s honestly hard to tell what her new normal will look like.

She’s working closely with doctors, and it’s a process I understand very well from going through it on my own.

But the change in household energy and dynamic is hard.

I’m used to directing every little thing.

Or at least waiting until the last minute for it to be done.

I’ve always had this quiet anxiety in the back of my head about things that were her responsibility,

but that I could see her putting off till the last minute.

Sometimes they didn’t get done at all.

We spent this first 3 years of our relationship making sure that we didn’t overstep boundaries.

Those boundaries were drawn with red sharpie, keeping my problems and responsibilities separate from hers.

I didn’t realize how much I was emotionally dancing on her side,

while not saying anything.

Now, all of the things are being done.

Household tasks are handled without my input,

or at the very least, without any hesitation.

She’s working through her own paperwork and logistical stuff,

only asking for my input when it is needed.

And it’s strange for me.

In every relationship we have roles that we play,

and often those roles are comfortable, even if they are dysfunctional.

Our roles are changing.

Change is hard, even if it’s good.

We, as individuals,

and also as a couple,

are unfinished projects.

Over time things are going to change and become more clear.

There is no final picture.

We will keep adding to it,

going back and removing stitches that aren’t quite right,

incorporating new colors.

Each time there is anxiety as we wonder what the next version of the picture will look like.

We are not the same people we were during those first conversations on the internet.

That’s a really good thing.

But learning, and relearning each other is a process,

one that will hopefully be repeated many times over the years.

Change is hard and uncomfortable,

even when it’s positive.

Discomfort is part of growing.

It’s just a matter of learning to sit with it.

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

My brain is full of thoughts running in so many different directions.

But it’s a calm chaos that I’m not used to.

I’m cleaning the house.

Deep cleaning that hasn’t happened since she moved in.

Deep cleaning that has been especially needed for the past year or more.

Staying home around the clock has been horrible for both of us.

It’s all been falling apart for awhile.

Should I have seen how bad things were?

Should I have seen the storm that was brewing?

I knew things were hard,

but I didn’t know how hard.

My life is spent talking openly about my struggles.

I shine light into all of the dark spaces.

I talk about the things that are hard to talk about.

But sometimes, people don’t know how to reach out.

How to put words to the struggle that is brewing within.

“I’m fine, this is fine,” has been a running joke in our house for as long as I can remember.

But it wasn’t a joke.

But, that is her story to tell, if and when she is ready.

My story in this, is that I was caught off guard.

I have craved stability for most of my life.

I keep finding it and losing it again,

crisis after crisis ripping the rug out from underneath me.

It’s hard to talk about that part.

But, supporting someone I love,

understanding how hard this all is,

being there as she finds her feet again,

doesn’t mean my difficulties with the situation aren’t valid.

Many people have supported me through my own struggles,

especially her,

and being on either side is hard.

But I can’t speak to her side of this.

My side is valid too.

I’m saying that to reassure me, not only to remind you.

Sometimes,

it feels like every time I find my own feet,

something pulls the rug.

This time I’m not falling down.

This time I’m creating my own stability in the middle of chaos.

I’m finding ways to control what I can.

Organizing my space, our space, to organize my mind.

Things will be okay on the other side.

Sometimes, you need a wakeup call to realize it isn’t working,

but that’s just an opportunity for change.

An opportunity for growth.

Sometimes, the rug being ripped out,

just shows you that you shouldn’t have the rug there in the first place.

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

I just looked up the definition of blessed.

Because, I feel blessed, but not in the religious sense.

Luckily, google agreed with me, blessed isn’t just a religious thing, it’s also “bringing pleasure or relief as a welcome contrast to what one has previously experienced.”

I’ve always had good friends, don’t get me wrong.

But the more I have lived as myself instead of hiding behind trauma and anxiety and everyone else’s expectations,

the more I found the people who appreciated me for what I had to bring to the table.

I am surrounded by amazing people.

The people who read what I write and appreciate my openness.

The people who reach out through comments and messages.

The people who are just,

there.

And everyone is there in their own ways.

In the past week I’ve had friends reach out with their experience to help me learn, I’ve had friends reach out to send me things that I never could have afforded myself, I’ve had friends reach out with encouragement, so much encouragement. I’ve had friends reach out with Starbucks. I’ve had friends reach out with financial help.

I

am

blessed.

I still have a traumatic life.

I mean, 6 months ago my world was once again rocked with something that most people don’t experience (thank goodness).

I seem to just be that person that shit hits.

“God only gives you what you can handle”

Fuck

that

shit.

I learned to handle it because I didn’t have a choice.

Often I didn’t handle it,

I just survived through it.

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

No, the shit that happened to me didn’t make me stronger.

The way I reacted to it made me stronger.

The work I put into healing from it made me stronger.

It wasn’t just magically,

“oh, look, this horrendous thing happened and now you’re a better person for it”

Yeah, that’s not how it works.

But anyway, I got off the topic that I planned to write about.

I am surrounded by amazing people.

I am surrounded by people that constantly mirror back my worth, showing me that my existence is appreciated.

I am surrounded by love.

By acceptance.

By kindness.

I am blessed.

I appreciate every one of you.

Thank you.

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

TW: Mention of Suicide, Gun Violence.

I can always tell when things are going well.

It’s been over 2 weeks since I’ve written this time.

Don’t get me wrong, things aren’t

perfect

but they are pretty damn good.

I’m sleeping a little less than I was before,

still too much,

but it’s better.

A combination of adding Ritalin back in, and increasing my antidepressant, seems to be helping.

Today we increased it a little bit more.

We recently got access to Discovery Plus.

I’ve spent years saying “I don’t watch TV” but seeing the different shows pop up on this streaming network made me realize,

I did like TV at one time.

I liked documentaries,

I liked stories about families different than mine.

I liked cooking shows.

I’ve gotten sucked back into a TV series and have it playing on my computer while I’m doing other things.

Yesterday I tried working with a new art medium.

I had to move Wonder Woman’s Valentine’s creations to clear space for me to work.

I put it up on a shelving unit we have in the corner.

I realized that the “Parker Shelf” was just above it.

I smiled.

While I do still have some random things around the house that belonged to Parker, most of my memory stuff of her is condensed onto one shelf in the living room.

The front of the shelf says “Love is the answer to all questions.”

I had some “I need to tell Parker this” moments while I was at my dad’s.

I was sharing memories with Wonder Woman and Kidlet.

Showing them a fishing rod my dad had made just for me, one I helped design, one that has my name on it.

Showing them a toy set from when I was growing up.

Showing them some pictures.

Some items my dad made while I worked along side him.

This trip was very healing.

I was able to focus more on the positive side of who he was as a person.

The positive impact he had in my world.

Don’t get me wrong, he was a horrible human being.

But the worst people still have good moments.

A few times in the last couple of months I’ve ended up going 2 weeks between therapy appointments.

Six months ago my dad died.

Things got so bad that I was doing therapy multiple times a week. Then I was in partial. Then I went inpatient for about a month between two different programs.

Now, it isn’t that big of a deal when I don’t go to therapy one week.

It isn’t that big of a deal when group therapy is cancelled.

I’m going weeks without writing because there just isn’t much to write about.

I’m feeling that euthymia that I always strive for.

Not manic.

Not depressed.

Just, existing.

I still have dreams about my dad.

Weird dreams that take place after he shot himself, but he’s still alive.

Sometimes he is shaved bald on that side of his head, an obvious wound by his temple.

Sometimes someone else mentions that he shot himself and points out how it’s changed my life.

A few nights ago I had some dream where I was taking him around with me to college or something like that.

Someone asked, “What’s _wrong_ with him, he’s acting so weird.”

I replied, “Of course he’s acting weird, he put a bullet into his skull a few months ago.”

The dreams are less vivid now.

Less jarring.

They seem less real and I wake up from them easily.

The occasional flashback is easily pushed away.

I know things will come and go.

I know I still have a long way to go, and that I could be better than I am now.

But,

things are pretty damn good right now.