This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
This is a Really Real Health post.
TW: Mention of weight, exercise, and food choices, but in a body accepting way.
I haven’t written a long post in a couple of weeks.
Short posts detailing my current day to day stuff have been ongoing.
It’s a different way of communicating.
But less cathartic.
When I’m doing well I don’t feel the need to write the long, soul spilling posts that have become such a coping tool for me.
And I am doing well.
I’m slowly figuring out what is mood and mental health related, and what is habit learned by months and months of being depressed.
I’m working on not judging myself for either.
A couple of weeks ago I got on a scale to see if I was above the weight limit for something.
It’s frustrating that many things aren’t built for someone my size.
But, the truth is, I am bigger than many things allow for, and I’m accepting that it isn’t my fault.
I am allowed to exist as I am, and it’s sad that there are things that won’t accommodate me.
I’ve started speaking up. Letting professional offices, especially those in medical settings, know that they should consider having some seating without arms, seating that will accommodate all body types.
But anyway,
I got on the scale again recently, and realized that even with making conscious food choices, and moving intentionally, I haven’t lost any weight.
And honestly, I felt okay with that.
I’m moving around easier, I’m enjoying the things my body can do for me.
I’m working on stretching and strengthening the muscles and joints that help me get from place to place. I’m working on gaining more mobility,
more stamina.
Some days I’m still sleeping more than I would like.
My mood seems a bit better, and I’m more productive on the days that I sleep less,
but I can’t always get myself out of bed in the morning,
even when I go to sleep early.
And that’s okay.
I’m a constant work in progress.
Pushing myself gently to do a little more than I think I can.
But loving myself either way.
And when I can’t love myself as I am,
I accept myself as I am.
I remind myself of all of the things I have survived and overcome.
I remember that my body does amazing things for me.
Movement helps with that.
Especially yoga,
it helps me get in touch with my body and my mind.
It helps me push just a little bit further.
Also, the videos I’m following remind me that it’s okay to modify things in ways that fit my body and my ability that day.
They remind me that it’s okay to need props and items that help.
They remind me that every body is different,
every body has different abilities.
And that every body takes up space.
At the end,
in my Savasana pose,
they remind me to take up as much space as I want.
To open my body and feel comfortable, instead of shrinking myself.
It pertains to mental health as well.
So often we try to shrink our emotions and our symptoms.
We try to fit into a box created by the world.
Right now I’m feeling that I’m not disabled,
but that I’m differently abled.
Not everyone can open up and share their struggles the way I do.
Not everyone can see their vulnerability as a strength.
Not everyone can change lives by speaking their truth.
Well, that isn’t quite true.
Everyone will change lives if they speak their truth.
But speaking our truth is hard.
Accepting our truth is hard.
Accepting ourselves is hard.
Accepting myself is hard.
But I’m doing it.
And lately,
more than accepting me as I am
I’m loving me,
for who I am,
and for what I have to offer.
It may not be the type of productivity that this capitalistic world sees as valuable.
But I’m learning,
because of those around me,
that value isn’t just monetary.
Health
Where do I begin?
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I’m doing some of the things, but there are so many things that are going undone..
I’m going to the gym every night.
But I’m not running the errands I need to run before the sun goes down.
I’m making more intentional food choices.
But I’m eating all day.
I’m cooking.
But dishes often pile up, and my stove top is gross.
I’m getting up early.
But then I’m napping most of the day.
I feel
better
I guess.
But there’s so much I still haven’t done.
The increased dose of my meds are working.
But they aren’t working enough.
Or, maybe this isn’t the bipolar or the depression.
Maybe it’s me?
Where does my illness end,
and my lack of willpower begin.
When does it become lazy, instead of ill.
But, writing this has me thinking.
Maybe,
I’m being too hard on myself.
Maybe,
everything doesn’t have to change at once.
Maybe,
I’ve spent so long minimally functioning,
that I can’t expect to reverse those habits in a week.
Maybe,
it is both mental illness
and me.
And all I can do is make the next right decision.
Keep moving forward.
Picking myself up when I stumble.
Doing what I can and slowly adding more
and more.
Maybe I just need to take it one day at a time.
Maybe I need to be nicer to me.
Starting over, again.
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
And a Really Real Health post.
One of those ones where it’s hard to tell where health ends and mental begins. As we know, they are definitely intertwined.
This is a long one.
TW: exercise and fitness. Quick mention of past suicidal thoughts.
4.5 years ago, Parker died.
Shortly after that I went in for a minor surgery to remove an ovary that had a large, painful, cyst.
They couldn’t control my airway on the table and aborted the surgery.
It scared the shit out of everyone.
I was incredibly suicidal after the failed surgery.
I was in so much pain, and I was still in the middle of that early grief period, and it just felt like the end of the world.
At that time, my best friend was going to the gym every night.
She wasn’t willing to leave me alone, but wasn’t willing to miss the gym.
So she took me with her.
And I went for a walk on the treadmill while she was doing what she was doing.
At the time I could barely walk around the block.
When I first got on the treadmill I had to hold on for dear life because I was so unstable I couldn’t keep my balance.
I can’t remember how long I walked that first time.
But we went back the next night and I did it again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually I worked up to the elliptical and the Arc bike.
We added strength training.
My best friend and I had a great routine and we kept each other going.
I was in the best shape that I can ever remember.
And then life happened.
I stopped going to the gym.
I would start going again, and lose momentum.
Covid brought months and months of sitting in the house, afraid to go anywhere.
I fell back into old habits.
Covid kept me away from the gym, but I also wasn’t making myself walk in the neighborhood.
The concrete sidewalk hurt my joints.
The hills hurt my lungs and left me gasping.
My therapist and I have talked a lot about it.
About my lack of motivation.
About how much I wanted things to change but hadn’t figured out how to change them.
Today she asked me what would make me feel safe at the gym.
I thought about it long after the session ended.
I remembered those nights in the gym years before, going at midnight,
or later.
It was empty.
We had the whole place to ourselves.
So tonight,
I dug through my gym clothes to find ones I could still squeeze into.
I charged my headphones.
I filled up my water bottle,
I put on my mask,
and,
I drove to the gym at 11pm.
I had grand plans. I was going to warm up on the treadmill and then get on the elliptical.
But,
I felt like I was dying after 5 minutes on the treadmill.
Even at a low speed with no incline I was holding on and pulling myself along.
I felt unstable. I was out of breath. My whole body was starting to sweat.
At 10 minutes I knew there was no way I was using any other machines.
I wasn’t even sure I’d last 30 minutes where I was.
But I knew I could make it 5 more minutes.
And then, I knew I could make it 5 more.
And 5 more.
I made it to 30 minutes, just passing the mile marker during that time.
My face was red.
Sweat was pouring off of me.
My heart was pounding so hard it was giving me a headache.
And even though I’m back where I started 4.5 years ago,
I felt accomplished.
I still don’t feel like the gym is safe.
Even with a mask on and many machines shut down for distancing.
Even in a gym that had less than 10 people in it.
But I can’t just spend the rest of my life sitting in this chair.
Waiting for time to pass.
Not actively trying to die,
but not actively living either.
I almost didn’t write this tonight.
I was afraid that I might write it, and then not go back tomorrow, or the next day.
That I would say “I’m going to do this,”
and then not.
But,
I went to the gym today.
And that was a better decision than staying at home.
I don’t need to look forward too far.
I just need to make the next
right
decision.
Just because
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I just felt like writing today.
I don’t have any real reason, anything pressing on my mind,
but I felt the need to put fingers to keys.
Earbuds in my ears, gentle piano music piping through.
My writing music.
I woke up before 4 pm today.
I’m already on my second cup of coffee.
I talked to my pdoc, and we discussed options.
Different anti-depressants that may be activating.
We’re restarting my Ritalin, something that the trauma unit discontinued.
And that’s when I started having problems with sleeping too much.
We’re also raising my antidepressant.
Hopefully this fixes it.
It will be a week or two before I know, she doesn’t use electronic prescriptions and will have to mail me a paper script.
She’s the best psychiatrist I’ve ever had, but at her age even a fax machine seems advanced.
She works for herself, no staff, just a tiny little messy office in an apartment building.
Of course, now she’s working from home. All of our appointments done via phone call.
I’m not even sure that she owns a computer.
I’ve wondered what will happen if she dies. Who will inform me?
Will I just suddenly not get the call at our scheduled time, and eventually I’ll find a new prescriber?
Weird thoughts that run through my head.
I’m starting on the preparations for the Florida trip.
Laundry is gathered, list is started, plans to clean out the fridge more completely for trash night tonight.
Tomorrow we will dig out the car and run some errands.
It’s still snowing.
Yesterday it was tiny little flakes, today it’s big and fluffy.
It’s supposed to rain and get icy.
Ew.
Snow days used to be the only days I took a break.
Running around for appointments and interesting things.
Plans with friends, the gym, long walks.
Snow days are just another day now.
I’m such a homebody.
Finding the balance between safety and using it as an excuse is just hard.
I haven’t found that point yet.
This trip is taking me way outside of my covid comfort zone.
But it’s with good reason.
And it will break the monotony that has become my life.
A monotony that so many people feel right now.
Ew.
Today my pdoc called me a lady.
I got that gross feeling that I get when I’m misgendered.
I don’t think I’ve ever told her though.
And by the time I realized I should say something, the moment had passed and we were on to other topics.
It’s hard to know when to say something, and when to just let it pass.
We’re heading south.
I know I’ll get “ma’am”ed and “miss”ed on a regular basis.
I’ll get that gross feeling but just let it go.
It’s easier that way.
I don’t get the weird looks and the lack of understanding.
Weight for it
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
TW: Weight, weight loss.
I’m fighting an internal battle.
I’ve gained back every bit of the weight I lost since Parker died.
Actually, I’ve gained that plus 5 lbs.
It’s heart breaking.
But I’m stuck.
I’m stuck where I don’t have the drive to get up and walk.
I have every excuse.
And I can’t get back into the gym because it doesn’t feel safe.
I’m really trying to love my body as I am.
But my body hurts so much more at this weight.
It’s hard to go up the stairs to my apartment.
It’s hard to move in bed.
I get out of breath walking the shortest distances.
I feel gross.
It’s hard to love my body when it won’t do the things I want to do.
When I lost the weight after Parker died, it was almost effortless.
I enjoyed the journey.
I was also on a migraine medication that helped, a medication that stopped helping as my body got acclimated to it.
And there were cognitive side effects that were more than annoying.
I’ve been through this before.
The drastic weight loss.
Followed by inevitably gaining it back.
It doesn’t feel good to move right now.
It doesn’t feel good to walk.
It doesn’t feel good to move my body in any way that would help.
Because it hurts.
I’m embarrassed because I get out of breath so easily.
I feel like I’m eating better.
I feel like I’m making better choices.
I feel like I’m not eating quite so many sweets.
And yet the scale keeps rising.
I’ve had multiple people tell me lately that I’m glowing.
That my smile is amazing.
That I seem to be doing so well.
But I’m not taking pictures of myself.
Even though I feel that pictures are so, so important.
I see the extra roundness in my face.
I see the pictures from last year and the years before that and I’m so heartbroken.
I see the pictures from before Parker died.
The pictures that I looked at and said “I never want to look like that again.”
And I look like that again.
Maybe with a brighter glow this time.
Maybe with a bigger smile.
Life isn’t like it was back then.
But yet, the weight still came back.
I’m just not there yet.
I’m not ready to
do
anything about it.
But I need to.
I was afraid of starting before the holidays.
Afraid that it would be too much to keep up with and I’d fail.
I’m afraid of starting around new years.
New years resolutions never work and I don’t want this to be that.
I’m afraid of failing.
I’m afraid of beating myself up more.
Again.
I’m afraid.
I keep waiting until I feel like I can do it.
But what if that time never comes.
Why can’t I just push past this block?
Why can’t I just
do it?
What am I waiting for?
Old Houses
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I’ve been dreaming about my dad a lot.
The dreams always take place at his old house, the one I helped him build, the one I spent every other weekend at for most of my childhood years.
We made a lot of memories in that home.
I was sad when he sold it.
I remember climbing on the roof putting shingles on.
I remember him throwing a priced pencil set across the room because I didn’t put it away.
I remember playing in the giant hole where the foundation was dug out.
I remember being called Butch when I got my hair cut short for the first time.
I remember laying bricks, learning how to put just the right amount of mortar on.
I remember realizing Dad was racist, when he was talking about his brick layer.
I remember playing on “Mt. Tina,” the giant pile of dirt where they dug the basement out.
That’s the house I envision when I envision my father.
I only visited him a handful of times at the Florida house.
So that’s not where he is in my dreams.
I dream about him every few nights.
Dreams that take place after he shot himself, but he’s still alive.
A weird dichotomy where I know he’s dead, but I know he’s alive.
The dreams don’t really upset me, most of the time.
But, he tried to kill me in one of them and I screamed out,
scaring Wonder Woman who was sleeping beside me.
I’m pretty upset that I dream about him so often.
In the three months since he’s died, he’s shown up in my dreams more times than Parker ever has.
And she’s been dead for four and a half years.
This wasn’t what I planned to write about today.
I planned to write about pulling out an old hobby.
A friend gifted me a small diamond painting and it reminded me of how many hours I spent doing them a few years ago.
I didn’t realize I missed it until I started doing it again.
Relaxing in a meditative sort of way.
An activity that I get completely immersed in,
focusing on matching each symbol in turn as I work my way around the canvas.
It’s a silly activity.
One that will leave me with giant canvases full of plastic “diamonds.”
Art that I will never do anything with.
But it occupies my mind and my hands.
It gives me something to do on these long winter nights while Covid keeps me trapped inside.
I texted my cousin this week.
Told him I was ready to come back to work a few hours a week.
When he has something for me to do.
It feels like an achievement.
Like I’m healing.
Like I’m getting my life back.
It’s about time.
Day 19
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
Two steps forward.
One step back.
I cancelled almost everything today.
I showed up late to PHP, and was thankful when we ended both groups early.
I cancelled meeting up with a friend.
I cancelled my doctors appointment.
I barely made it out to the store to pick up a medication I had run out of.
Part of it is that I’m flaring right now.
Every joint hurts.
A burning pain that makes me want to cry.
But I don’t.
Honestly, I look just like I look any other day.
I just,
deal with it.
Silently.
But inside I’m screaming.
And, it was also depression.
I could feel it gripping at me, holding me back.
Holding me down in bed this morning.
Holding me back from leaving the house.
Some days it’s releasing its grip enough to let me function almost normally.
Whatever that is.
But today it held firm.
I pushed through some this afternoon.
Staring at my design software I stopped scrolling Facebook long enough to work on some cards.
I kept having to push every step of the way.
I would make a few edits and find myself mindlessly scrolling again.
I would cut a few pages and catch myself mindlessly reading post after post.
Eventually I’d get them put together.
I managed to make 12 cards today.
I was wading through the thickest mud though.
Even writing this,
I’m forcing myself to stay on track.
I keep getting distracted by everything.
Zoning off into the distance.
Two steps forward.
One step back.
I’ll move forward again tomorrow.
Day 17
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
Today has been productive.
It feels good.
I had PHP this morning.
I over slept.
I almost didn’t go at all.
But I did.
Afterwards I had coffee with a high school friend. Someone I probably haven’t seen since we graduated.
Or maybe in my Denny’s days right after high school.
Conversation flowed easily, and my ever present anxiety was quiet for a change.
We sat outside.
The cold wind threatening to blow our drinks over.
But it was nice to be around someone as worried about safety as I am.
We talked a lot about Covid.
About how our lives have changed.
And how it will never go back to the normal that was.
There will forever be a new normal.
It felt nice to socialize.
When I got home I was worn out.
The smallest things do that now.
But the coffee kept me going.
I spent this evening filling envelopes with already created cards.
I’ve made 64 so far.
I need to make another 33.
I’m having so much fun with them, so much love is going into these pieces of paper.
And I’m surrounded by so much love.
I remember being in school, horribly bullied, with no idea what was wrong with me.
Or what I was doing wrong.
Now, I’m surrounded by a support system bigger than most people have.
All of you that read my posts.
Some silently.
Some reacting.
Some commenting.
The people inviting me out for coffee and walks.
The people keeping me company over zoom or at bonfires.
It’s nice to be so loved.
It’s nice to be able to feel that love.
Instead of being surrounded by a fog that won’t let it in.
I’m feeling better every day.
I’m sure rough times will come again, but I’m also sure I can handle them.
For now, though, I’m going to enjoy the clear blue skies.
Day 13
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I almost forgot to write today.
I spent the morning in PHP, followed by leaving the house for some errands, and then jumping right into crafting.
It feels good to be productive.
I had a phone appointment with my pdoc today, she said I’m still not my normal chatty stuff.
Partially it’s because life is boring right now.
I don’t leave the house often as it is, but now I’m even more worried about going out.
Numbers are spiking.
And there are still people who don’t believe in this virus, I have a hard time associating with them.
They are putting the lives of themselves and others at risk, and they don’t care.
I’m going to be alone for Thanksgiving, and I’m okay with that.
I’m not going to go searching out a friendsgiving, maybe I’ll meet up with some people via zoom, but I’m okay being in my own little bubble where I’m not taking a chance on making the numbers higher.
There are two people in my PHP who lost loved ones to Covid. Two people out of the 9 or 10 of us there.
One woman became a widow, another lost a child, younger than me.
Because of a “fake virus” that people aren’t taking seriously.
It breaks my heart. It scares me.
It scares me.
I’m more depressed being at home all of the time.
I miss derby.
I miss gatherings.
I miss going out without fear.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to go out more.
I guess this post wasn’t all that much about mental health, but at the same time, this is affecting all of our mental health.
This is a slow sort of trauma for all of us.
Or at least those of us who are taking it seriously.
Day 1
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
TW: Talk of weight loss.
I still haven’t decided if I’m going to do this every day this month or not.
But just in case I keep going, I figured I should write something today.
I’m not really sure what to write about though.
Today was a nice laid back day. Lunch at a new (to me) place, Starbucks, and a nice long nap that I apparently needed.
Such a good nap.
Now I’m about to go walking with my gym buddy and hopefully get back into this routine.
I’d like to make it back into the gym eventually.
But it doesn’t feel safe to me right now, so walking it is.
.
.
.
Writing was interrupted by walking. The shortest walks leave me so winded now. I remember doing miles without thinking twice and now going the long way around the block leaves me panting and wheezing.
I’ll get back to where I was, it’s just going to take time.
And dedication.
And perseverance.
I’m afraid I’m going to repeat my old pattern again, and I’m trying to stop it. The last time I lost a significant amount of weight, I gained back almost twice what I lost.
I don’t honestly care about the numbers on the scale.
I care about being fit enough to walk up and down my stairs without needing my inhaler.
I care about the other numbers.
I care about becoming diabetic again.
I care about my blood pressure.
And I know I can be fat and active and keep those numbers under control.
But I have to start somewhere, and right now I’m starting back at the beginning.
Walks the long way around the block. Both for my body and for my mind.
Eventually I’ll be able to go the even longer way around the block. The way with the steep hill.
The way that’s intimidating for me now.
I’m tired of getting out of breath this easily.
I’m tired of letting myself fall back into old habits.
I’m tired of eating because I’m upset.
And then getting upset because I’m eating.
I’m just tired of this same old battle, that will probably never stop.
It’s just like my mental health. I’ll be battling that till the day I die.
A constant fight hoping to stay stable and keep myself alive.
A constant fight to keep myself active and fit.
It’s tiring.
I’m tired.
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