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.
Covid
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.
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 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.
Fair
This is a Really Real Trauma post.
It’s not fucking fair.
Prior to 2016 we were constantly looking for “baby sitters” for me because I couldn’t handle being alone if Parker went out of town for more than a day.
Hell, even when she worked for part of a day I’d have a hard time being alone.
Even when she was asleep in our bed in our house I’d have a hard time being awake without her. Unless I was interacting with someone online or on the phone.
I woke her up so many times just because I couldn’t handle being alone long enough for her to nap.
I fought and I fought HARD to get over that after she died. I fought with everything I had, sitting through discomfort and anxiety and fear.
I started to look forward to my mornings when I’d wake up and the house was quiet. My time to feed the animals and wash the dishes and play my own music without worrying about who it might bother.
When Wonder Woman and I started living together, I would be gone all day doing my appointments, and she would be gone all evening working.
I loved this setup, because as much as I missed her, I enjoyed the time in solitude.
And then covid happened, and I had to adjust my expectations. There was no time in the house alone but I still enjoyed my mornings when she was sleeping and enjoyed the evenings when she was holed away in her makeshift office.
I took a nap this afternoon, I knew it was safe because I could hear the TV playing in the living room, I knew she was right there. It was still early in the day which is easier for me.
Then, as I woke up, she was ready to lay down and nap before her night time appointments.
I pouted and then cuddled up against her. I wasn’t tired anymore but it had hit that time of night where the world suddenly seems scarier.
That time of night when the shot rang out.
That time of night where the light in the sky starts changing.
That time of the night leading to darkness.
She said she would get up with me, but that’s not fair to her. She needs her rest because I’m so much . . . more . . . right now. She needs a break too.
And eventually my sister texted me, a beautiful thing that needed to read. I told her I was stuck in bed, because I couldn’t bear to be alone in the house.
She asked why, and as I was typing the tears started flowing.
If I’m alone and a shot rings out there will be no one there to comfort me. If I’m alone and I’m blindsided again, I won’t have anyone to hold me. If I’m alone and the world is suddenly scary, there won’t be anyone right there to hug me.
I fought really hard to stand on my own two feet.
And now those feet are shaky. Those feet are afraid. My knees wobble and want to buckle.
Even when I play music I hear the silence underneath. I’m afraid to wear both headphones because I might miss something. Something might sneak up on me.
Something may catch me off guard.
It’s not fair that I did all of this work and with one gunshot he left me behind to work through it again. He got to leave his pain and he brought mine back with a frenzy.
And no, I’m not back at square one, I have a head start over last time.
I know that there’s work to be done but I’m bitter.
And I’m sad.
I don’t want to be a trauma queen again. I want to go to sleep and wake up as I was.
I want to have enough emotional energy to do the work I need to do on my self AND to work a job that I worked so hard to be healthy enough to do.
I know I’ve got this. I know I will make it through this. I know I’ll be back where I was.
But damnit. I worked
So
Fucking
Hard.
It feels like he took all of my hard work with him, with that one gunshot.
I’m sitting alone writing this, literally glancing over my shoulder every few lines. I can’t play music because I might miss something. I need to pee but the effort it will take to walk down that hall feels unbearbable. Something might catch me off guard from one of the rooms.
Another gun shot might ring out.
I worked so hard to not be afraid anymore.
So.
Fucking.
Hard.
It’s not fair.
It’s really not fair.
Well damn.
This is a Really Real Health post.
Well, it’s a Really Real Mental Health post, too.
And for that matter, it’s a Really Real COVID post.
And it’s a long one (really, a long one, but important).
I got a text from my sister earlier today.
“I just got the call that Dad tested positive.
He’s being moved to the COVID unit tonight.”
My response “Well damn.”
You see, I’ve been waiting for this. Almost holding my breath. Last week 7 employees tested positive in the physical rehab hospital where he’s staying. I knew it would make the rounds, even in an environment where everyone is being more than careful.
But this is COVID. It spreads like wildfire.
And my feelings on him being positive are so so mixed. So so hard to weed through. And there’s so much guilt and shame wrapped up in my thoughts.
But I’m not sure there should be guilt and shame.
Even before COVID, Dad was dying. A slow miserable death from a neurological disorder that I can never remember the name of. It’s been taking his speech and reasoning for the past year, taking his ability to walk safely and care for himself, all the while he was refusing any sort of help.
And through a lot of this, he’s still been in there, just unable to communicate clearly. Phone calls would be long and difficult, with 90% of it consisting of “umm” and “uhhh” as he tried to find the words to say what he called to say.
He’s been falling a lot, while still trying to live his normal life. A month ago, give or take, he went to mow his expansive lawn on his tractor. He ran out of gas. Trying to walk home he fell into a ditch,
where he spent the entire night.
When he was found the next morning, he still refused help, other than a ride back home.
He fell later that day and spent that second night on the floor, unable to get himself up or get to a phone.
That’s what led to his stay in the hospital. That’s what led to him being transferred to rehab.
That’s what led to him being transferred to the COVID unit.
He’s dying, a slow, miserable death. He’s living out his worst nightmare, trapped in a body that no longer serves him.
I remember a conversation awhile back, either with Dad or my sister, about how much Dad hated the idea of being restrained. The idea of being arrested and put in cuffs for drinking, was enough to make him quit cold turkey, after years of alcoholism.
He’s being restrained by his own body now.
And he’s being transferred to the COVID unit later tonight.
His response, when he finds the words, is to insist that he doesn’t have COVID, that the test was bullshit.
Of course that’s his response. That’s the hill he will die on.
And he will die.
If not from this, than from that. One just prolongs the suffering.
I hate seeing him suffer, even though my relationship with him has been strained for most of my life. I hate knowing that he’s in there, mostly aware, at least some of the time, and watching his body fall apart around him.
No one deserves to live that life, no matter how they’ve treated me and everyone around them.
But I feel guilty for wanting this to be quick, for hoping that this is the thing that helps him walk out of this world with at least some of his dignity left.
It feels shameful to hope your parent dies sooner rather than later.
But I have to wonder, is he even living anymore?
“I just got the call that Dad tested positive.
He’s being moved to the COVID unit tonight.”
Now we wait to see if he ever makes it out of there alive.
Wear your mask, wash your hands.
This is kind of personal now.
Haircut
This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
I’ve needed to get my hair done since this all started, months ago. My normally shaved sides were 3 inches long. My bright and vibrant unicorn hair was faded to a muddy pastel.
I couldn’t believe how much it was destroying my self image. Not only had I put on a significant amount of weight, but now my hair, something that was normally raved about, was unkempt and gross. I stopped working to bring out the curl. My hair lived in days old ponytails, the long sides tickling the inside of my ears.
But I had made and cancelled a hair appointment before. I had set up plans with family for an outdoor hair cut and that got cancelled too.
There was so much anxiety holding me back. Anxiety coming from every direction. I’m anxious about catching/spreading COVID. I’m afraid to leave my house.
But it also masks an underlying situation. My agoraphobia is rearing its ugly head again. My anxiety is becoming more than I can easily live with. I’m out of practice with pushing through it, so that mental muscle has atrophied.
My world has closed in upon itself. Even taking the dog out is scary and uncomfortable. Leaving my front porch seems like I’m walking through quicksand. The world is large and scary and feels dangerous.
And this is where COVID comes back in. The world is dangerous right now. So telling my brain that it’s safe, feels like a lie. But not feeling safe is what makes the agoraphobia worse.
Every anxiety imaginable comes to the forefront when I need to leave.
I’ve been here before.
Multiple times.
But I know the only way out is through. Pushing myself to go when the last thing I want to do is open that door.
So I pushed, and my bright pink and purple undercut is back. My smile is just that little bit bigger. My face feels a little less round. I feel like myself a little bit more. And this morning it was a little bit easier to push myself out the front door for a frivolous trip to Starbucks.
There needs to be more (socially distant) frivolous trips in my future. I need to work that muscle again.
I’m tired of being scared.
Really Real Blog 