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.
Weight
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.
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?
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.
Lost Stability
This is a Really Real Trauma Post.
And a Really Real Mental Health Post, because the two go together.
TW: Mention of Suicidal Thoughts. Mention of Completed Suicide.
These have been long lately, thanks for those who are reading along.
First for the good news.
I’m wearing headphones and not freaking out, for the first time since that shot rang out.
I also turned off the hallway light tonight after we got home, without waiting for something to jump out from behind the shadows.
Slowly, I’m healing.
I’m taking note of the little things because maybe they’ll help me stop focusing on all of the bigger things.
Today I talked to my psychiatrist, she started off talking about raising my antidepressant, which we had been talking about a month or two ago.
I told her that was no longer the concern. The minor depression I had still been feeling when I was stable before wasn’t anywhere near as important as the current desire to end my life.
Or the sleep deprivation and nightmares.
And I realized, that’s part of what’s pissing me off so fucking much. Not only did this traumatize me, bringing with it, the previous traumas in my life.
Not only did this make me wobble in a really big way.
It did it when I was in a place of pretty solid stability. Yes, I was still slightly depressed. Yes, I was having problems focusing on work or other projects. Yes, it wasn’t perfect, but I was stable.
My feet were planted on solid ground and we were just making minor adjustments.
Today after PHP I laid in bed, unable to nap, but unwilling to be up. When Wonder Woman started mentioning going for a walk I got so angry with her. A rage that made me want to scream and yell at her. A rage that made me snap at her via text because I couldn’t trust myself to talk to her in person.
I haven’t felt that sort of rage in a long long time. I hate that side of me. I hate that it even exists.
I remember when I was finally fighting through the trauma of Parker’s death I sat on the kitchen floor and kicked the side of a shelving unit in. Using all of my force to release the rage brewing inside of me. So deep and solid with nowhere else to go but out. I started by drawing lines on my skin and by the end I was digging the pen in with all of my force. I remember that day, and I remember it being the day I measured my successes against. At least I wasn’t that bad anymore.
Today when I was talking to my psychiatrist, I told her I needed to be back on Abilify. The same medication I fought so hard to get off of because it makes me eat the house.
But I’m back to needing to be fat and alive rather than skinny and dead.
And it fucking sucks. I was so proud of myself for being able to brush away any suicidal thoughts that I had, even without the help of that medication. I was so proud of myself for being able to ignore them, or distract myself from them.
And now they are back with a vengeance. That rage turned inward taking away my will to exist.
I just want to go to sleep and never wake up, unless waking up means this never happened.
I see myself with a gun to my head, I hear the gun shots that no longer sound like bangs in the back of my head but now sound like the pops that they truly are.
The sound of gunshots in the back of my head were always the first sign of a suicidal downswing. Hearing how those sounds have changed, and seeing that it truly would be a viable way out, if I had a gun. Now I not only relate a way out to pills, but also to guns. They are ways that I know will work, I’ve seen it first hand.
And I was stable.
I was stable.
Now the thoughts have a tight hold around my neck, squeezing tighter and tighter. The bed is my safe space. Holding the blanket tight around me means I can’t act on the urges.
The other day Wonder Woman, in reaction to a suicidal post, told me she knew that if I looked hard enough I could find what I needed around here. No matter how careful we are to keep things locked up, if I tried hard enough, anything in this house could be a tool for my death.
So when the thoughts are bad, I put myself in bed. As long as I don’t step foot out from under those covers I can’t do any harm.
And while I’m there the shots can ring out in the back of my head, and the urges can come all they want, but I can’t act on them.
But that same survival mechanism allows for the thoughts to twist and turn and get stronger and stronger and louder and louder.
Being in bed is both the best and the worst place for me.
I’ve started walking late at night with my old gym buddy. We are doing super short walks for now, but plan to build up our strength and stamina again. Maybe one day soon I’ll be back in the gym where you can’t tell the sweat from the tears. Maybe I’ll be back to working it out that way.
But for now we just walk our little circle around the neighborhood, sometimes talking, sometimes silently, becoming accountability buddies for each other.
Just like before.
Just like the last time I healed from finding someone dead.
This sucks, but sometimes I can see myself getting back to stability. Sometimes I can remember that I did this once, and I will do it again.
Sometimes.
The rest of the time I just have to fight to hold on. Live from one Starbucks trip to the next.
Just make it one more day.
One more hour.
One more minute.
One more second.
And to think, just a few short weeks ago, I was stable.
He took that from me with the same shot that took his life from him.
Suicide doesn’t end the pain, it just gives it to those who are left behind.
I guess there’s a reason for this rage that keep building up inside of me.
This isn’t fair.
But I’m okay.
Or at least, I will be okay.
Side Effects
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
And a Really Real Medical Health post.
TW: Talk of weight, mention of suicidal thoughts, talk of marijuana use, talk of narcotic pain medications. (Also, side note, sorry I haven’t been as good about TW, I will go back to using them more frequently.)
This is super long, way longer than most of my posts (twice the length it seems), but, writing helps, and I have a lot to say this time. I totally understand if it’s too long to get through, thanks for reading this far.
I need medications to stay stable.
Medications come with side effects.
Side effects make it difficult to continue taking the medications.
I need medications to stay stable.
The Abilify really really helped me. It kept the suicidal thoughts tame enough that I could handle them most of the time. An extra 50 lbs later (more than 50, who am I kidding), I couldn’t continue taking it anymore because my weight and the fact that I gained it all back, was making me suicidal. It seemed dumb to stay on a medication to control my suicidal thoughts when the side effects were making me suicidal.
Around the time we were taking me off of Abilify, I started using medical marijuana. A few different doctors and my therapist had mentioned that it might help with this and that, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.
It helped a lot once I found the right strains, I found that keeping a very low buzz was just enough to make me able to focus on work, I got more done in that few weeks than I had in awhile. It was easier to do the things that needed to be done, but at the same time I was facing a lack of motivation. I felt less anxious. I was sleeping better. My pain was almost completely controlled.
And I was eating the house again, because, munchies are a real side effect of marijuana. What’s the point of stopping a med that makes me eat too much, just to replace it with a med that makes me eat too much.
So I stopped it.
But now the lack of focus is back, the anxiety is back, the difficulty sleeping is back. My pain is back, too.
I’m on a few different medications for pain. The one I take every day is an anti-inflammatory. It helps, but not enough.
Earlier this year my primary put me back on Oxycodone, not necessarily daily, but on an as needed basis. It helps, a lot, but also I’m hesitant to take it. I didn’t need it at all when I was using marijuana. But now that I’m not using that, I’m instead falling back on the Oxycodone. It scares me. I was on it daily (actually, multiple times a day) a few years ago. I absolutely feel like dependency on medication isn’t always a bad thing (I’m dependent on my psych meds), and I absolutely feel that withdraw is something that happens with a lot of meds (stop taking a psych med cold turkey and you’ll see what I mean . . .actually, don’t do that.) Dependency on narcotics feels like a whole different ballgame. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. I don’t really want to go there, so I use it super sparingly.
I’m falling back on my Ativan more often, because it controls the overwhelming anxiety. Ativan is another one I’m super careful with. A thirty day script will often last me 6 months or more. But right now, because of the whole 2020 thing, I need it more often, and I don’t like that.
Oh, and I should mention my antidepressant and those side effects. It causes nausea. It’s bad enough that some nights I actually get sick a few hours after taking it. We’d like to increase it because it could probably work a bit better. But increased doses cause more nausea. What is worse, living with low grade depression constantly, or being miserable after taking the medication to treat it.
I’m stuck in this trap. All of the medications have side effects. Figuring out which side effects are worse than the ailment they’re treating is a constant conversation within myself and with my doctors.
I’m frustrated. I want solutions that don’t cause more problems.
I need medications to stay stable.
Medications come with side effects.
Side effects make it difficult to continue taking the medications.
I need medications to stay stable.
Just hold on
This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
TW: Talk of suicide, including plan. Talk of weight/weight loss/weight gain.
There’s so much in my brain and I don’t know where to start. This ended up being super super long, but I need to get it out. Words of encouragement and understanding would be greatly appreciated.
Last night was really, really hard.
It started with boredom. None of my usual activities were grabbing my attention. I tried pushing through and making myself start something anyway. Just start, just design one card, just complete one quest, just plan one dish.
Just start something.
But I wasn’t able to. So slowly I felt myself drifting towards bed. Once there I couldn’t even bring myself to turn on the TV.
Laying there my mind was wandering. Is this the medication change, it’s supposed to make me less flat and sometimes it just doesn’t seem to be doing that. It’s supposed to help me eat less, and I thought I was, but yesterday morning I had gotten on the scale, and I gained another 10 lbs.
Inching ever closer to my heaviest weight. A weight I swore I’d never reach again. I worked so so hard to lose so much. Even at 300 lbs I was proud of my body and what it could do. I felt accomplished at the gym. I was far more at peace with my body, even though I still had a lot to lose.
I spent months working towards bariatric surgery, for the 3rd time, and right as I cleared the last hurdle, they thought that emotionally it could be very dangerous for me to move forward. I walked away from the program on the day I was supposed to set a surgery date. I still don’t know if it was the right decision.
That was when this latest weight gain started. I had already stalled with losing, due to the medication increase, but then I started gaining. We increased the medication more, and I gained more. First I noticed 10 lbs, then a couple of months later there was another 10. Then in the first couple of months of quarantine it just kept going up and up and up.
And as much as the numbers suck, even worse is that I’ve lost my ability to walk as far as I used to. My pain is worse. I get out of breath just getting adjusted in bed. Walking up to my second floor apartment feels like running a marathon.
I don’t feel proud of what my body can do anymore. I spent almost 2 years celebrating accomplishment after accomplishment, and now I’m back to living in my desk chair barely able to hold myself up.
And last night it crashed down on me. Weight is such a huge trigger for my suicidal thoughts.
It started with a quiet whisper. “You failed again.”
Then a little louder. “You’re right back where you were, fat and useless, and no matter how hard you work, you’ll always end up back here.”
With a little more force, “You’ll never overcome this, it’s not worth trying anymore, it’s not worth living.”
In the back of my mind I started telling myself. Get up, get dressed, go for a walk. You don’t have to give in to this.
“See, you can’t even do that, can’t even bring yourself to work on this. You’re such a fat failure and you’re just taking up space. The world would be better off without you in it”
Then the quiet voice again. Please, just get up, put on shoes, and walk. You don’t even have to change out of your pajamas, just get out of bed and walk.
There was a back and forth battle between the voice that wanted me to die, and the quiet voice trying to stand up and help me live.
I came out to the living room and checked some pill bottles. I don’t have enough of this, this, or that . . of course we keep most of it locked up, but maybe, maybe if I take all three different ones.
I started hoping that Wonder Woman would go in the other room. Go into the bathroom, so that I had enough time to take what I had. I know she’d notice if I took the pills into my room, and she’d definitely notice if I took them right there. I just needed to take them and go to sleep. Hopefully I wouldn’t wake up.
It was a calm sort of suicidality . I wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t rushed, I was just waiting for the right moment.
Just waiting in bed and listening for the moment when she got up from the sofa.
Quietly waiting.
Instead I sent her a text. A that small voice fighting to live. “I’m calmly but intensely suicidal tonight.”
She asked how she could help. I didn’t have an answer.
Eventually, I heard her get up. I was waiting to hear the bathroom door. It would finally be my chance. But instead she turned off the lights and came to bed. We talked.
I told her my plan.
She locked up more meds, and I felt like a child in need of a babysitter.
And then I felt defeated. I felt, and still feel, like there’s no way out of this mess I’m in. This mess that is me.
We went to the store this morning. She reminded me that I had to stay alive to cook the food we were buying. I felt the voice slowly fading away. Slowly backing off.
I’m worried that these thoughts are because we’re lowing the medication. But staying on such a high dose is just going to exacerbate my weight problems. It’s nearly impossible to lose weight when the intense craving for food feels like a drug addiction. I can not adequately explain the drive to eat that has been occurring the last 6 months or more.
And you can’t just quit food cold turkey.
I don’t have any answers. I don’t have any uplifting ending to this post. I don’t have any feel good words.
I just have me, feeling like I don’t want to continue to fight.
I just have me sitting here, getting my words out on the screen so that they don’t eat me alive.
Blah
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
TW: Mention of weight being a problem for me, but no mention of dieting.
First of all, I realize I’ve slowed way down on my writing. I’m writing some short stuff for the Facebook page/group I’m a part of, but mostly, my writing has just stopped. (Link to page and group in the comments.)
Second, everything I have written, for awhile now, seems to deal with either my weight, or work, and how hard both of those things are for me right now.
And I really did plan to make this post different, maybe come up with some more interesting topic, or something new. Except my weight, and work are the two things that are most difficult in my life. Everything else is just . . . there . . . it doesn’t really bother me.
I mean, the dishes keep piling up in the sink, and I can’t find the will to cook. Showering, and even brushing my teeth are chores that are difficult to force myself through. I’m sleeping for 12-ish hours a night.
If it sounds like depression and looks like depression it must be nothing. This is fine, everything is fine.
Well, I guess the other things are bothering me, they just don’t feel as pressing, or has as much of a sense of urgency about them. They are just part of my current normal.
I feel like I have no will power to just muscle through this stuff. Weight and work included. I haven’t been able to make the changes I need to make. I haven’t been able to stick to a schedule. I haven’t been able to just “do the things.”
But also, I know this will pass. I will get back into a routine. I will slowly change these new, unhealthy, habits, back into the healthier habits I had before. I will go back to thriving with a routine, and find satisfaction in a job well done. Dishes and menu planning and straightening up around the house will go back to being just things that I do.
My current meds, probably the higher dose of Abilify, are muting my emotions. In an effort to keep me from rapid cycling and ending up in a mixed mood episode, we’ve made life kind of flat for me. Yeah, I don’t get hypomanic, and the suicidal thoughts are mostly controlled, but the world is kind of grey and 2 dimensional. I don’t feel difficult things as strongly, but I’m also missing out on the bright colors of emotions I’m used to seeing.
This is fueling my depression, I’m sure. When the world seems flat and made up mostly of various shades of grey, it’s harder to see the positives and feel hopeful. It’s hard to be excited about life.
When there’s no sense of accomplishment when I complete a task, it’s hard to keep repeating that task over and over again.
But, mental illness is hard. It’s an everyday battle. The constant fight is draining. Even just riding the waves without fighting against them is draining.
This too shall pass. Hopefully some slow med changes will help. Hopefully the warmer months and more sun will help (If I can get myself out of the house.) Hopefully continuing to adjust to this new normal will help.
Hopefully.
If I can hold onto that hope, I’m winning the battle.
Wait, Weight, Wait
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
And a Really Real Health post.
TW: Weight/dieting/exercise. Mention of suicidal thoughts with no intent or plan.
I hate my body.
It’s making me hate who I am.
And I’ve had a few realizations in the last couple of days.
First, I remembered that I’m on a high dose of Abilify. It made me gain some weight at lower doses but the weight gain has gotten so much worse at this increased dose. I think it’s a big reason for my whirlwind eating, and my craving of sweets. It’s the medicine that keeps the suicidal thoughts under control. We had to increase the dose when I was in the hospital, and we increased it again as I finished up with partial. I think it may be time to look into decreasing the dose, or changing to a different med.
Also, I realized I hate my body right now. I hate how I look. I hate how I feel. I hate how hard it is for me to interact with my environment.
I spent the last, however many, years looking at old pictures of me and comparing my round puffy face to the slimmer version it had become. I constantly said how much I never wanted to be that fat and gross. How horrible it was that I ever got that way.
How horrible I was.
It’s really hard to take good care of a body I hate. It’s hard to stick with changes because I don’t really feel like I’m worth it.
I also feel like nothing will change, and like I’ll always go back to this weight.
That thought makes the suicidal thoughts start. The idea that I can’t change this, and this is the body I’ll live in until I die, is hard hard stuff for me.
Often, when I think too much about forever fighting to stay mentally stable, I think that death would be better than fighting for the rest of my life.
Now, when I think too much about forever fighting to keep my weight under control, I think that death would be better than fighting for the rest of my life.
I started to list the things I was doing and trying to do, but honestly, those won’t matter until I go back to loving myself where I’m at.
I hate that I could say “I deserve to take up space” when I was 50 lbs lighter, but now I feel like I don’t deserve the space I take.
I hate that I could see how beautiful I am at one weight, but I can’t see my beauty now.
I hate that I feel like I need external validation.
I hate that the same people who praised me for losing weight, will judge me for gaining it back.
I hate that some of them will feel they can speak that judgement out loud.
I hate feeling like this.
I hate being like this.
I hate me.
Work, Work, Work, Work, Work
This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
My brain is doing much better. I’ve walked and gotten out of the house and set up a plan to get my eating under control. Taking some control back has helped a lot. I felt like I was just stuck in the same loop and couldn’t get off that path.
But work is still a struggle. I haven’t done any real work since Monday. I’ve done the bare minimum, keeping fires from starting. I did talk to my boss, which was a huge thing for me, and he reminded me that nothing is an emergency, I can take the time I need and get my brain back together.
But my brain is mostly back together, and I still haven’t been able to pull out the stacks of paper that need entering. I haven’t been able to scan the papers that need scanning. I haven’t been able to file the papers that need filing.
I definitely haven’t had the creative brain to create new ads and write new copy.
But this is a start.
Getting my feelings and my struggles out of my brain and onto the screen helps me gather the focus I need to succeed. Work is super important to me. After years of being unable to be productive in that way, it makes me feel like a functional adult.
It’s a bit of normality among my disabilities.
It’s a huge accomplishment.
Taking off most of this week means I have to go back to leaning on people for financial help. That’s hard, even though I know I’m so very lucky to have people to lean on. There has already been a reduction in hours due to the state of the world and it feels unfair that I slacked off this week.
But I’m not sure that I had a choice. Without taking a break I would have sunk further and further and honestly, I’d like to avoid the danger zone.
Now it’s time to pick up where I left off, to get back into the swing of things, and to do what I know I’m capable of.
I appreciate everyone that lets me be heard. I appreciate everyone that comments. I appreciate the fact that getting my words on the screen not only helps me, but helps others as well.
I’m very grateful for my life as it is now, even with the ups and downs and struggles.
I’m grateful to be alive.
Now it’s time to get some work done.
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