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.
Depression
It catches you off guard
This is a Really Real Widow Post.
I’ve been dreaming a lot since my dad died.
Part of it is trauma, but also, one of my medications has a side effect of vivid dreams.
I remember a lot of dreams now.
Last night I had one that I kept waking up from, and then falling back to sleep into the same dream.
Over and over again.
Kidlet was still little, probably 10 or so.
Parker was there.
We didn’t really fight, but something happened and we decided it was best if we broke up.
The emptiness consumed me.
It woke me up,
and it was still there as I lay awake.
And it was waiting for me when I dozed back off.
This was a hard one.
Normally, when I dream about my dad or Parker, even within the dream I’m able to recognize that they are dead, and this is unreasonable.
But this time I didn’t.
She was still there, but was so far away.
I craved her comfort, but it wasn’t available.
It wasn’t a violent breakup, it was understood from both sides.
At one point, we were laying in bed together, talking, and I just wanted her to hold me,
I’m not sure if I asked,
but she didn’t.
She was there, but too far away.
We were both sad that it didn’t work out.
I think that made it harder.
The more I write about this, the more I see it was a grief dream.
It’s still hard to have that kind of grief.
I feel like I’m betraying the life I have now.
The love I have now.
Mostly,
being a widow is just there.
It’s far easier now than it was 4.5 years ago when she died.
It’s just another piece of the story that makes up my life.
But sometimes it comes to the forefront.
I feel tears just under the surface.
I miss her unbelievably much.
I miss that life.
Even though I don’t want to go back.
Seeing her right there,
just out of reach.
The pain is so real, and raw.
It feels so new.
Like it was awoken from within me.
Today,
being a widow,
is hard.
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.
Don’t try this at home.
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I did something that I always tell others not to do.
You see, when I was in the trauma unit, they started titrating me off of a medication.
They said I shouldn’t be on it with the diagnoses that I had.
They said it was a bad idea.
They sent me home with instructions to continue titrating off of it with my pdoc.
So my first appointment I asked her if we could lower it.
And my second.
And my third.
And,
you get the picture.
She sees the drug reps from this particular medication, once a month.
I wonder if that has something to do with it.
So last week I stopped taking it.
I was already on a pretty low dose, and I was tired of asking her to follow the instructions that were given to me.
That were given to her in the paperwork that was sent over.
So I stopped.
Two days ago I cleaned up the landings outside of our apartment.
Gathered the empty boxes and rearranged what was left.
Put things back on shelves and in the basement where it belonged.
Things that we just didn’t feel like lugging down the stairs at the time.
It had gotten unmanageable.
The perilously balanced ecosystem tumbling down whenever we needed a roll of toilet paper.
It didn’t take me long.
Yesterday I cleaned the spare room.
The spare room that’s been used as a makeshift office since this all began.
It hadn’t been cleaned in all of that time.
Trash had built up on the floor.
Random bits and pieces of discarded
things
that had never been put back in their place.
It was a disaster.
I’ve been looking at it for months and saying I’d get to it,
one day.
And yesterday I cleaned it.
It didn’t take me long.
Today I folded my clothes.
Clothes that had been living in baskets since this all began.
I put them away.
I threw away things that were stained or otherwise unwearable.
There’s a semblance of organization, even though I can’t use my drawers and such in the spare room.
I can find things again.
I uncovered shirts that I’ve been looking for, for months.
It didn’t take me long.
Today I washed the mat that sits under my dish rack.
The one that was covered with grime and gross
things
that grow in standing water.
I scrubbed it and bleached it and left it to dry.
I organized the spices that had been spilling over onto the stove.
Random bottles of exciting things that no longer had a place.
Wonder Woman helped by putting up the spice racks I had bought.
The ones that had been sitting in the box since they were delivered,
months and months ago.
I could see my stove again.
The stove that was covered in grease and bits of random food that had fallen down into the burners.
The stove that I wouldn’t even touch with my sponge because it was too dirty.
Soapy paper towels,
more and more,
until it was white again.
A magic eraser took care of the baked on stuff that had been left, burned into the enamel.
It didn’t take me long.
I’ve felt this blanket of depression sitting on me for months and months.
No matter how good I felt I still felt
off.
The medication was supposed to be helping with my depression.
But the trauma unit didn’t feel that it was.
I’ve wondered for quite some time.
I feel much better.
Even though I’m still sleeping most of the day away.
I feel like I can accomplish things again.
I feel more like me.
It has taken too long.
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?
Chicken Caprese
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I made Chicken Caprese tonight.
I’ve been cooking more often but it’s been quick oven meals, slow cooker meals, or dump and go instant pot stuff.
None of the really good food that I used to make.
But this week I menu planned, and added back some of the yummier stuff that we’ve always liked.
I’m still in this weird period of flux where I’m doing
so
much
better.
But at the same time,
I’m not.
I woke up at 830 this morning,
fought and fought to get myself out of bed.
Tried to bribe myself with activities or coffee.
Pushed and pushed and pushed.
And woke up at 930 when my alarm went off, signaling an upcoming appointment.
I snoozed.
I snoozed.
I snoozed.
And then I begrudgingly rolled out of bed.
After my appointment I wanted to climb back in,
but we had other things scheduled for today.
I can’t figure out why it’s so hard for me to wake up.
I’ve cut out most of my sleeping meds.
The only one I’m still taking is my nightmare med,
which shouldn’t make me that tired.
Because I’m not taking the sleeping meds, it’s taking me a really long time to fall asleep.
I typically get up after an hour, and try again an hour later.
But I’m still not going to bed all that late.
I just need
so
much
sleep.
But tonight I cooked Chicken Caprese.
I stood at the stove and mixed the fragrant ingredients, setting timer after timer to keep myself on track.
It was hot and miserable, but still fun and enjoyable.
I miss cooking like that.
I like that I’m getting my old self back.
The one that finds enjoyment in life.
But I wish it would happen quicker.
Give me my life back, damnit.
He showed up in my dreams again last night.
I can’t remember most of it.
But I remember him standing there, rigid and stern.
The look he got when he was about to lose his shit.
The look he got when I messed up,
again.
Today when I was cooking,
and really when I do much of anything,
I fear messing up.
I fear the disappointment,
or the wrath that might come.
But it’s not coming from anyone near me anymore.
I’m surrounded by love and light.
People who accept me for me.
People who love me as I am.
People who love me,
even when I mess up.
It’s hard to internalize that love though.
It’s hard to recognize that I don’t have to be perfect to be lovable.
That sometimes, people even love me because of the times I mess up.
Unconditional love is hard to understand,
when I grew up feeling like I was only loved when I was perfect.
When I met someone else’s standard of being.
But I’m learning to give myself grace.
To love myself even when I mess up.
To love myself.
Sleep
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I feel so so much better.
Except I don’t.
I’m sleeping too much.
Way too much.
And I’m having a hard time getting myself into the shower.
But my dishes are done.
Meals are planned around food we already had in the freezer.
I’m cooking more often.
My kitchen still isn’t clean.
Clean pots and pans are stacked on a stove that is covered in crumbs and spills.
But the dishes are done regularly, and that’s a big deal.
The spices sit all unorganized on the counter instead of in the cabinet (where they no longer fit anyway).
The bottles are spilling over onto the stove.
The kitchen is kind of a disaster, honestly.
But I’m finding more joy in my activities.
I’m leaving the house regularly.
I’m brushing my teeth.
Things that I shouldn’t feel like I deserve an award for, but I do.
Because they are hard.
Hard, hard.
I feel like PHP is at the end of its usefulness.
But I also don’t feel,
healed.
But I’m not sure I’m going to continue healing in PHP.
I’m not sure I need that to keep moving forward anymore.
I’ve come a long way since the day the silence was broken by a gunshot.
I’ve healed so much.
And now it just feels like the
normal depression is still holding me back.
But I’m not sure what to fill my time with if I’m not doing PHP.
My boss isn’t ready to bring me back to work, he has his own stuff going on that needs to be straightened out before he can rehire me.
I don’t want to look for another job because I need the flexibility that came from working for family.
I need the level of understanding that came with that job.
The ability to take a day off here, and work extra hours there.
Or just take a day off without making the hours up.
I need the boss that checked in to make sure I was still doing okay.
That there wasn’t too much piling up
(even though there normally was).
I miss working, and I’m ready to go back.
But what do I do if I’m not working, and I’m not doing PHP.
I did that for years, and I can’t remember what it was like.
I feel like it’s existing without purpose.
It’s a big deal that I’m not ready to go back to nothingness.
It’s a big deal that I need something to occupy my time.
For years I was happy existing with no structure.
No ebb and flow to my days.
Nothing but doctors appointments that seemed to never end.
But now I’m afraid to leave the program behind without having something to take its place.
I have grown so much over the years.
And that day the silence was broken by a gunshot knocked me down a few steps.
But I feel like I’m finally climbing up to the top.
Day 21
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
TW: Mention of suicide, mention of gunshot, mention of gore.
I skipped a day again.
But missing 2 days this month isn’t really all that bad, and I don’t really have something to write about every day right now.
I slept till almost noon today.
Didn’t even do my wakeup at 7am to roll over and go back to sleep.
I just slept.
I feel bad for sleeping so much. I’m in bed by midnight at the latest, and sleeping at least 12 hours almost every night.
Partly it’s the sleeping meds.
Partly it’s depression.
Partly it’s still healing from trauma.
It feels like it’s taking so long.
I’m shaming myself for all the things I can’t do, and it’s hard to focus on what I am doing.
For all the things I can’t do, yet.
I keep trying to remind myself that it’s okay that I’m not back to where I was.
I’ll get there.
Apparently, it’s just going to take more time than I like.
My therapist said yesterday that this may not be as much depression, as it is shutting down from the trauma.
Still blocking emotions out.
I feel so flat.
Even things I normally enjoy are just,
flat.
I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning because there’s nothing to look forward to.
It’s nice not being suicidal, but I miss,
living.
I was living my best life, and now I’m just struggling to get out of bed each day.
And I’m trying to be gentle with myself, while also pushing enough that I keep progressing.
But honestly, it’s hard.
It’s hard not to feel like I’m failing.
It’s hard not to feel like I’m letting people down.
It’s hard not to feel like I’m letting myself down.
Healing is exhausting.
And I’m still angry.
Fuck him for taking my stability.
Truly, fuck him.
It’s quiet in the house right now.
I keep forgetting to turn on music but yet, the silence allows the intrusive memories to come.
Fuck him for making every memory of that week turn into a gunshot.
Into a gory image of him in a wheelchair with blood dripping from his face.
Into an image of blood caked on the front of the wheelchair.
Into an image of my sister scrubbing the remnants out of the carpet.
Fuck him.
I’m having bbq, bacon wrapped, shrimp for Thanksgiving.
Wonder Woman hates seafood, hates the smell of it, so I only really cook it when she’s out of town.
My dad used to have seafood for holiday dinners.
It was nice because I’d have a traditional holiday meal at my mom’s house,
and then I’d go to my dad’s and have a seafood feast.
He always made the bbq bacon wrapped shrimp.
I miss it.
It’s been years and years since we’ve had a meal like that.
Years and years since he said “Dad is great, dad is good, lets thank dad for this meal.”
Years and years since he screamed at me for not cleaning fast enough before my sister got there.
Years and years.
I don’t miss him.
I don’t miss the forced phone calls that I tried to make each week because he was an old lonely man who had no other contact with the outside world.
I don’t miss the overwhelming anxiety when I would go for a visit.
I don’t miss the sound of him screaming because I didn’t do things the way that he wanted.
I don’t miss him.
Fuck him.
Fuck him for setting me back so far.
Really Real Blog 