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.
PTSD
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.
Flashback
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
TW: Gunshot, completed suicide, some gore, violence on TV.
This is one of my longer ones.
I’ve been having horrible flashbacks the last few days.
Remembering the moments and hours and days after he died.
Remembering that first post I wrote.
Gunshots are less of a bang and more of a pop.
And the thing is, that sound is so loud that it sucks the rest of the sound out of the air.
Like a vacuum.
Emptiness where the everyday sounds of life were existing a split second before.
That pop is no longer so loud in my head, but the silence afterwards is there.
I remember the police swabbing my hands.
Just a formality, the calm, gentle woman in front of me had said.
I’m remembering the next day,
my sister scrubbing brain matter and blood out of the carpet.
The carpet cleaner bringing in a jug of chemicals especially meant to remove blood.
I remember him asking if Dad had fell, prying for information about what happened.
The mess could have been worse.
Much worse.
And the flashbacks have been coming more and more.
Yesterday, while trying to distract myself from them, we drove to do some errands.
Some window shopping.
We went through an area of the city that smells like oil.
But in my brain the strong smell reminded me of gun powder.
The way that smell filled the entire house a few minutes after he was gone.
Wonder Woman has been watching a violent drama on TV.
We share a common space, with my back to the black square with moving pictures and loud sounds.
I mostly block it out.
Sometimes I wear headphones.
Lately I’ve been getting sucked into the drama.
I really don’t like this show.
But the storyline is interesting and it draws me in.
Yesterday there was a scene where a character was shot at close range.
The screen blacked out the moment the gunshot happened.
Luckily they didn’t show the aftermath.
And the gunshots don’t sound at all like the one that ripped through the air the last moment he was alive.
I don’t think the TV can capture that sound anyway.
Or that absence of sound after the shot rings out.
I wonder if the TV show is contributing to the violence I see in my head.
But we share a common space.
We spend a lot of time coexisting in the same area.
It’s hard to ask her to pick something else when there wouldn’t be much time to binge this particular show.
There isn’t much alone time in these covid times.
And I’m not sure I really want her to watch something else.
There’s comfort in the normality of the types of shows she watches.
In that background sound.
And I can always put on headphones.
But I feel like headphones put up a wall between us.
It’s hard.
When the flashbacks come I try to box them up,
tape them up tightly,
stick them up on the shelf inside my mind.
It helps.
Yesterday when they were particularly strong, I wrapped the boxes in brown paper.
I stuck them on the highest shelf.
I padlocked the closet door.
They stayed quiet just a little bit longer.
But in the back of my mind,
I still see that coagulated stream of blood,
hanging off of the front of the wheelchair.
Images that don’t want to leave.
Images that won’t leave me alone.
Seriously,
Fuck Him.
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.
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.
Grief
This is a Really Real Trauma post.
TW: Completed Suicide Mentioned. Gun Violence Mentioned.
I was just laying in bed, starting to doze off, mind still wandering.
And I thought of my dad.
Now, this isn’t strange anymore. The latest brain trains have lead me down a road where I think of something about caring for my dad.
Transferring him from bed to chair, or him screaming “Mom” wanting to get out of bed in the middle of the night, or cooking shrimp for him in a way that I never would have thought of.
And that thought is followed immediately by a “pop” and a blurry image of him dead in his wheelchair.
I think of him a lot. Sometimes it fucks with my brain, sometimes it’s just a passing intrusive thought.
But this time was different.
I thought of my dad back when I was young.
The dad that I worshipped.
This time I thought about the times in between the abuse.
I thought about the times that we went crabbing.
The times that I really looked up to him, like when they called him in to teach navigation to my boating class.
The times when he was so proud of me, like when I passed that exam.
The times when we would sit behind his friend’s Florida time share, when he would grill hamburgers (until they were flat, dry, pucks of meat) and heat beans up in the can.
That time that he took me on a plane to some random airport, just to turn around and fly back home, because I had never been on a plane but I always watched as either he or my adult sister would leave on a flight.
I have lots of good memories with him.
And then I realized. I’m not grieving the loss of him. I don’t care that he’s gone.
I remember having a conversation with my sister. We both wondered out loud how we would react to his death.
I was ready to walk away from my relationship with him, but I felt I would regret it when he died and I didn’t want to feel guilty for another death (heh).
But I figured, no matter how little I felt towards him when he was alive, I’d grieve him when he was gone.
And obviously, as time would tell, I felt a great deal towards him. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done what I did.
But still. I’m not grieving the loss of him.
A very, very, horrible, person is no longer in this world. He can no longer treat me like “less than,” he can no longer treat anyone that way.
And he treated everyone that way.
Now, don’t get me wrong.
I am grieving the lost of my stability.
I am grieving the addition of another trauma to my history.
But I’m not grieving his death.
Even those good memories ended by the time I was 14. Once I had an actual mind of my own, my opinion was no longer tolerated. It wasn’t about building a relationship in between the abuse anymore.
It was just about shutting me down and reminding me to stay in my place.
Maybe not directly.
But by judging me so harshly, and making sure I knew it.
By calling me “butch” constantly when I cut my hair short, even though I had no idea what that meant. (I wonder how he felt when he realized he was right.)
By pointing out every thing I did wrong. Making sure I remembered it.
By making sure I remembered how often he was right. And it didn’t matter what the truth was, he was ALWAYS right.
By throwing things and yelling when I stepped out of line.
By doing the same just because something around us went wrong.
I don’t grieve the loss of him.
Actually, I celebrate it.
And I almost,
almost,
feel guilty for that.
But, fuck him. He spent long enough hurting me.
He hurt me with his final fucking action.
With his final selfish thought.
He doesn’t get to hurt me through grief, too.
Our goal is to live so someone actually gives a shit when we die.
And very few people give a shit about him.
We Missed Out
This is a Really Real . . . well, a lot of things, post.
TW: Suicidal Thoughts Mentioned. Death Mentioned.
I’m sitting at an antique kitchen table, the light overhead the only one illuminating the expansive and open area.
Wonder Woman is asleep in a recliner in the connected living room. The Mountain Goats are playing quietly on the portable speaker that she was thoughtful enough to bring with us.
I almost fell asleep on the couch, cuddled up under my favorite blanket that I brought from home. Unfortunately I can’t fall asleep without my CPAP. But time slipped away as I laid there with my eyes closed.
Now the music has ended and I hear Wonder Woman snoring ever so quietly. The tap tap tap of Siah’s nails against the old linoleum floor. I wish she would relax and lay down some place, the constant noise of her nails makes me anxious.
I’ve wanted to write all day, but couldn’t quite figure out what to write about. I didn’t want to interrupt our quiet time together anyway.
My brain has been quiet for over 24 hours. The dreams and nightmares I had last night just quietly passed by, without the anxious reaction that they normally cause.
I didn’t realize how loud my brain has been since I went to my dad’s house, nearly a month ago. First there was worry about caring for him, and then there was the trauma of his death.
I mentioned to Wonder Woman earlier that I felt more connected to her than I have in awhile. Not because anything was wrong with us, or because we’ve done anything differently, but because trauma takes up so much emotional space that it’s hard to find room to truly connect.
I would notice how loud it was and how much space it was taking up when it was distressing. The times when my Facebook posts were quick and terse and scary. The times when I wasn’t sure I’d make it through this. At those times the noise is apparent.
But during the times when it’s just there, when I feel like it’s quieted down and is just gently simmering in the background, I didn’t realize how much space it was still taking up.
I suspect that some day I’ll look back on this vacation and see that it’s still taking up a lot of space.
But right now it seems quiet. It’s quiet enough that I can lay still and awake on the sofa with my eyes closed. I don’t feel the need to fill every moment with, something, until I pass out full of medications at night.
But there’s still a quiet thought in the background. Something completely unrelated to my current trauma, but a reminder that past traumas are always with me.
I walked into a game and toy store that sells wooden toys and puzzles and games. It’s a store that we came to last time we were here and I was so glad to see that they were still open, they had just moved one street over. I was talking to the owner, a woman who talks about so many different things because she’s just happy to have company for a few minutes. I told her, “My son is nearly 21 now, but this is exactly the kind of place I would have brought him to when he was a kid.”
Back when Parker was alive.
I wish we could have come to a town like this. I wish we could have experienced the long drive through the mountains to get here. I wish we could have seen the sun set over the rolling hills in the distance. I wish we could have seen how different the colors are, just from the difference in elevation.
I wish.
And I feel guilty for thinking about Parker, and thinking about old times, and thinking about how things were . . . while I’m on this amazing vacation.
But those times make me appreciate what I have now.
Don’t get me wrong, we’re still pretty poor, and it takes family help for us to experience these sorts of things, especially when it’s been a month since I last worked.
But this is a different sort of poor. This is the kind of poor where I can afford to buy something I forgot when I was packing for the trip. The kind of poor where we can stop for something to eat on the road instead of packing a cooler.
I’m sad that Parker died without experiencing this kind of poor with me.
I’m sad that Kidlet grew up without experiencing this kind of poor with me.
My bottle squeaks as I open it and Wonder Woman jumps awake to make sure I’m okay. I feel bad that I woke her up from that peaceful evening nap.
But she’s already fast asleep again.
It’s so quiet here. The music has stopped playing, the dog is finally resting on the carpet, and I can hear the bugs outside. I hear the wind gently blowing through the long grass in the field just beyond the little cottage we’re staying in.
This is a kind of peaceful that I don’t get to experience often.
And my brain is quiet.
I wonder if Wonder Woman jerked awake because she was afraid that she’d left me alone too long.
But the suicidal thoughts are quiet.
We talk of future trips and visits overseas and she says “But you have to stay alive that long.”
We’ve eaten at a restaurant within a local resort and Wonder Woman mentioned that she could see us vacationing in a place like that when we’re old and want everything close by.
“But you have to stay alive that long.”
I feel guilty that she even has to say that. I feel guilty because I know those thoughts tear us both apart. They aren’t just scary for me, they are scary for everyone around me.
But they are quiet right now.
I shiver slightly as the cool night air blows through one of the still open windows. I don’t want to get up and close it because I don’t want to disturb her again.
We’re both experiencing a sort of peace here that we rarely get.
I know there’s always the possibility that the peace will be broken before we leave. I don’t get to decide when trauma will speak up and remind me that it still exists.
But right now I’m going to sit here and enjoy the sound of the bugs, and the feel of the cool breeze coming in the window. And I’m going to listen to Wonder Woman peacefully sleeping.
And I’ll deal with everything else, when it gets here.
Awoken with a bang
This is a Really Real Trauma post.
TW: Mention of Gun Shots. Mention of Completed Suicide. Mention of Suicidal Thoughts.
It really sucks when my brain awakens me from a deep sleep with a bang.
For a moment after waking I’m dazed, confused, scared. I know I just heard the gunshot, but I’m safe in my bed, we have no guns here. It was just a memory.
I’m too awake to sleep now, but I’m too afraid to leave my bed.
I cuddle in against Wonder Woman, holding her tightly, hoping the contact between us makes the sound go away.
She stirs to ask me if I’m okay and offers to turn some lights on in the house, to make it a bit easier to get out of bed.
I appreciate it, but also hate that my trauma woke her up as well.
We’re leaving for vacation today, a vacation I’m having a hard time being excited about. I feel like this is just going to follow me, and I don’t want it to ruin an area that was so peaceful for me last year.
I turn on music and start working on the dishes. I hear a sound, like a tiny pop, and I search for the origin.
The cat is playing in a bag, and crinkled it just enough to spook me.
I watch her play for awhile, frustrated that so many sounds remind me of that one fatal shot.
Last night we went out for modified Parking Lot Beers with some derby people. It’s tradition to stomp on the cans and rate them, seeing who can get the perfect smash.
I ask them to warn me before crushing cans. I hold my hands over my ears.
They stop crushing cans, waiting until I make a run to the bathroom to continue with their game.
Damn it, my trauma got in the way of someone else’s fun.
I spent most of yesterday in bed. Ready to give up this god awful fight.
I’m tired.
So so tired.
This is a marathon again, riding the waves and trying to keep up. Trying to heal from yet another blow.
Afraid that I’ll just get hit again.
Mad because there’s no rhyme or reason. I didn’t do anything to deserve this.
I almost wish I had done something wrong, because then there would be an answer to “Why me? Why again?”
Today feels better so far. Even though it started with a bang. I feel productive, I’m out of bed, I have coffee in hand.
Coffee=Life
When all else fails, give me a coffee and I can fight a little longer.
I forgot the sweetener in my coffee this morning, again. I’ve done it so many times that I almost like the bitter taste.
I remember when I had a bit of coffee with my sugar. Over time I’ve grown to like the taste of pure coffee though.
Over time I’ve gotten used to previous traumas and I’ll get used to this one as well.
Over time.
It’ll just take some time.
Creepy Dreams
This is a Really Real Trauma post.
TW: Mention of Completed Suicide. Mention of Suicidal Thoughts. Mention of a Gory Dream.
After a pretty good day or so, last night and this morning were rough.
Yesterday my therapist had to cancel on me. I totally understood why, her dog is sick and ended up in the pet ER. While I wasn’t mad at her, I was mad at the situation. The anger, which is becoming familiar, boiled up inside me. It’s likely that she won’t be able to see me until I get back from vacation, and it had already been almost 2 weeks since she had seen me.
This was just crappy timing.
I laid in bed for awhile, suicidal thoughts running in and out of my brain.
I felt ridiculous. There was no reason for this sort of reaction to such a minor thing. I have group therapy as part of the partial hospitalization program, almost daily. It doesn’t bother me that I’ll be missing THAT during vacation, why did it bother me so much to go an extra week without my individual therapy.
But anger is just part of my response to almost everything right now. And judging myself for the anger was part of what brought along the suicidal thoughts.
After calming down some I went for a walk with my friend. It was a short walk, after taking a few days off due to my stomach issues, I had no stamina again. But it helped.
Being active always helps.
I cooked Pho for dinner. We used boxed broth and pre-sliced meat which made it a super easy meal, but right now it’s one of my favorites.
I went to bed early, I was so tired and couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.
Even with the nightmare medication, the nightmare started almost immediately. It wasn’t about my dad this time. However, it was weird and twisting and reminded me of an episode of Dexter, a show that I never really watched but heard in the background for months as Parker worked her way through the seasons.
I woke up, and when I fell back to sleep I was in the middle of the same series of events.
People being killed and different ways to hide their bodies. Graphic visions of dismembering bodies and removing fingerprints. It was so gory and every time it felt like it would end, someone else would end up dead.
I woke myself up a few times, falling back into the same dream as soon as I closed my eyes.
I woke up at 2 am with a blinding headache. I got up and took some meds, staying awake until Wonder Woman was ready to go to bed, I couldn’t handle being alone with that nightmare anymore.
I think I got a couple of hours of decent sleep before the nightmare started again. I would toss and turn and fall back asleep right into the same dream, over and over and over again.
At least it wasn’t about my dad.
This morning when I woke up to use the restroom I was panicked. Alone felt horrifying, the bathroom was filled with the sound of gunshots.
I went back to bed, at least Wonder Woman was there and I wouldn’t be alone.
Every time I dozed I was back in the same nightmare, but laying awake was panicky and filled with anxiety. I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed to come to the living room. I felt again like I’d be blindsided from every angle.
It was rough.
Finally I woke Wonder Woman up and asked if she would get up with me, I couldn’t handle being alone anymore.
I felt so guilty for disturbing her sleep but the alternative was seemingly impossible.
We cuddled for awhile before getting up and leaving the house. Lunch at a new-to-me restaurant, outside on their patio. Stopping into a few stores looking for a longer leash for the dog on our vacation.
Of course we went for coffee.
Now we are back home. Going into the bedroom to get changed back into my around the house clothes was anxiety provoking. And the bathroom seems to be the perfect place for flashbacks.
I still have a headache, the same one from last night. It is just below the surface, peeking up occasionally to remind me that it’s there.
But it felt good to be out of the house for a bit. Writing has helped me get more of the anxiety out. Hopefully I can catch a nap today without the same dream coming back to haunt my sleep.
Some days are good, other days are hard, and I’m just here riding the waves.
Even the bad days aren’t quite as bad as they were.
And at this point I’m 2 sleeps from vacation. I’m looking forward to mountain views and animals that roam the property where we’ll be staying. I’m looking forward to walking back to the waterfall we saw last time we stayed in that area.
I’m looking forward to getting away.
Hopefully I can leave all of this behind for a few days as well.
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