This is a Really Real Extended Family post.
This is a post about being estranged from birth family.
This post contains politics, differing beliefs, pain of loss.
Today, my Facebook and photo memories were full of pictures with my niece and nephews.
Without planning it, my sister, the kids and I, tended to get together around this time every year.
I had 3 pictures in a row of me holding my first nephew. Each year around his birthday I was lucky enough to see him, and get a picture as he aged.
I had 2 pictures with my niece, a year younger than her brother.
One picture with the youngest, a year younger than his sister.
The last time I saw them was just over a year ago, before the pandemic was even a thing.
We would regularly talk over video chat. My sister lining all 3 kids up in high chairs at the table and sitting the phone where I could talk with them all.
My sister and I have very different beliefs. She is a conservative born again Christian, super into a her MLM essential oils and anti science including vaccinations, and I am super liberal and queer.
We managed to coexist. We avoided those topics. She didn’t seem to judge me for my life and the way I lived it.
As the election got closer, she began posting more and more about her beliefs.
She posted an article that someone connected queer folk to pedophiles. She posted articles against transwomen, and trans rights. She became more verbal with the beliefs that directly hurt me.
I distanced myself more and more, unfollowed her so that she would no longer show up in my feed. I’d occasionally check her page for pictures of the kids. I enjoyed watching them grow.
It’s been 6 months since a video chat. She had the kids call me shortly after my dad died, to give me something to smile about.
She posted and texted me around the time that Trump was getting banned from various social media outlets. Telling me that because of something she posted, they were shutting down her Facebook in 24 hours and I could contact her via text.
I didn’t respond, I knew that Facebook doesn’t give you warning, she was just feeding into the political bullshit.
A few weeks later she was back on Facebook, I knew because she was reacting to my posts again.
I realized I was censoring my posts, not wanting to start family drama, not wanting to alienate anyone, not wanting to call her out on her bullshit.
I added her to my restricted list, she can no longer see what I post. At the same time I did the same with my youngest sister, and made sure my mom was still on the list as well.
I’ve slowly gone no contact with the family I lived with for the first 17 years of my life.
I didn’t make some big announcement, I haven’t addressed any of it with them.
I last heard from my Mom on Christmas, we exchanged 2 or 3 mundane texts. Before that it was Birthday wishes from her.
She’s even further down that rabbit hole of QAnon. Her beliefs aren’t just against who I am as a person, they are downright scary. She jumps from one conspiracy theory to the next, I had to tell her point blank to stop sending me messages about them. It took her awhile to listen.
My youngest sister is doing well, as far as I know. She doesn’t advertise her beliefs so I have no idea where she stands, but she’s so involved with the other two that it just feels safer to distance myself there as well. Every few months she messages to see how I’m doing, but rarely responds to what I say.
It’s painful. The memories are painful. The fact that I have to sacrifice the relationship with my niece and nephews is hard, probably one of the hardest parts of this.
But, I have an amazing chosen family. I am surrounded by people who choose to love me for who I am.
And I’m thankful for that.
Self Care
Work in Progress
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.
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?
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.
Old Houses
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I’ve been dreaming about my dad a lot.
The dreams always take place at his old house, the one I helped him build, the one I spent every other weekend at for most of my childhood years.
We made a lot of memories in that home.
I was sad when he sold it.
I remember climbing on the roof putting shingles on.
I remember him throwing a priced pencil set across the room because I didn’t put it away.
I remember playing in the giant hole where the foundation was dug out.
I remember being called Butch when I got my hair cut short for the first time.
I remember laying bricks, learning how to put just the right amount of mortar on.
I remember realizing Dad was racist, when he was talking about his brick layer.
I remember playing on “Mt. Tina,” the giant pile of dirt where they dug the basement out.
That’s the house I envision when I envision my father.
I only visited him a handful of times at the Florida house.
So that’s not where he is in my dreams.
I dream about him every few nights.
Dreams that take place after he shot himself, but he’s still alive.
A weird dichotomy where I know he’s dead, but I know he’s alive.
The dreams don’t really upset me, most of the time.
But, he tried to kill me in one of them and I screamed out,
scaring Wonder Woman who was sleeping beside me.
I’m pretty upset that I dream about him so often.
In the three months since he’s died, he’s shown up in my dreams more times than Parker ever has.
And she’s been dead for four and a half years.
This wasn’t what I planned to write about today.
I planned to write about pulling out an old hobby.
A friend gifted me a small diamond painting and it reminded me of how many hours I spent doing them a few years ago.
I didn’t realize I missed it until I started doing it again.
Relaxing in a meditative sort of way.
An activity that I get completely immersed in,
focusing on matching each symbol in turn as I work my way around the canvas.
It’s a silly activity.
One that will leave me with giant canvases full of plastic “diamonds.”
Art that I will never do anything with.
But it occupies my mind and my hands.
It gives me something to do on these long winter nights while Covid keeps me trapped inside.
I texted my cousin this week.
Told him I was ready to come back to work a few hours a week.
When he has something for me to do.
It feels like an achievement.
Like I’m healing.
Like I’m getting my life back.
It’s about time.
Day 17
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
Today has been productive.
It feels good.
I had PHP this morning.
I over slept.
I almost didn’t go at all.
But I did.
Afterwards I had coffee with a high school friend. Someone I probably haven’t seen since we graduated.
Or maybe in my Denny’s days right after high school.
Conversation flowed easily, and my ever present anxiety was quiet for a change.
We sat outside.
The cold wind threatening to blow our drinks over.
But it was nice to be around someone as worried about safety as I am.
We talked a lot about Covid.
About how our lives have changed.
And how it will never go back to the normal that was.
There will forever be a new normal.
It felt nice to socialize.
When I got home I was worn out.
The smallest things do that now.
But the coffee kept me going.
I spent this evening filling envelopes with already created cards.
I’ve made 64 so far.
I need to make another 33.
I’m having so much fun with them, so much love is going into these pieces of paper.
And I’m surrounded by so much love.
I remember being in school, horribly bullied, with no idea what was wrong with me.
Or what I was doing wrong.
Now, I’m surrounded by a support system bigger than most people have.
All of you that read my posts.
Some silently.
Some reacting.
Some commenting.
The people inviting me out for coffee and walks.
The people keeping me company over zoom or at bonfires.
It’s nice to be so loved.
It’s nice to be able to feel that love.
Instead of being surrounded by a fog that won’t let it in.
I’m feeling better every day.
I’m sure rough times will come again, but I’m also sure I can handle them.
For now, though, I’m going to enjoy the clear blue skies.
Day 16
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I skipped a day.
Nothing was really happening and I couldn’t figure out a topic to write about, so I kept waiting for inspiration.
And thought about it one last time as I was dozing off.
It gets boring for me to write “day in the life” posts day after day with no real content.
No real direction.
Especially when each day, looks like the day before, and the day before, and the day before.
Quarantine life is so damn boring.
I’ve taken two naps today, short naps, but still, laying down and dozing off.
I’m just not feeling 100%.
Partially its still depression, partially it’s that boredom of every day feeling like the last.
Today was a good day though.
I had PHP this morning, and group therapy was really productive.
I love when I end a group feeling like I have more insight than I did when it started.
After PHP I went for a walk with a derby friend. Someone who I haven’t seen since last season.
There hasn’t really been a season this year.
We walked slowly, stopping often for her dog to sniff around, and just talked.
We stayed distant from each other on the path, giving each other air hugs from 6 feet away before we left.
This new normal is odd, but finding safe ways to socialize is important.
I have coffee with another friend tomorrow, and then we’re repeating today’s walk on Thursday.
Sunday, Wonder Woman and I are having a friend over for another bonfire.
Quite a socially busy week for me, and it feels so good.
It feels good to have interest in this again.
It feels good to push myself not to cancel, because depression and anxiety want to get in the way.
But I’m not letting them.
I’m worth the fight.
I’m working on making socially distant plans with friends for next week.
I’ll be alone for a few days, and while I’m looking forward to the “me time,” I also don’t want to open myself up for the thoughts to creep back in.
Quiet is good, but getting myself stuck in the house isn’t.
I also have plans to turn up the music and get some serious cleaning done around here.
From months of staying at home, to long stretches of depression, my house is worse than it’s ever been.
I plan to get it back under control while she’s gone.
Organize my space to organize my mind.
I feel so much better though. I feel like the meds are working, I feel more like,
me.
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.
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