Immobile

Days off from work used to bring me so much joy. I would make sure I slept in an hour or two than I usually do, and make sure my day was jam-packed full of places and people to see. It made it all the more better when his days off coordinated with mine and we could do all of those things together…

I slept. Guess my psychologists recommendation of bumping up my sleep medication actually did the trick. It made me feel really groggy though, so we’ll see.  Did I mention I’m on medication? For the first time ever in my life, I need medication to help me get through my day… One for anxiety, another for sleep which also doubles as an anti-depressant, and the last is for nausea. Super. I mean seriously, I pop an extra strength Tylenol once every blue moon when a headache creeps up, but that’s pretty much it. Again, unfamiliar territory. My hope is to get off medication eventually because regardless of how it might help me, I have never liked being on any kind of medication and I’ve never needed to be, until recently.

It’s past 5 o’clock (8 o’clock now because I took a break) and guess who is still in bed? I can’t do it. I can’t go outside. I can’t do anything. I feel darker than I ever have before. I had my first appointment with my psychologist on Wednesday. I was so nervous. I hadn’t slept in two days and it was so hard to get out of bed that morning. I tried to look as put together as I could and without any makeup because really I haven’t really seen the point of makeup since I end up crying it off, so I’ve stopped wearing it currently. That might not seem out of the ordinary, but it is for someone who would enjoy wearing it all the time. Alas, I’m sure that will come back in time… Anyway, the appointment was interesting. Seeing a therapist has been something I’ve been wanting to do before all of this even happened. About a year ago, I lost my grandpa to pancreatic cancer. He was my best friend and we were very close. The doctors where he lived couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. By the time they figured out it was cancer, it was too late. We lost him 7 weeks later. I was devastated, but I didn’t show it. My mothers work was really difficult with giving her the time off so she could fly to see him, so I took grievance at my work and covered the days she couldn’t get off from her job so she could go. I’ve never really talked about his death. I swept it under the rug, and continued on with the year as best as I could. I found myself having outbursts and crying every now and then for “no reason”. I knew this was affecting my relationship. I stopped caring about a lot of things, and I own up to that. I told him all of this. He knew. He knew I wanted to go and see someone. This isn’t just about my grandfather anymore. My therapist and I talked about a lot more than what I was expecting and that is why I’m interested to see where this goes. I’ve never had to talk about any of this stuff: My grandpa’s death, my parents, their divorce, him and our relationship. I keep a lot of things in, and considering how open of a person I used to be, it’ll come as a shock to my nearest and dearest. I’m open to therapy. I want it to help me, but I know that this requires effort from me as well. We’ll get there. This blog helps, too. The more I find myself writing, the more open I will be.

My best friend Marie*, who lives in Los Angeles is coming home for a couple of days. She knows what has been going on, and she’s the only person who I feel truly understands me at this point. It’s been three weeks and it just seems like everyone excepts me to bounce back and be “OK”. I’m not. I can’t even say I’m fine. I don’t even know what to say when people ask me how I am. I guess that is where I’m being the dishonest one… She gets it though and that’s all that matters. It’ll be nice to have her home.

One day at a time…

* All names have been changed… but I’m sure you already knew that. 

 

 

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