A whole month without a post. A whole month of thinking about writing and not knowing what to say or being undecided about what to reveal. I don’t want to bore you to death. This blogging thing is HARD.
So, where the bejeezus am I?
It feels like a test.
I’m staring at two weeks without my girls and without the structure and grounding they bring to my life. Like a wobbly pre-schooler without stabilisers I’m racing down a hill, out of control, knowing that bush at the end is going to get me. But I think, this time, that I can try to swerve and miss the worst of the fall; escape with a few bumps and bruises rather than a broken nose. I hesitantly think that I’m far enough away from wanting to die that I can do things to avoid catastrophe. This time.
Some of this is about being able to think straight (er) now I’m further away from the centrifugal pull of annihilation. (*Admires sentence*) The drugs are working, damn them. (Thank you Dr Sharma.) And mindfulness is helping a little too: I’m trying to step back and notice what I’m feeling, to recognise it is just a feeling, and that, because it is a feeling it’s not part of me; I can choose not to get sucked in. It doesn’t work most of the time but, occasionally, it does; enough to make me pay attention in mindfulness each Tuesday, anyway. And, yes, I have to acknowledge through gritted teeth that nutrition (and weight) play a part as well. Lovely food psychiatrist noticed at my CPA that I dissociate far less and am more present in conversations. It’s great that he thinks I’m more of a person now but I hate the fact I have to admit being heavier makes my mind work better. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.
I know I’m feeling better. I can even say it now. I’m planning small things like a new colour scheme for the dining room and a few days in London seeing my brother with the girls at the end of August. I’m actually going to research the best car insurance deal this year rather than letting the automatic renewal take care of it. I can think beyond this day, this week and — almost — this month. It’s not always comfortable, but I can do it without the world crashing down on me. This is a million miles away from waking up every morning wondering if it would be the day I died.
But before I break out the gin and start believing in unicorns I have to admit that this comes at a cost. *Deep sigh* It’s the food stuff.
I’ve lost weight; quite a bit. I’m not eating solids apart from ice lollies (and even I know they don’t really count). I’m getting more palpitations. My blood pressure has dropped. Sometimes I’m dizzy. It’s the way back to where I was this time last year when I was on the ward. But it’s the price I have to pay for feeling a little less broken.
I don’t seem to be able to have both. Not really sure where to go from here.