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Before I can get myself out the door this morning, I have to get a little grumpy with Mr B, maybe try to pick a fight. He’s on to me though, and straight up said to me today: What are you trying to do? Pick a fight with me so you can be all upset and miss your class and then blame it on me? Just GO.
He’s right. I have so much internal resistance to change, to doing something good for myself, to leaving the house even, that I get all worked up and angsty as I’m getting myself ready to go. It happens a lot, and I persist in having this blind spot about it. I guess I am getting better though, because I recognized that he was right, begrudgingly, and stoped trying to pick a fight and put my shoes on and went. Progress, no?
Which brings me to the object of my love: Nia.
Have you ever watched little kids running and playing, and noticed how free and alive they are? How they move in their bodies with such joy?
Well, that’s how I felt today, about 30 minutes into my Nia class. We had a few minutes of free dance, dancing through the studio however we wanted, and I felt like I could fly. I was leaping, spinning, twirling; I was a superstar, I was perfection, I was a leaf on the wind.*
The experience leaves me feeling so inarticulate. Everything I can think to say about it sounds so rahpsodic that it seems like an exaggeration. Even the instructor said before class today that when she first started doing Nia, it was an almost religious experience for her. Which in any other circumstance would give me serious pause, but I just found myself agreeing with her. It’s that good.
What a gift, to remember what it feels like to be well in my body, to move in it with joy. To feel graceful and strong, sexy and earthy and ethereal. To feel my breath and my sweat and my bare feet on the boards and to dance, dance in a room full of women, and see every one of us smiling as we dance.
This gift I received today is part of the payoff for all the hard work I’ve been doing, but it is also a moment of grace, a window that opened into the future so I could see, feel, experience what life could be like if I keep on keeping on. Beautiful.
*yes, this is a Firefly reference, and I am a big dork.
It all ended with a crash.
Christmas was such a lovely day, and before bed I checked the gym schedule and saw there was a Nia class on Wednesday morning. I set the alarm to get up in plenty of time to make the class and get to work.
But when I woke up Wed morning, nothing felt right. Arms and legs like lead, head all foggy, aches all over. Thinking maybe it was just a more severe form of my normal morning stiffness, I took my suboxone and sat down to do a little blog-reading. I passed out in the chair, waking just in time to stop the orange-drools from cascading down my chin (eww!). What the heck?
I tend to get confused – what is physically-based sickness and what component of it is mental? Am I having fibro aches despite the suboxone, or do I have the flu? Am I depressed? Sick? Both? Just Lazy?
Do other people just know when they’re sick, without doubting themselves? Without wondering if they’re feeling like they want to stay in bed because the dreaded depression is coming back? I go through this every time, because I’m so disconnected from my body, so distrustful of my own sensory perceptions. Because I’ve been carrying around all these negative beliefs about myself for so long – that I’m lazy, weak, lack willpower, give up too easily – I sometimes wonder if my mind is creating physical symptoms to give me an excuse to shirk, to malinger.
On top of that, physical illness of any kind seems to exacerbate my depression and anxiety, which in turn makes me prone to get sicker.
Does it matter though? Either way, for whatever reason, my body is crying for rest, for quiet, for nurturing. Most likely, I’ve got a virus (C and Mr B are sick too) and I’m having a bit of a post-holiday crash. School’s out, so I’m not getting much time to myself, and we entertained a lot of people over the past few days (well, a lot for me anyway). If what I feel I really need is to wrap myself up in my blankie and hide from the world with a book for a while, that’s ok. I’m trying to have trust in what my body is telling me, and to have faith that I will recognize when I feel better. It’s just hard to do when so many times in the past the feeling better didn’t come, and the hiding away went on and on and on…
That’s not going to happen this time. C is over at gramma’s house, and I am going to rest. Rest, and get well soon.
I look forward to a time when I’ll know if I’m sick or exhausted, and I’ll know how to care for myself, and I’ll do it without feeling guilty or worrying that I’m slipping back into the Black Pit of Despair® never to return again. It’s good, having all these things to look forward to, but for now I’ll settle for bed.
After a day of gift-opening, brunching, visiting and playing with new toys, C and I bundled ourselves up and hurried out to play in the snow. We’d been watching Labrynth and the time got away from us, but there was still enough light to make a few runs with her little blue disk sled. The thin, slushy snow barely coated the ground, but snow is a rare treat here and we meant to take advantage of the opportunity to play.
Ah, it felt great to be outside in the cold. We scouted the best hill and C plunked her butt down in the plastic saucer. “On Your Mark, Get Set, Fly!” I shouted as I gave her a push and she spun down the hill trailing laughter behind. Back at the top of the hill she insisted it was my turn. Reluctantly, unsure that my booty could sail on that ship, I took the sled from her and climbed aboard.
Woosh! The sled goes a bit quicker for me and I hear myself shouting “Too Fast Too Fast TooFast TOOFASTTOOFAST” as I speed toward the fence but the slight incline at the bottom slows me down and all is well. I slip slide back up to the top of the hill, where C waits with her little hand out to help me up the last few feet, she is suprisingly strong and sure as she pulls me up with all of her 45 pound might.
“Let’s go together!”
I sit in the sled again and hold her in my lap. Impossibly, we go even faster this time, both screaming and laughing simultaneously as we spin out of control toward the bottom of our run. But I hang on to her and we hustle back up for a few more rides before the last of the light fades from the sky.
On the last ride we wipe out, tumbling sideways off of the sled and into the slush. My arm protects her from the impact but we are wet and cold, our gloves are soaked and useless and we are ready for home and hot chocolate. I take off my hat for C to use as a muff for her hands and we start towards home. Halfway across the soccer field I feel her cold little hand in mine and she says:
“This was the best Christmas treat of all mommy.”
In that moment, my life feels so complete. She is right, this is the best treat of the day - laughing, holding her in my arms, speeding downhill, rolling in the wet snow. Being alive, together, present and joyful. That’s all it takes to make her happy, to make me happy. I wonder what I’m always searching for, what do I think is missing, and why? Everything I need is right here, I just need to let myself see it.
Today was a wonderful day. I am so greatful for my beautiful family – my sweet, kind and generous husband who outdid himself to make our day good, to ease my homesickness and my longing for my parents, to make sure that my family traditions live on in the new family we’ve made; and my daughter who teaches me again every day the meaning of love. And I am grateful for the ability to feel, and to be here, for my mobility, for the strength and good health that I can feel growing in me, for the opportunity I have to nurture that health, for the medication that is right now making this all possible for me.
Indeed, I am lucky, and I am glad. Merry Christmas.
Yoga, how I’ve missed you! It felt so good to be in class today, my first class at the health club. Yoga almost always inspires some sort of revelation or epiphany for me, and today was no different. Now, these revelations are usually super-basic, things that I should already know, or I knew and forgot, so I call them my “moment’s of duh,” because, well, duh, bottlecappie.
Today’s moment came while we were in tree pose, balancing on one foot. As I worked to keep my balance steady, it occured to me that balance isn’t something that you attain in life and then poof! you’re good forever. Balance requires constant adjustments, some big and some small. Even people who are masters at balancing, a tightrope walker for instance, are still making small, unseen corrections to account for things happening outside of their control – the wind, a slick spot on the wire, or a moment of mental distraction.
Same with life, even those people who seem to have it all effortlessly under control are constantly making decisions about what they can or will do, how much to take on, how wide a margin of error they need for the times when they can’t be 100%. Right now, I’m making a lot of big, obvious changes in my life as I seek more balance. As I get closer and closer to the balance I’m seeking, I’m sure that the adjustments that I’ll make will be smaller, and hopefully will require less life-upheaval and restructuring. But it’s a relief to know that it’s a constant process that everyone has to work to maintain. It’s not like I have this one chance to get it right, and if I make the wrong choices I’ll be screwed forever.
Not at all. If I need to put my foot down and rest for a while, I can do that. If, on my journey, I sometimes take on too much – too many classes, too many shifts, too many dates (!) – I can say: Hey, I need to do less, rest more. And it’s good to know that I will get stronger, that I am getting stronger already. I’m getting better and better at taking care of myself. Hell, maybe I’ll even be good at it someday.
Like a stubborn puppy who refuses to be dragged about on a leash, the part of me that resists change (especially of the beneficial-to-myself variety) dug in with all four paws today, trying to defeat my meager motivation to go to the gym. The Val-Pak mailer coupon for a free 2 week pass was expiring at midnight, so I really needed to get down there and I decided to go. My mind went a little haywire, throwing up too many objections and obstacles at the same time: it’s raining, I have a headache, laundry needs folding, I think I’m coming down with a cold. Anxiety started to grip my chest and I tried to pick a fight with Mr. B to distract myself from the prospect of going. Woo! All that, and I wasn’t even planning to work out, oh no ho!, just to go down and collect my 2 week pass and come home.
After about 25 minutes of alternately wringing my hands, whining, folding a few shirts and berating myself, I put on my shoes and drove down there. The club is Swanky! Fancy even, with a hot tub/sauna/steam room, scented with eucalyptis, right in the women’s locker room. I got my pass and wandered around for a few minutes, picked up a class schedule and fled back to the saftey of my home. Yaaaayyyy!
Maybe understanding why it’s so hard for me to make these kinds of changes, take positive steps in my life, isn’t as important as it is for me to just go and do the thing. Maybe it will just get easier every time, until doing the good thing becomes a habit. Already, I feel like not using is becoming more of a habit. I even try harder to get a handle on my anxiety before I resort to the aniety meds, and I’ve been working on alternative treatments for my headaches before I reach for the $36 migraine pill. Sometimes, I do resort to chemical help, and I think that’s fine. But I’m interested in learning other ways to help myself, and I’m definitely interested in reducing the amount of prescription medication I take on a regular basis (right now, I have 6, SIX!, medications that I take regularly – 4 daily, 2 when needed).
Which is not to say that I think drugs are necessasarily bad. I still don’t have a goal of total abstinence and I still don’t know how I feel about addiction and recovery, or if I even think of myself as an addict. I know that some would say this is “denial,” but I don’t know. Maybe I should talk about it with my therapist. The way that I see it is that I started using opiates to treat my untreated pain, and then I became physically dependent, and psychologically dependent as well. Since suboxone treats my pain so effectively, and wonder of all wonders seems to be a remarkably effective antidepressant, I haven’t wanted any vicodin or oc. And it’s been around, available to me.
My emotional/mental problems long predated my opiate use. And I’m really willing to work on developing skills to help me cope with my depression, to learn how to manage it. And I’m willing to work on myself physically, in the hope that I can lessen my pain and lessen my need for drugs. So does this mean I’m an addict? Is it really true that I’ll never be better until I accept that framing of my problems, and that I’ll never be able to heal until I admit that I don’t have the power to heal myself?
Whatever the answer to that question is, I know for a fact that I’m not ready to claim the label. I will go to therapy, I will find non-drug and alcohol related social activities to do, I will take my medication and I will stay away from other recreational substances for now, because that is what I agreed to do in order to get treatment. Hopefully, that will be enough to get me healthy.
Last week, my counselor told me I should be participating in two “recovery activites” each week. They don’t have to be meetings. Anything that I go to/do that involves other people and does not involve drugs/alcohol can be counted as a “recovery activity.”
This week, as I rushed to my appointment (which I had nearly forgotten) I searched my mind for anything that I’d done that could be counted towards my recovery-activity quota. I came up with nothing.
I’d been planning, as you may have read, on getting to the gym. Going to yoga class. Possibly attending the SMART recovery meeting. I was talking with A&J about starting a book group, maybe even one where we’d read books about recovery or self-discovery or spirituality or something like that. I considered checking out the Unitarian Church, or going to the Shambhala Center to meditate.
But I didn’t do any of these things. Which is not to say that I didn’t do anything positive over the past 7 days. I did a lot of house-cleaning that had been long neglected. Went Christmas shopping, went to various therapy and doctor appointments, read books, de-loused my kid’s head, put up the Christmas tree and decorated it, and I worked. It was a busy week, and some of my personal time was surrendered to the fact that C stayed home from school for 2 days.
What I’m wondering about, is why it’s so hard for me to make time for myself and to use that time, once I’ve made it, to go do things that are Good For Me. Instead, I while away my free morning blog-surfing, or hitting that damn StumbleUpon button (cursed thing!) My schedule got all turned around because of our late-night lice party, and I spent my Saturday off sleeping.
This hermit behavior bothers me, but not enough to inspire me to get out and do stuff, yet. Maybe it’s just habit, the groove I’ve worn myself into over the years of depression, and more recently, of dependence on chemicals to foster sociability. Or it’s lingering vestiges of the depression itself tethering me to my armchair. Could be fear, or just plain old laziness. I am attracted to the idea of going out and doing stuff – fun stuff, self-improving stuff, educational, spiritual, healthy stuff. I enjoy thinking up things to do, looking up events and classes in my area, sometimes I even write them down in my appointment book.
And then I stay home.
Maybe part of the problem is that some (most?) of this desire I have, to get out and do things, is extrinsically motivated. People -my husband, my counselor, my mom, my friends – are always telling me I should go out more, take time for myself, get a hobby, whatever. And I do agree, it makes sense, it’s a great idea, it’s something I want, it’s something I should want. But it takes effort, and it’s uncomfortable because it’s change, and it’s easier and safer to take my book and go back to bed.
Tomorrow I have to work all day, but Sunday I’m off. I will be tired and my feet and back will be killing me. C won’t be here and I’ll be tempted to sleep late and then while away the day watching Weeds and making mushroom soup. I want to make a promise to myself, that I will go out and do a recovery activity, but even as I type the words, they seem empty. I don’t know how to give my word to myself, to say I need to do this, for me, and really mean it. To follow through.
Little C never falls asleep by herself. She is afraid of the dark, in some primal way that no amount of night-lights can alleviate. Every night, one of us lays down with her to read stories. After lights-out, we talk a bit or she begs for a story “from when you were little, mom.” Tonight I told her about a few of the many times I got lost, separated from my family – at Sears, at Disney World, on a snorkeling trip to Sombrero Reef. Then she snuggled into my chest, her head on my arm and I rubbed her head until she fell asleep.
Some nights, when I am weary or she is rambunctious, I swear that I’ll break her of this habit soon – make her fall asleep on her own like I did when I was her age. But tonight I just felt so lucky. So lucky to be the person who gets to care for this amazing child. Lucky to feel love so intensely that I ache from it, lucky that she still wants me to snuggle her to sleep every night. Soon enough, I’m sure, she’ll be telling me she’s too big for this. So tonight, I laid there with her for a little while longer, watching her sleep, smelling her hair, feeling how blessed I am to be alive.
Probuphine implants are badly designed.
I have come to this conclusion since I pinched my arm, right at the implant site, between the foot of my daughter’s bed and the wall. (I was plugging in her electric blanket.) Holy Shit That Hurt! I saw stars. Thought I might faint. But it passed.
Now, several days later, I get a sharp stabbing pain in my arm if I move it a certain way or if the sleeve of my coat even gently pulls on my skin near the implants. Either they are broken, or they are pointy. The implants, I mean. Either way, this sucks. You’d think if you’re designing an implant meant to stay in someone’s arm for extended periods of time, it would be more durable, or flexible, or not sharp at least. Ding! I will be glad when they are gone and I am done with this.
Said goodbye to my awesome therapist today. We only worked together a few times, but I really gained a lot from those sessions. She had a mad talent for asking me exactly the right questions to make the bells ding and the lightbulbs pop. This is the worst part of not being able to continue in the study. At least now I know how fuckin effective therapy can be if your therapist is not a complete tool. My expectations for how therapy should benefit me are completely different now. Before, I thought it was good enough to just have a safe place to talk about stuff, now I realize that good therapy will help me make real, positive changes in my life. Woo! Look at me, finding the silver lining.
My explant (implant removal) is Wednesday. I had everything set up with my new suboxone program on time to make the switch, I thought. But of course my insurance company needed some special paperwork and autorization – because the actual prescription isn’t enough to prove that I need the drug, I guess – so the pharmacy can’t fill my scrip. And the insurance co got flooded over the weekend, so who knows what will become of me. Soooooo frustrating, after being on the phone for over an hour trying to sort this out today I almost lost it. But I went in my room and just sat and got myself back in control. Everything will be ok, and if not, freaking out doesn’t help. See how I’ve grown?
There is still so much work for me to do. I worry that I’ll lose motivation to do the hard work because I’m feeling so much better now. I should go to the gym tomorrow and get my week pass & sign up. Then I should do some exercise. I will do this, I’m making a promise to myself right now. It doesn’t have to be a lot, but I will do something.
I like feeling this way. I could get used to it. I really could. The only thing I don’t like is the fact that I get withdrawl sickness if I stop taking the suboxne. Which isn’t all that different from a lot of antidepressants, but the sickness is more immediately felt if my morning dose of suboxone is delayed. This morning my pupils were big, my nose was stuffy and I was a little sweaty. Nothing much, but enough to keep me cognizant of the fact that I am still drug dependant.
Still, for the way that I’ve been feeling for the last month, that is a tiny, tiny price to pay.
Today I met my new suboxone doc. It was a standard get-to-know-the-patient appointment, him asking many questions that I’ve been asked many times before.
But he did throw in one that left me momentarily speechless. It was such a basic question that I’m suprised that no one’s asked it before:
“Were you close to anyone in your family when you were young?”
I sat there, opening and closing my mouth like a fish, saying nothing.
Not really, I guess. How do I not know the answer to this? I mean, I do know. The answer is No, I wasn’t close to anyone, not after about the age of 12, anyway.
How could I have been close to anyone at all, with all of the parts of me I was busily stuffing into little boxes? Don’t look there, don’t ask me about that, you don’t want to know.
I was trying to tell him about being raped. I kept saying things like: I would put myself into dangerous situations where I could be taken advantage of. Boys (men) would have sex with me and even if I didn’t want to I didn’t protest, I didn’t say no, I didn’t fight, I didn’t run away.
I raped myself.
All of this I convey without emotion.
Will I ever get over that detachment from myself? I think I need to, if I ever want real closeness with anybody. Though there have been a few, precious, friends in my life who sort of naturally overcame all my defenses and just knew me, and loved me. For that I am grateful.
I want to be well. I have been hiding from the issues that have poisioned my brain for so long that I have nearly lost my self. I think I am ready now to confront these things. I have told many of my therapists that I didn’t think my depression and anxiety had anything to do with being raped, that I was over that. Now I’m not so sure, but I’m going to find out. I am going to be well.
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