Today started out rough. I woke feeling anxious. No particular thoughts causing me distress, just a discomfort in my body. I had a Harry Potter audiobook on; I use the Harry Potter audiobooks like white noise while I sleep. They relax me. But soon my agitation grew, so I switched over to some soothing music. But that felt like sandpaper on my nerves, so I switched over to my meditation soundtrack. No. Just no.
My anxiety grew. Intensified to the point that I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I always feel my anxiety most strongly in my shoulders. I shake my arms to try to dispel the feeling of tension, the feeling like I'm being held down by my shoulders. Shaking my arms doesn't really help, but it's my natural reaction. Well, I guess it helps a little. Sometimes it gets me through the worst of it. Not today.
My anxiety climbed. Maybe I just needed silence. So I turned it all off. And that was better. My body's stress didn't go down, but it leveled out. I just breathed in the stillness for a bit. Deep breaths. Willing my body to relax.
I prayed for help.
I felt prompted I should listen to a church talk. Luckily, I have several on my mp3 player that I sometimes listen to when I walk. I searched through my list, not really looking for a particular talk, just the right soothing voice. Then I saw the one. Jesus Christ - The Master Healer. If there was anything I needed right then, it was healing.
It was given by Elder Russell M. Nelson, a leader in our church, who does (in fact) have a very soothing voice and manner of address. As I listened to his words, I sought release. I sought a connection with God that would take away my current suffering.
And then a panic attack hit. Hard.
Suddenly I was gasping. Crying. Sobbing. It felt like my throat was closing up. The distress in my body grew. My headache exploded. I cried and cried, clenching at my throat and pressing my hand against my forehead. I had been propped up in my bed, but had to get rid of the pillows and lie flat to try to relieve my throat.
Talk yourself through it. You can do this. Talk yourself down. I tried to remember all I've learned to get through a moment like that. Nothing. And then a vague recollection of how brief it was likely to be. A knowledge that even though it felt like I would die, I wouldn't really.
I began to pay attention to my breathing. Even though I could feel my throat constricting, the muscles tightening, my breathing was still fine. No restriction. No limitation.
But still - panic! Ridiculous, overwhelming panic. And the talk continued. The soothing voice strengthening me even then.
I let myself cry. I let my breaths heave. I let my body work through whatever it needed to work through.
As the talk ended, the panic began to subside. But the anxiety was still there. How would I get rid of that? I need to go to church. I have a calling to perform.
Slow down. I felt prompted strongly to slow down today. I have a tendency to rush around in the morning getting ready and to be highly energetic in my calling. Today, I need to slow down. I need to not do anything which will feed the adrenaline. I need to relieve my body.
Stretch. I felt prompted to stretch. I stretched my legs. I did the stretches for my plantar fasciitis. It helped. I could feel my body releasing a little.
Wash your face. Okay, that might sound like a strange prompting. But I have a very minimal morning hygiene routine. Generally just a quick splash of water on my face. Today I was supposed to wash my face. Gently. Circular motions. Massaging my face slowly. Warm water. More release.
Lotion. Put on some lotion. I put some baby lotion in my hands, rubbed them together a bit, and gently applied it to my face. A similar massaging action. Lovingly. Slowly. And my body calmed.
There is still a remnant of anxiety in my body, just under the surface. I still need to go slow today. I still need to be gentle with myself. Mindful of myself. But I will get through it unscathed. I will be the better for it.
I believe I was touched by the Master Healer this morning. I was guided through healing techniques I had learned but couldn't recall in that moment. And I'm grateful. And I testify. Truth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKx63a1vBlg
Showing posts with label Anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anxiety. Show all posts
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Monotasking - Oh my gosh, it's so hard!
I was once talking to a woman who said she admired my ability to multitask so well. She just didn't work this way. She was only able to work on one thing at a time, focus on one thing at a time.
Many thoughts went through my mind as she said this:
- What would it be like to just work on/think about one thing at a time?
- I wish I could think about just one thing at a time and shut my brain up a bit.
- I bet she could multitask if she worked at it; it's a skill just like anything else and can be learned.
- How can she get anything done by working on just one thing at a time?
See? Even in that second that followed her comment my brain was jumping around.
According to my Buddhist meditation DVD, that's called the monkey mind. It's part of our nature. And the way to peace is to learn to calm it.
So why is it so hard to focus on just one thing at a time?
I think a big part of it is that our society rewards multitasking. Many of us struggle with I'm-busier-than-you syndrome. I know I've bought into this way of thinking. Busy is good. Busy is productive. Busy is something to be proud of and wave around like a flag of accomplishment.
How many times have you written a Facebook post that says "I have to do this and this and this" - which is partly complaining and partly bragging? How many times have you been talking to someone and done the same thing? How many times have you heard someone rattle off their list (in the same feigned griping way) and felt like you had to match or top it by complaining of your day? Or felt like you couldn't talk about your day because you only did one thing or didn't have anything really to do that day?
Seriously, when did having a light schedule come to mean you were lazy? When did a day of peaceful rest or strolling through the park or reading for hours become something to be ashamed of? When did doing one thing instead of five things come to mean you were a slacker? Why is chewing gum and walking considered more intelligent than just walking?
Studies have shown that monotasking is more efficient (but since I can't reference any of them I'm not going to talk about that anymore).
I'm going to talk about the value I see in doing one thing at a time. Seriously think about it for a minute. Just. One. Thing.
Now, if you're a reader you might do this already. I know I can't do anything else while I read. Except laundry. Or the dishes. Or run errands and then come back to it. Each of these interruptions makes our reading less efficient. It takes us a few minutes to get back into what we're reading. We lose the cohesiveness of the content. And if it's a story, we pull ourselves out of the moment the characters are having. In my mind, that's a less enjoyable story.
All this is to say I believe monotasking is more efficient and more accurate (okay, so I'm going to talk about its efficiency a bit). If we jump around from thing to thing to thing the power of focus on just that one thing is lost. There's a rev up factor to most tasks. If we have to rev up again and again because we did something else in between, it takes that much longer.
And if we're giving something our full attention it will be more accurate. Do you think your taxes will be more accurate if you're concentrating on that task alone or if you're having a conversation while you're working on them? Is your driving safer when you concentrate on that task alone or when you're also texting or talking on the phone or arguing with someone in the car? Would you like your surgeon to focus just on his task at hand while operating on you or would you like him to also be consulting on another case with another doctor as he cuts into your body?
I believe monotasking allows us to enjoy the full flavor of a moment. If you glance at the sunset as you drive to the store and note how pretty it is, that's nice. But if you pull over and take a few moments to just examine the sunset, the multiple shades of multiple colors, the wonder of the earth, the feeling it gives you, isn't that a different experience? A better experience? Imagine how this would change your experience at church. At the temple. With your spouse.
And that brings me to my next point. Imagine what it does for the person you're with when you pay full attention to them. When you're not also playing on whatever device is at hand. When you're not checking text messages. When you're not answering calls. How do they feel when you are just with them, completely?
Imagine the stillness it can bring. Not just physical stillness, although I would argue some of us need a bit more of that. But the mental stillness. The emotional stillness. The spiritual stillness. To just be in that moment.
I heard a podcast many years ago that has stuck with me. It was a Quaker woman. She talked about how the Quakers strive to devote each action to God. When they are sweeping, they are only sweeping. And they are doing it for God.
Maybe you have no intention of sweeping for God, but what if all you did was sweep? What if your brain weren't running all over the place trying to solve the problems of your life? What if you focused on that moment instead of just rushing through to get to the next chore? What if you focused on the sound of the broom on the floor? The feeling of the muscles in your arms and hands maneuvering the broom? The sight of the cleanliness that emerges as you sweep? What if you just swept in stillness?
I think even sweeping could be rejuvenating that way.
And that brings me to my final point. I believe monotasking can be rejuvenating. I believe it relieves our minds and bodies of the constant back and forth that is so draining. I believe it lets our muscles relax a bit, both mental and physical. I believe it's good for us.
And, yes, this was a long way to describe mindfulness. A powerful way to live life (even just moments). A way to soothe depression, anxiety, stress, high blood pressure, and many other struggles. A way to feel more peace.
Because couldn't we all use a little more peace?
But just because I believe it's good for us doesn't mean I'm good at it. I'm working on it. I'm still often uncomfortable doing just one thing at a time. I still find myself listening to an audiobook while cleaning the house. I still find myself playing solitaire while watching something on Netflix. I still have trouble calming my monkey mind. But I'm trying.
Many thoughts went through my mind as she said this:
- What would it be like to just work on/think about one thing at a time?
- I wish I could think about just one thing at a time and shut my brain up a bit.
- I bet she could multitask if she worked at it; it's a skill just like anything else and can be learned.
- How can she get anything done by working on just one thing at a time?
See? Even in that second that followed her comment my brain was jumping around.
According to my Buddhist meditation DVD, that's called the monkey mind. It's part of our nature. And the way to peace is to learn to calm it.
So why is it so hard to focus on just one thing at a time?
I think a big part of it is that our society rewards multitasking. Many of us struggle with I'm-busier-than-you syndrome. I know I've bought into this way of thinking. Busy is good. Busy is productive. Busy is something to be proud of and wave around like a flag of accomplishment.
How many times have you written a Facebook post that says "I have to do this and this and this" - which is partly complaining and partly bragging? How many times have you been talking to someone and done the same thing? How many times have you heard someone rattle off their list (in the same feigned griping way) and felt like you had to match or top it by complaining of your day? Or felt like you couldn't talk about your day because you only did one thing or didn't have anything really to do that day?
Seriously, when did having a light schedule come to mean you were lazy? When did a day of peaceful rest or strolling through the park or reading for hours become something to be ashamed of? When did doing one thing instead of five things come to mean you were a slacker? Why is chewing gum and walking considered more intelligent than just walking?
Studies have shown that monotasking is more efficient (but since I can't reference any of them I'm not going to talk about that anymore).
I'm going to talk about the value I see in doing one thing at a time. Seriously think about it for a minute. Just. One. Thing.
Now, if you're a reader you might do this already. I know I can't do anything else while I read. Except laundry. Or the dishes. Or run errands and then come back to it. Each of these interruptions makes our reading less efficient. It takes us a few minutes to get back into what we're reading. We lose the cohesiveness of the content. And if it's a story, we pull ourselves out of the moment the characters are having. In my mind, that's a less enjoyable story.
All this is to say I believe monotasking is more efficient and more accurate (okay, so I'm going to talk about its efficiency a bit). If we jump around from thing to thing to thing the power of focus on just that one thing is lost. There's a rev up factor to most tasks. If we have to rev up again and again because we did something else in between, it takes that much longer.
And if we're giving something our full attention it will be more accurate. Do you think your taxes will be more accurate if you're concentrating on that task alone or if you're having a conversation while you're working on them? Is your driving safer when you concentrate on that task alone or when you're also texting or talking on the phone or arguing with someone in the car? Would you like your surgeon to focus just on his task at hand while operating on you or would you like him to also be consulting on another case with another doctor as he cuts into your body?
I believe monotasking allows us to enjoy the full flavor of a moment. If you glance at the sunset as you drive to the store and note how pretty it is, that's nice. But if you pull over and take a few moments to just examine the sunset, the multiple shades of multiple colors, the wonder of the earth, the feeling it gives you, isn't that a different experience? A better experience? Imagine how this would change your experience at church. At the temple. With your spouse.
And that brings me to my next point. Imagine what it does for the person you're with when you pay full attention to them. When you're not also playing on whatever device is at hand. When you're not checking text messages. When you're not answering calls. How do they feel when you are just with them, completely?
Imagine the stillness it can bring. Not just physical stillness, although I would argue some of us need a bit more of that. But the mental stillness. The emotional stillness. The spiritual stillness. To just be in that moment.
I heard a podcast many years ago that has stuck with me. It was a Quaker woman. She talked about how the Quakers strive to devote each action to God. When they are sweeping, they are only sweeping. And they are doing it for God.
Maybe you have no intention of sweeping for God, but what if all you did was sweep? What if your brain weren't running all over the place trying to solve the problems of your life? What if you focused on that moment instead of just rushing through to get to the next chore? What if you focused on the sound of the broom on the floor? The feeling of the muscles in your arms and hands maneuvering the broom? The sight of the cleanliness that emerges as you sweep? What if you just swept in stillness?
I think even sweeping could be rejuvenating that way.
And that brings me to my final point. I believe monotasking can be rejuvenating. I believe it relieves our minds and bodies of the constant back and forth that is so draining. I believe it lets our muscles relax a bit, both mental and physical. I believe it's good for us.
And, yes, this was a long way to describe mindfulness. A powerful way to live life (even just moments). A way to soothe depression, anxiety, stress, high blood pressure, and many other struggles. A way to feel more peace.
Because couldn't we all use a little more peace?
But just because I believe it's good for us doesn't mean I'm good at it. I'm working on it. I'm still often uncomfortable doing just one thing at a time. I still find myself listening to an audiobook while cleaning the house. I still find myself playing solitaire while watching something on Netflix. I still have trouble calming my monkey mind. But I'm trying.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
An Alternative to Self-Harm, an Anxiety Attack, and Just Yuck
So, I'm seeing a new therapist. He and I are finding our way. I felt like we were floundering for a bit (turns out, so did he), but I feel like we have a plan now.
I have gone to therapy for many years, off and on. I've seen several therapists. And sometimes I feel like I'm in therapy to keep a grasp on reality when my life is crazy. That my therapist is my anchor. Because sometimes the waves are so far over my head and I can't even find a piece of driftwood to cling to. Therapy has been the lifeboat for me many times.
Other times therapy is my mental gym and my therapist is my personal trainer. His job is to help me strengthen my weaknesses. To prepare for competition or just to feel my best. This time is one of those.
This therapist (Jason) is my coach. His job (and my job) is to help me fight. His job is to help me win. In my fight against self-harm.
Which is kind of an uphill battle because I'm still not sure I want to give it up.
I know that doesn't make sense to most of you, and I'm happy about that because it means this isn't a part of your life. But some of you will get it. Self-harm is a drug. It's soothing. It's numbing. It feels good. It stops the pain.
Anyway, all of that was just an introduction to where I am now and what I experienced today.
In therapy we discussed what happens when I get triggered. There are many things in my past that have been traumatic. When something happens that reminds me of one of these, I can be taken back. I go into fight, flight, or freeze. (Which is something I'd surprisingly never connected with self-harm before - good job, Jason.) I can be a child again. Or a teen. Or even a toddler, depending on which trauma is triggered.
So, in my last session I had a particular trigger in mind, because I almost self-harmed a couple weeks ago and have been craving it a lot since. I figured that was a good place to start. Jason asked me how old I feel with this trigger. Five. I am five years old. Didn't have to think about it. I am a helpless, powerless, scared little girl.
As we talked more, we discussed the place in our brains that thinks logical thoughts and the place in our brains that thinks save-your-butt thoughts. The animal brain that's ready to fight the saber-tooth tiger. When a person has PTSD, and is triggered, the thinking part doesn't get to play. It gets completely bypassed. The run-so-you-don't-die part takes over. It's visceral.
And through all these years of therapy I've learned so many techniques to deal with those moments. I know behavior after behavior that is healthier and longer lasting as a fix. To get me through those moments. But those are not habits for me yet and they are in the thinking part of my brain. The ones I've used for years, the unhealthy ones, the ones that are habits are in the get-me-through-this-alive part.
Those unhealthy behaviors are the ones in the path of the trauma brain process. Trigger - freak out - make the pain stop. It's very automatic. Again, visceral.
So my therapist introduced a novel approach. Skip the thinking. We're not going to think our way through this. We're going visceral. Since your brain isn't going to take the thinking path, we won't either. We're going very basic.
We're going to use my senses to shock my body out of that moment I feel trapped in and back into the real moment I'm in. My new mantra is "new moment-new experience." This moment isn't that moment. And more importantly, I am not that little girl. I am a forty-five year old woman. I have forty more years of experience than she does. I am strong. I can make my own choices. No one else has control over me. I don't have to do what I don't want to do. I am powerful!
So how do we slap my brain in the face and tell it to wake up and see that it's a new moment when it's on the path to destruction? We're going to use my senses. Like smelling salts, we're going to smack my brain and tell it to wake up. To break that spell (from Sleeping Beauty) that's got me mesmerized and is calling me to the spinning wheel to prick my finger. And I think it's a good plan.
My assignment for this week and next was to find five things that are very unpleasant to me (that attack my senses) but that aren't harmful and don't relate to or bring up any trauma. And for extra credit, I could try them for real.
I figured out several things I could use, one or more for each of the five senses. I have a couple of them in place and am working on the others.
I tried one of them earlier this week. I was triggered by something that has frequently led to self-harm in my past. And then I grabbed the lavender oil. I HATE the smell of lavender oil. It makes my muscles cringe. I used it like smelling salts. And it was enough to remind me of my mantra. New moment-new experience. Then I took a few deep breaths. I smelled it again. Ick! And I reminded myself that I am not that person anymore. I can face this. A few more deep breaths and I was better. The problem wasn't gone, but it wasn't beating me in the head and punching me in the stomach anymore. It was just there and I'd get through it and it will pass and soon it won't matter anymore anyway. That was a good moment.
Sometimes when I'm in therapy, and we come up with a new plan of attack, I'm so sure I understand how to use it. And then I leave and get into the real world and realize there were a couple points of clarification I didn't get. But I often don't realize that until I use my new behavior wrong. And that can turn out bad. Like today.
I've been on edge for a while now. Three or four days. No, I guess it's been longer than that because I was feeling it before I went to therapy Monday. So at least a week. It's a difficult thing to describe. It's like all the nerves in the periphery of my body (especially my arms and shoulders) are on hyper-alert. It's hard - even painful - to have people close to me. Like closer than about three feet away makes me cringe internally (although I try not to show it if I'm in public; I don't want to be rude). If someone touches me, my body starts to whimper. It hurts in a psychological way. But the feeling of wanting to climb out of my skin is very much a physical thing. When I am alone again I find myself shaking my arms trying to make the feelings stop.
Today I was hit by this when I was alone, but stronger. Out of the blue and without a trigger. I've heard restless-leg syndrome described and it kind of felt like that, but through my whole body. I felt like I just needed to shake my whole body, like a dog after a wash, hoping whatever was hanging on that was hurting (and kind of electrified) would fling off. And I could settle.
So I thought I would try one of these new behaviors. I got my piece of newspaper out (which I absolutely HATE the feeling of) and rubbed it between my finger and thumb. I opened it up and started to glance through it, while paying attention to the way it felt in my hands. My anxiety climbed higher and higher until I felt like a balloon that was over-filled and ready to pop any minute. I couldn't touch it another second. I threw it away from myself.
Very quickly I went from wanting to crawl out of my skin to feeling like I was going to explode and wanting to crawl out of existence. I found myself with my head in my hands, rocking back and forth. Pretty strongly and swiftly. Trying to dispel this energy which was attacking me. I was deep crying. I added Lamaze breathing. Kept rocking. And I turned on the stopwatch on my phone. I had the sense that this moment was a panic/anxiety attack and have heard that they pass much more quickly than we expect in the moment. More quickly that it feels like. Estimating the amount of time from when it hit hard before I turned on my stopwatch, and including that time, I think it lasted about five minutes. Five horrific minutes. But I got through them. And it helps to know how long it lasted.
At that point I still felt like crawling out of my skin but no longer felt out of control, held hostage by my body.
So it was yucky. Lots of yucky. But I learned a lot. I learned that moments pass. Even the horrible ones. I learned that there are other tools in my mind and body that I can use that my body will sometimes lead me to if I will listen. And I learned not to use my new shocking tools for a panic/anxiety attack (I'm not sure if there's a difference between those two and don't know which it was).
Rough day. Still crawling out of my skin. Still want that three-foot bubble. But no longer screaming internally. I'll take it.
I have gone to therapy for many years, off and on. I've seen several therapists. And sometimes I feel like I'm in therapy to keep a grasp on reality when my life is crazy. That my therapist is my anchor. Because sometimes the waves are so far over my head and I can't even find a piece of driftwood to cling to. Therapy has been the lifeboat for me many times.
Other times therapy is my mental gym and my therapist is my personal trainer. His job is to help me strengthen my weaknesses. To prepare for competition or just to feel my best. This time is one of those.
This therapist (Jason) is my coach. His job (and my job) is to help me fight. His job is to help me win. In my fight against self-harm.
Which is kind of an uphill battle because I'm still not sure I want to give it up.
I know that doesn't make sense to most of you, and I'm happy about that because it means this isn't a part of your life. But some of you will get it. Self-harm is a drug. It's soothing. It's numbing. It feels good. It stops the pain.
Anyway, all of that was just an introduction to where I am now and what I experienced today.
In therapy we discussed what happens when I get triggered. There are many things in my past that have been traumatic. When something happens that reminds me of one of these, I can be taken back. I go into fight, flight, or freeze. (Which is something I'd surprisingly never connected with self-harm before - good job, Jason.) I can be a child again. Or a teen. Or even a toddler, depending on which trauma is triggered.
So, in my last session I had a particular trigger in mind, because I almost self-harmed a couple weeks ago and have been craving it a lot since. I figured that was a good place to start. Jason asked me how old I feel with this trigger. Five. I am five years old. Didn't have to think about it. I am a helpless, powerless, scared little girl.
As we talked more, we discussed the place in our brains that thinks logical thoughts and the place in our brains that thinks save-your-butt thoughts. The animal brain that's ready to fight the saber-tooth tiger. When a person has PTSD, and is triggered, the thinking part doesn't get to play. It gets completely bypassed. The run-so-you-don't-die part takes over. It's visceral.
And through all these years of therapy I've learned so many techniques to deal with those moments. I know behavior after behavior that is healthier and longer lasting as a fix. To get me through those moments. But those are not habits for me yet and they are in the thinking part of my brain. The ones I've used for years, the unhealthy ones, the ones that are habits are in the get-me-through-this-alive part.
Those unhealthy behaviors are the ones in the path of the trauma brain process. Trigger - freak out - make the pain stop. It's very automatic. Again, visceral.
So my therapist introduced a novel approach. Skip the thinking. We're not going to think our way through this. We're going visceral. Since your brain isn't going to take the thinking path, we won't either. We're going very basic.
We're going to use my senses to shock my body out of that moment I feel trapped in and back into the real moment I'm in. My new mantra is "new moment-new experience." This moment isn't that moment. And more importantly, I am not that little girl. I am a forty-five year old woman. I have forty more years of experience than she does. I am strong. I can make my own choices. No one else has control over me. I don't have to do what I don't want to do. I am powerful!
So how do we slap my brain in the face and tell it to wake up and see that it's a new moment when it's on the path to destruction? We're going to use my senses. Like smelling salts, we're going to smack my brain and tell it to wake up. To break that spell (from Sleeping Beauty) that's got me mesmerized and is calling me to the spinning wheel to prick my finger. And I think it's a good plan.
My assignment for this week and next was to find five things that are very unpleasant to me (that attack my senses) but that aren't harmful and don't relate to or bring up any trauma. And for extra credit, I could try them for real.
I figured out several things I could use, one or more for each of the five senses. I have a couple of them in place and am working on the others.
I tried one of them earlier this week. I was triggered by something that has frequently led to self-harm in my past. And then I grabbed the lavender oil. I HATE the smell of lavender oil. It makes my muscles cringe. I used it like smelling salts. And it was enough to remind me of my mantra. New moment-new experience. Then I took a few deep breaths. I smelled it again. Ick! And I reminded myself that I am not that person anymore. I can face this. A few more deep breaths and I was better. The problem wasn't gone, but it wasn't beating me in the head and punching me in the stomach anymore. It was just there and I'd get through it and it will pass and soon it won't matter anymore anyway. That was a good moment.
Sometimes when I'm in therapy, and we come up with a new plan of attack, I'm so sure I understand how to use it. And then I leave and get into the real world and realize there were a couple points of clarification I didn't get. But I often don't realize that until I use my new behavior wrong. And that can turn out bad. Like today.
I've been on edge for a while now. Three or four days. No, I guess it's been longer than that because I was feeling it before I went to therapy Monday. So at least a week. It's a difficult thing to describe. It's like all the nerves in the periphery of my body (especially my arms and shoulders) are on hyper-alert. It's hard - even painful - to have people close to me. Like closer than about three feet away makes me cringe internally (although I try not to show it if I'm in public; I don't want to be rude). If someone touches me, my body starts to whimper. It hurts in a psychological way. But the feeling of wanting to climb out of my skin is very much a physical thing. When I am alone again I find myself shaking my arms trying to make the feelings stop.
Today I was hit by this when I was alone, but stronger. Out of the blue and without a trigger. I've heard restless-leg syndrome described and it kind of felt like that, but through my whole body. I felt like I just needed to shake my whole body, like a dog after a wash, hoping whatever was hanging on that was hurting (and kind of electrified) would fling off. And I could settle.
So I thought I would try one of these new behaviors. I got my piece of newspaper out (which I absolutely HATE the feeling of) and rubbed it between my finger and thumb. I opened it up and started to glance through it, while paying attention to the way it felt in my hands. My anxiety climbed higher and higher until I felt like a balloon that was over-filled and ready to pop any minute. I couldn't touch it another second. I threw it away from myself.
Very quickly I went from wanting to crawl out of my skin to feeling like I was going to explode and wanting to crawl out of existence. I found myself with my head in my hands, rocking back and forth. Pretty strongly and swiftly. Trying to dispel this energy which was attacking me. I was deep crying. I added Lamaze breathing. Kept rocking. And I turned on the stopwatch on my phone. I had the sense that this moment was a panic/anxiety attack and have heard that they pass much more quickly than we expect in the moment. More quickly that it feels like. Estimating the amount of time from when it hit hard before I turned on my stopwatch, and including that time, I think it lasted about five minutes. Five horrific minutes. But I got through them. And it helps to know how long it lasted.
At that point I still felt like crawling out of my skin but no longer felt out of control, held hostage by my body.
So it was yucky. Lots of yucky. But I learned a lot. I learned that moments pass. Even the horrible ones. I learned that there are other tools in my mind and body that I can use that my body will sometimes lead me to if I will listen. And I learned not to use my new shocking tools for a panic/anxiety attack (I'm not sure if there's a difference between those two and don't know which it was).
Rough day. Still crawling out of my skin. Still want that three-foot bubble. But no longer screaming internally. I'll take it.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
My Hysterectomy
I will be using proper names for female body parts and bodily functions in this post. There will also be pictures of my belly after surgery. It's going to be long because I want to get the whole story out in one post. If any of these bother you, please skip this post.
**********
So, twelve days ago I had my surgery (to read why, go here). A total hysterectomy and oophorectomy. He removed my uterus, cervix, ovaries, and fallopian tubes. He cut the parts away laparoscopically using a DaVinci robot and delivered them vaginally. He then sewed up the top of my vagina to keep everything inside from falling out. I think that's the gist of it.
This is a picture from the internet of the DaVinci robot:
And this is what it looks like in action:
The surgeon is that guy over on the left with his head in a box who looks like a ref watching instant replays in a football game (I'm pretty sure that's not what he's really doing). That piece is separate from the robot. Some of the internet pictures have it up close to the robot, some have it across the room. No idea how close it was during my surgery, obviously. The surgeon uses controls to maneuver the robot and do the laparoscopic part of the surgery (kind of like the crane game). The advantage to using the robot instead of traditional laparoscopic surgery (according to my surgeon) is that with the robot he has full 360 degree rotation and with traditional he only has 180 degree rotation. My feeling was this -- if he's the one doing the surgery I'd like him to use the method he is most comfortable with and has the most faith in. I trust that he knows better than I do.
And this is how it all went down.
I went in the Friday before my surgery for a blood and urine test. They look for anything that could be a reason not to do surgery or a situation to monitor. They do a pregnancy test -- because, duh, taking my uterus. At this time a nurse also reviewed my health and medication history. I signed several forms, including one that said I understood that after my surgery I wouldn't be able to give birth anymore. Apparently, some women haven't understood this in the past. Oops.
I got a call later that night telling me there was a questionable result on my urine test. It was possible that I had an infection, but not definite. The nurse asked if I had any of the symptoms of a urinary tract infection, as she named them. I didn't. She said they were incubating a sample and would let me know if there was a problem, but it was probably just a contaminated sample. Like maybe I touched something I shouldn't have in the collection process. Anyway, I never got a call back on that so I guess it turned out okay.
My surgery was on Monday, June 30. I was to be at the hospital at 11:00am to begin the whole process. Shortly after we arrived (my husband and I) they took us back to pre-op. The nurse came in and went over the flow of the process with us. Pre-op, holding, operating room, post-op, room. They had a board with the estimated time of things and I was instructed to let them know if the time passed and things hadn't happened as she explained them. I think that was an important thing for me. I tend to be extra patient and would probably just wait. The surgery did start later than expected, but she had come in and told us it would and gave us a revised time, which was accurate.
She then reviewed the pain scale. It looked something like this:
She asked me where on this pain scale I would normally take something for the pain. I said probably around a 6 or 7. She said that wouldn't work in the hospital. They want to know when my pain is about a 4 or 5. I'm pretty sure I looked quite incredulous. I said I would do my best to pay close attention and tell them at that point, but I sometimes don't notice it at that level (due to my chronic pain, I've had to learn to ignore most pain). They took more blood and urine to test. She hooked up my IV. She hung an antibiotic on the IV post and said they would start that when they started my surgery. And we waited. How long did we wait? I'm not sure. We got there at eleven. My surgery was scheduled to start at twelve thirty. It was pushed back to one forty-five because the one before me went a little long. I don't know how long the nurse's stuff took. They took me back to holding at about twenty after one (if I'm remembering correctly, which no one should really count on). My husband gave me a kiss and we went our separate ways.
In holding it was just a nurse working at a computer and me. The room looked like it could hold several beds, I'm guessing six or so, but there weren't any others in there for most of the time. This is where my surgeon and anesthesiologist met with me prior to surgery. It's also where I presented this picture to my surgeon, who left it with my chart so the anesthesiologist and nurses could see it:
I explained to my doctor that I was pretty sure this was the creature that was chewing and clawing it's way from my body. I wanted to make sure he recognized it when he found it. He, the anesthesiologist, and the nurse each got a chuckle out of it.
Both doctors explained (in their separate visits) what they were going to be doing. They asked if I had any questions. They were both very kind. They both seemed sincere in their concern for me. My heart felt calm in their presence. I felt safe in their hands, which was very important to me.
I spent about fifteen minutes in holding, give or take a few minutes (there were clocks visible everywhere so I could keep track). Then they wheeled me to the operating room.
I don't remember a ton about the operating room. I remember thinking it had a lot of equipment in it. It also seemed like there were a lot of people in there. They put my bed up next to a narrower bed and had me skootch (totally a real word) over to the smaller one. There were no rails on this one like there had been on the other one. I had a slight feeling that I could fall off. But not for long because then they put a strap over my hips and secured me to the table. The anesthesiologist told me he was giving me something in my IV to relax me (although I was amazingly calm, much more so than I expected to be). Then someone, I'm guessing it was the anesthesiologist, told me they were going to give me oxygen and put a mask on me.
The next thing I was aware of was a man trying to wake me up in post-op. I was very nauseous and worried that I would throw up, which was a concern I had prior to surgery. I told whoever the man was waking me up that I felt like I was going to throw up and could he give me something. He told me he'd already given me three things for nausea (if I remember correctly) but would give me something else. He also handed me a cool blue bag with a round plastic neck in case I did throw up. I kept this bag with me throughout that first day.
Through my still sedated haze I could see that there was a clock on the wall. I fought through the medication to clear my vision enough to read it. My daughter is on a mission and only gets to communicate home through email once a week. I knew she would be doing so some time between 4:00pm and 5:00pm. My other daughter was supposed to email her info on how the surgery went as soon as my husband got word and called her. I wanted to make sure we hit that window. I knew the surgery was supposed to take a couple hours so we might be cutting it close.
When my vision cleared enough to see the clock I saw that is was about four fifteen. I asked the man if my husband had been given an update and explained to him why it mattered how quickly it was done. He said my husband had been told and he would go find him to see if my missionary daughter had been told. He came back shortly to report that communication had gone back and forth with my missionary daughter and she had the info. Then I relaxed a bit.
I was moved to my room shortly after that. We passed my husband in the hall, who joined us. I think he waited in the hallway while they got me situated in my room.
He stayed with me until about eight that night, when I sent him home to sleep. I wanted him to be rested when he took me home the next day. My three younger kids (15, 17, 19) and a friend who's like our kid visited. My parents visited (after receiving permission). They can sometimes be stressful for me, but I understood that they needed to see that I was doing okay. Their visit was short and nice. And I was doing fabulously! Every nurse commented that they just don't usually have people who are that happy on their floor. I guess I threw off the anesthesia quicker than most. And because all the anxiety I'd had before surgery was gone, I was very happy. I had pain, but that I can handle.
I pretty much asked for the meds on schedule. They gave me morphine to begin with. I think that was every two hours. Then they added something else; I want to say Tramadol, but I'm not sure. Whatever that second one was, it was longer between doses. Six hours maybe. I was on a clear liquids diet, which was fine because I was still nauseous. I got strawberry jello and a couple things of grape juice. And water. The nurse warned me to sip, no matter how hungry/thirsty I was. Good advice! I didn't want anything coming back up.
After my husband left I played hand solitaire and tried to find something to watch on TV. I don't generally watch commercial TV, so it was tough. I found a channel with old shows and watched some Murder She Wrote and later watched O, Brother, Where Art Thou? I also went for four laps around the nurses station. The nurse walked next to me, but I was stable enough on my feet to do fine just holding the IV stand. The nurse was thrilled with my efforts; she said usually she can't convince people to even get out of bed and try walking.
I barely slept, which I knew would happen. I listened to an audio book of Harry Potter on my mp3 player (I always listen to Harry Potter when I sleep because I am such a light sleeper; it's my white noise). The nurses did their best to keep the interruptions to a minimum and keep the lights off to help me sleep. It just wasn't happening. When the phlebotomist came in at 3:00am to draw my blood I was awake. (I guess my hematocrit had been low prior to surgery and they wanted to check that).
I had a little trouble with my catheter. I still felt like I needed to go to the bathroom, which is a sign that it's not in right or is kinked or something. And there wasn't as much output as would be expected from what I was drinking. The nurse worked with it a couple of times. It worked okay for a bit and then struggled again. The other nurse had told me that since I was doing so well she would take the catheter out at six if I wanted her to. Otherwise, they'd wait until I woke up. I said six would be great. It ended up that the nurse was in my room around five for something else, medication or IV or something. I asked when she could take the catheter out. She thought for a second and then said she could do it right then if I wanted. I definitely wanted! So she took it out and told me I had seven hours to pee on my own. If I couldn't by then they would do a scan and see if they could figure out what was wrong.
On the information board in the room they write what the goals are for the patient. The main goal was pain management. Then she added "urinate by noon." I can honestly say I don't think I've ever had peeing as a goal. I had no problem meeting that goal. I was able to pee all by myself within an hour or so of her removing the catheter.
She switched me to a soft solids diet some time during the night. After the catheter was removed I was finally able to get a few hours of sleep. When I woke up I ordered breakfast. I was so excited to be on a soft solids diet because it meant I could have milk! Milk is what I usually use to soothe my nausea at home, so I was glad to have it. I had pancakes, hashbrowns, two cartons of milk, and some tapioca pudding. I wasn't a fan of the tapioca, but I ate everything because it had been so long since I'd had real food (fasting for surgery, of course). I showered and put on a clean gown and underthings. I went for another walk, without an escort. Five laps this time. I also asked for something other than morphine, since it was making me itch. They added Percocet in its place (every four hours). And the nurse applied an estrogen patch to my abdomen, to wear for seven days before switching to pills.
My husband and oldest daughter (23) came over around nine. My 19-year old daughter is a nanny and brought the kids she cares for to visit.
My doctor had told me I would get to go home after one night in the hospital. Since I've taken care of many family members and a few friends while they were in the hospital I knew it wouldn't be until after the doctor made his rounds, which are usually done in the morning. We hadn't heard anything by about noon so we asked our nurse to check on it. He said he'd seen my doctor on the floor so he didn't know why he hadn't come to see me. My nurse came back shortly and said the doctor had started his rounds but was interrupted by an emergency. He would return when that was taken care of.
He came around one. As he washed his hands I asked, "Did you get him?" (meaning the creature). After only a slight pause he said, "Yeah, I ran him out of there." He said he'd been getting a report from the nurse and been told I was hopping all over the place. A wonderful report. He asked how I was doing (fabulous!) and gave me instructions. He asked if I had any questions. I had typed my questions into a text message to myself in my phone so I wouldn't forget.
I asked how much it mattered if the pain meds made me itch (Percocet does a little). He said as long as I could breathe okay, he wasn't worried about it. And he said I could take Meclizine (which I had at home) with the Percocet for the itching if I wanted to.
I asked about yoga. I have been wanting to start, but was waiting until after my surgery because I'd been hurting so much. He said he didn't want me doing anything straining. Yoga is out for a while.
Then I told him I have a high tolerance for pain and since I have chronic pain I just usually ignore it. I asked him how much I needed to respect this pain. He said my toughest struggle would probably be wanting to do more than I should because I felt so good. We agreed that I would take the pain meds on schedule for 72 hours rather than according to my pain. I agreed to not do dishes or laundry for two weeks. I agreed to not lift anything over 15 pounds or spend too much time on my feet.
The nurse asked the doctor if he could take my IV out then, if he was done with it. The doctor said yes. But I'd been watching the clock and I know how things go as someone leaves the hospital. It was almost time for my next dose of IV pain meds. I asked if we could wait fifteen minutes and give me that last dose before removing it. The doctor said that would be a good idea.
He left. I got packed up. The nurse gave me my last dose and removed the IV. I got dressed. The nurse came back with discharge papers. He said someone had to accompany me out but I didn't have to ride in the wheelchair if I didn't want to. That made me very happy. I hate being pushed in a wheelchair, especially when I feel fine. I signed all the papers and got the ones he was sending home with me. The nurse shook my hand and thanked me for making his day fun.
Soon a lady came with a wheelchair. I told her the nurse had said I didn't have to ride in one. She said I could just put my stuff in it then, which is what I did. As we walked to the elevator she asked what I'd had done. I said, kind of embarrassed because of how well I was doing, that I'd had a hysterectomy the day before. She said, "Wow. You're doing great!"
The valet brought us our car and we were on our way.
I had amazing nurses the whole time. In fact, everyone I interacted with was awesome, right from the first phone call. Seriously, I couldn't have asked for kinder people.
I was sent home with a prescription for Percocet, prescription Ibuprofen, estrogen pills, and a stool softener (which was actually over the counter). I took them on schedule for three days. I took my last Percocet Friday morning, four days after my surgery. I took the Ibuprofen (one at night and one in the morning) through Sunday.
Monday afternoon I got a call from the surgeon's office checking on me. How are you doing? Great! Any trouble urinating? Nope. Doing great. Any trouble with bowel movements? Nope. You're able to go okay and without straining? Yep. We don't want any straining because you could pull your stitches. Nope, no problem. And how's your pain management? Great. What are you taking for the pain? Nothing. Really?! You're not taking anything? Nope. And you're great? Yep. Well, okay. I see you're already scheduled for your follow up and you say you're great so I guess we're done.
I've really been so much better than I expected to be. My friends and family have been amazed at how well I am. One friend said I seem so much better, they must have gotten something that was making me sick.
And I do feel so much better than I did before surgery. Did it cure the problem? It's hard to know for sure because there is still some pain in the same area that was hurting before because that's where they cut parts of my body out. But I think so.
And this is what it looks like after:
They make four incisions for the robot, including one in my belly button. The incisions have surgical glue on them. I think the doctor said the glue was over stitches, but I could be wrong. It might have been in place of stitches entirely. I never saw any stitches. That white thing on the lower right is the estrogen patch. To do the laparoscopic surgery they inflate your abdomen so they can see everything and maneuver. I have no idea how long it takes for all of that air to leave, but my belly definitely still felt swollen for several days.
That bruise on my belly button got bigger and darker for a few days. The surgical glue started pulling up around the edges by this time.
The bruises are mostly gone by this point. I took the estrogen patch off that morning, but the skin there was a little sensitive so I decided not to worry about the glue left behind from the patch until the skin there healed a bit. The surgical glue is gone from everywhere except my navel. It didn't rub enough to loosen it and that area was a bit tender so I left it alone. You probably can't tell, but the incision on the left isn't healing quite as quickly as the two on the right. It's possible that I might have encouraged that glue off a little sooner than it was ready. Don't do that! If you do, it's possible that the wound will weep a little and glue itself to your clothes and then when you move quickly you will tear off the scab and start bleeding and it will hurt. Don't ask me how I know this is a possibility.
Bruises almost completely gone. Surgical glue gone. Skin under patch healed enough to scrub clean.
Oh! I forgot to mention vaginal bleeding. I expected to bleed more. I wore a pad for a few days (no tampons allowed because of the danger of infection). The day of surgery I had some bleeding. Not much though, like a light to moderate day of period bleeding. The second day it was less. By the third day I wasn't really bleeding anymore, just had some pink when wiping. By the fourth day I was done. It's kind of crazy that there wasn't more blood. I bled a lot after having babies; I kind of thought it would be like that as things healed. I guess it makes sense that things would heal much faster when they do it surgically and sew things up and cauterize them.
I am still on the same restrictions I was given when I left the hospital. I see my surgeon Monday for my two week follow up. At this visit he will check my abdomen to make sure that's all healing well. We will also discuss which restrictions I still need to live by and which can be lifted. I see him again around six weeks post-op. At this visit he will do a vaginal exam to make sure everything is healing properly there, that I haven't pulled any stitches, and that nothing is falling out. He expects that all restrictions will be lifted at this appointment except for one. No vaginal penetration until eight weeks post-op.
I'm really feeling great. I'm so glad to have it over with. Everyone who took care of me was fabulous. I even received a thank you card from the nurses who took care of me thanking me for letting them care for me and wishing me swift healing.
I can't imagine anything in the whole process going any better. And I'm so grateful!
**********
So, twelve days ago I had my surgery (to read why, go here). A total hysterectomy and oophorectomy. He removed my uterus, cervix, ovaries, and fallopian tubes. He cut the parts away laparoscopically using a DaVinci robot and delivered them vaginally. He then sewed up the top of my vagina to keep everything inside from falling out. I think that's the gist of it.
This is a picture from the internet of the DaVinci robot:
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| DaVinci Robot - cool looking, huh? |
 |
| DaVinci robot in actual surgery, but not my surgery |
And this is how it all went down.
I went in the Friday before my surgery for a blood and urine test. They look for anything that could be a reason not to do surgery or a situation to monitor. They do a pregnancy test -- because, duh, taking my uterus. At this time a nurse also reviewed my health and medication history. I signed several forms, including one that said I understood that after my surgery I wouldn't be able to give birth anymore. Apparently, some women haven't understood this in the past. Oops.
I got a call later that night telling me there was a questionable result on my urine test. It was possible that I had an infection, but not definite. The nurse asked if I had any of the symptoms of a urinary tract infection, as she named them. I didn't. She said they were incubating a sample and would let me know if there was a problem, but it was probably just a contaminated sample. Like maybe I touched something I shouldn't have in the collection process. Anyway, I never got a call back on that so I guess it turned out okay.
My surgery was on Monday, June 30. I was to be at the hospital at 11:00am to begin the whole process. Shortly after we arrived (my husband and I) they took us back to pre-op. The nurse came in and went over the flow of the process with us. Pre-op, holding, operating room, post-op, room. They had a board with the estimated time of things and I was instructed to let them know if the time passed and things hadn't happened as she explained them. I think that was an important thing for me. I tend to be extra patient and would probably just wait. The surgery did start later than expected, but she had come in and told us it would and gave us a revised time, which was accurate.
She then reviewed the pain scale. It looked something like this:
 |
| Pain Scale |
In holding it was just a nurse working at a computer and me. The room looked like it could hold several beds, I'm guessing six or so, but there weren't any others in there for most of the time. This is where my surgeon and anesthesiologist met with me prior to surgery. It's also where I presented this picture to my surgeon, who left it with my chart so the anesthesiologist and nurses could see it:
 |
| The creature |
Both doctors explained (in their separate visits) what they were going to be doing. They asked if I had any questions. They were both very kind. They both seemed sincere in their concern for me. My heart felt calm in their presence. I felt safe in their hands, which was very important to me.
I spent about fifteen minutes in holding, give or take a few minutes (there were clocks visible everywhere so I could keep track). Then they wheeled me to the operating room.
I don't remember a ton about the operating room. I remember thinking it had a lot of equipment in it. It also seemed like there were a lot of people in there. They put my bed up next to a narrower bed and had me skootch (totally a real word) over to the smaller one. There were no rails on this one like there had been on the other one. I had a slight feeling that I could fall off. But not for long because then they put a strap over my hips and secured me to the table. The anesthesiologist told me he was giving me something in my IV to relax me (although I was amazingly calm, much more so than I expected to be). Then someone, I'm guessing it was the anesthesiologist, told me they were going to give me oxygen and put a mask on me.
The next thing I was aware of was a man trying to wake me up in post-op. I was very nauseous and worried that I would throw up, which was a concern I had prior to surgery. I told whoever the man was waking me up that I felt like I was going to throw up and could he give me something. He told me he'd already given me three things for nausea (if I remember correctly) but would give me something else. He also handed me a cool blue bag with a round plastic neck in case I did throw up. I kept this bag with me throughout that first day.
Through my still sedated haze I could see that there was a clock on the wall. I fought through the medication to clear my vision enough to read it. My daughter is on a mission and only gets to communicate home through email once a week. I knew she would be doing so some time between 4:00pm and 5:00pm. My other daughter was supposed to email her info on how the surgery went as soon as my husband got word and called her. I wanted to make sure we hit that window. I knew the surgery was supposed to take a couple hours so we might be cutting it close.
When my vision cleared enough to see the clock I saw that is was about four fifteen. I asked the man if my husband had been given an update and explained to him why it mattered how quickly it was done. He said my husband had been told and he would go find him to see if my missionary daughter had been told. He came back shortly to report that communication had gone back and forth with my missionary daughter and she had the info. Then I relaxed a bit.
I was moved to my room shortly after that. We passed my husband in the hall, who joined us. I think he waited in the hallway while they got me situated in my room.
He stayed with me until about eight that night, when I sent him home to sleep. I wanted him to be rested when he took me home the next day. My three younger kids (15, 17, 19) and a friend who's like our kid visited. My parents visited (after receiving permission). They can sometimes be stressful for me, but I understood that they needed to see that I was doing okay. Their visit was short and nice. And I was doing fabulously! Every nurse commented that they just don't usually have people who are that happy on their floor. I guess I threw off the anesthesia quicker than most. And because all the anxiety I'd had before surgery was gone, I was very happy. I had pain, but that I can handle.
I pretty much asked for the meds on schedule. They gave me morphine to begin with. I think that was every two hours. Then they added something else; I want to say Tramadol, but I'm not sure. Whatever that second one was, it was longer between doses. Six hours maybe. I was on a clear liquids diet, which was fine because I was still nauseous. I got strawberry jello and a couple things of grape juice. And water. The nurse warned me to sip, no matter how hungry/thirsty I was. Good advice! I didn't want anything coming back up.
After my husband left I played hand solitaire and tried to find something to watch on TV. I don't generally watch commercial TV, so it was tough. I found a channel with old shows and watched some Murder She Wrote and later watched O, Brother, Where Art Thou? I also went for four laps around the nurses station. The nurse walked next to me, but I was stable enough on my feet to do fine just holding the IV stand. The nurse was thrilled with my efforts; she said usually she can't convince people to even get out of bed and try walking.
I barely slept, which I knew would happen. I listened to an audio book of Harry Potter on my mp3 player (I always listen to Harry Potter when I sleep because I am such a light sleeper; it's my white noise). The nurses did their best to keep the interruptions to a minimum and keep the lights off to help me sleep. It just wasn't happening. When the phlebotomist came in at 3:00am to draw my blood I was awake. (I guess my hematocrit had been low prior to surgery and they wanted to check that).
I had a little trouble with my catheter. I still felt like I needed to go to the bathroom, which is a sign that it's not in right or is kinked or something. And there wasn't as much output as would be expected from what I was drinking. The nurse worked with it a couple of times. It worked okay for a bit and then struggled again. The other nurse had told me that since I was doing so well she would take the catheter out at six if I wanted her to. Otherwise, they'd wait until I woke up. I said six would be great. It ended up that the nurse was in my room around five for something else, medication or IV or something. I asked when she could take the catheter out. She thought for a second and then said she could do it right then if I wanted. I definitely wanted! So she took it out and told me I had seven hours to pee on my own. If I couldn't by then they would do a scan and see if they could figure out what was wrong.
On the information board in the room they write what the goals are for the patient. The main goal was pain management. Then she added "urinate by noon." I can honestly say I don't think I've ever had peeing as a goal. I had no problem meeting that goal. I was able to pee all by myself within an hour or so of her removing the catheter.
She switched me to a soft solids diet some time during the night. After the catheter was removed I was finally able to get a few hours of sleep. When I woke up I ordered breakfast. I was so excited to be on a soft solids diet because it meant I could have milk! Milk is what I usually use to soothe my nausea at home, so I was glad to have it. I had pancakes, hashbrowns, two cartons of milk, and some tapioca pudding. I wasn't a fan of the tapioca, but I ate everything because it had been so long since I'd had real food (fasting for surgery, of course). I showered and put on a clean gown and underthings. I went for another walk, without an escort. Five laps this time. I also asked for something other than morphine, since it was making me itch. They added Percocet in its place (every four hours). And the nurse applied an estrogen patch to my abdomen, to wear for seven days before switching to pills.
My husband and oldest daughter (23) came over around nine. My 19-year old daughter is a nanny and brought the kids she cares for to visit.
My doctor had told me I would get to go home after one night in the hospital. Since I've taken care of many family members and a few friends while they were in the hospital I knew it wouldn't be until after the doctor made his rounds, which are usually done in the morning. We hadn't heard anything by about noon so we asked our nurse to check on it. He said he'd seen my doctor on the floor so he didn't know why he hadn't come to see me. My nurse came back shortly and said the doctor had started his rounds but was interrupted by an emergency. He would return when that was taken care of.
He came around one. As he washed his hands I asked, "Did you get him?" (meaning the creature). After only a slight pause he said, "Yeah, I ran him out of there." He said he'd been getting a report from the nurse and been told I was hopping all over the place. A wonderful report. He asked how I was doing (fabulous!) and gave me instructions. He asked if I had any questions. I had typed my questions into a text message to myself in my phone so I wouldn't forget.
I asked how much it mattered if the pain meds made me itch (Percocet does a little). He said as long as I could breathe okay, he wasn't worried about it. And he said I could take Meclizine (which I had at home) with the Percocet for the itching if I wanted to.
I asked about yoga. I have been wanting to start, but was waiting until after my surgery because I'd been hurting so much. He said he didn't want me doing anything straining. Yoga is out for a while.
Then I told him I have a high tolerance for pain and since I have chronic pain I just usually ignore it. I asked him how much I needed to respect this pain. He said my toughest struggle would probably be wanting to do more than I should because I felt so good. We agreed that I would take the pain meds on schedule for 72 hours rather than according to my pain. I agreed to not do dishes or laundry for two weeks. I agreed to not lift anything over 15 pounds or spend too much time on my feet.
The nurse asked the doctor if he could take my IV out then, if he was done with it. The doctor said yes. But I'd been watching the clock and I know how things go as someone leaves the hospital. It was almost time for my next dose of IV pain meds. I asked if we could wait fifteen minutes and give me that last dose before removing it. The doctor said that would be a good idea.
He left. I got packed up. The nurse gave me my last dose and removed the IV. I got dressed. The nurse came back with discharge papers. He said someone had to accompany me out but I didn't have to ride in the wheelchair if I didn't want to. That made me very happy. I hate being pushed in a wheelchair, especially when I feel fine. I signed all the papers and got the ones he was sending home with me. The nurse shook my hand and thanked me for making his day fun.
Soon a lady came with a wheelchair. I told her the nurse had said I didn't have to ride in one. She said I could just put my stuff in it then, which is what I did. As we walked to the elevator she asked what I'd had done. I said, kind of embarrassed because of how well I was doing, that I'd had a hysterectomy the day before. She said, "Wow. You're doing great!"
The valet brought us our car and we were on our way.
I had amazing nurses the whole time. In fact, everyone I interacted with was awesome, right from the first phone call. Seriously, I couldn't have asked for kinder people.
I was sent home with a prescription for Percocet, prescription Ibuprofen, estrogen pills, and a stool softener (which was actually over the counter). I took them on schedule for three days. I took my last Percocet Friday morning, four days after my surgery. I took the Ibuprofen (one at night and one in the morning) through Sunday.
Monday afternoon I got a call from the surgeon's office checking on me. How are you doing? Great! Any trouble urinating? Nope. Doing great. Any trouble with bowel movements? Nope. You're able to go okay and without straining? Yep. We don't want any straining because you could pull your stitches. Nope, no problem. And how's your pain management? Great. What are you taking for the pain? Nothing. Really?! You're not taking anything? Nope. And you're great? Yep. Well, okay. I see you're already scheduled for your follow up and you say you're great so I guess we're done.
I've really been so much better than I expected to be. My friends and family have been amazed at how well I am. One friend said I seem so much better, they must have gotten something that was making me sick.
And I do feel so much better than I did before surgery. Did it cure the problem? It's hard to know for sure because there is still some pain in the same area that was hurting before because that's where they cut parts of my body out. But I think so.
And this is what it looks like after:
 |
| July 2, two days after surgery |
 |
| July 3, three days after surgery |
 |
| July 9, nine days after surgery |
 |
| July 11, eleven days after surgery |
Oh! I forgot to mention vaginal bleeding. I expected to bleed more. I wore a pad for a few days (no tampons allowed because of the danger of infection). The day of surgery I had some bleeding. Not much though, like a light to moderate day of period bleeding. The second day it was less. By the third day I wasn't really bleeding anymore, just had some pink when wiping. By the fourth day I was done. It's kind of crazy that there wasn't more blood. I bled a lot after having babies; I kind of thought it would be like that as things healed. I guess it makes sense that things would heal much faster when they do it surgically and sew things up and cauterize them.
I am still on the same restrictions I was given when I left the hospital. I see my surgeon Monday for my two week follow up. At this visit he will check my abdomen to make sure that's all healing well. We will also discuss which restrictions I still need to live by and which can be lifted. I see him again around six weeks post-op. At this visit he will do a vaginal exam to make sure everything is healing properly there, that I haven't pulled any stitches, and that nothing is falling out. He expects that all restrictions will be lifted at this appointment except for one. No vaginal penetration until eight weeks post-op.
I'm really feeling great. I'm so glad to have it over with. Everyone who took care of me was fabulous. I even received a thank you card from the nurses who took care of me thanking me for letting them care for me and wishing me swift healing.
I can't imagine anything in the whole process going any better. And I'm so grateful!
Friday, February 7, 2014
A Health Update of Sorts
Ugh! I wish I could just say that and it would communicate all I need to say so I could be done. But it doesn't. It's taken me so long to update because things still feel so undetermined and it's so hard to do. But it's important, so I will.
I'm still not leaving my house much. Many people in my life are aware of what I'm going through and worried about me. And it's so difficult to communicate in person, so I'll try to do it this way.
I'm not sure what I've told whom so I'll do a short recap.
I've been in a bad way since about the beginning of the year. Not really depression, although that's certainly an element. Severe anxiety, but beyond that. Such emotional pain that it's manifesting physically. And being with people hurts.
When I met with my therapist, we tried to find a psychological cause. Was it connected to the trauma work we've done or something else that came up recently? Not that we could find. It doesn't feel that way this time. It feels physically based.
We came up with a couple things to try. I went home, tried those things for a week, and returned to see my therapist in just as bad a state as before. He'd been worried about me. We talked about what helped and what didn't. I could tell after my recap and a few questions from him, at about twenty minutes into our session, he had no idea what else to do. I suggested a different approach medication-wise. He liked it. We discussed why. My idea was to take a lower dose of medication more often. The idea was to retrain my body back to what it's supposed to feel like. To calm my neurological system and hold it there for a week or two to help it find my homeostasis again. And part of this plan was that when the medication helped and I felt better I needed to engage in healthy self-care activities. If I felt good, I was supposed to do things that have helped me psychologically in the past. And I needed to go to the doctor to get a different prescription in order to try this. My therapist asked how long until my next appointment. Two weeks. He said if things got worse to call him; two weeks is too long this time. I said I would, knowing that if things got much worse I wouldn't be able to. But I would do my best.
I went to the doctor a couple days later. I love my current Primary Care Physician. I feel like he really listens and wants to help me feel better. I read him the part of my blog that described what I'd been feeling (which he said he really appreciated because it helped him understand). I told him about my visit with my therapist and what we wanted to try. And then I asked for a lower prescription and for just seven pills.
Apparently, he doesn't often get asked for a lower dose or fewer pills. It's usually the opposite.
He said he was willing to go that route, but there might be a better way. He suggested a different anti-anxiety medication, one that was longer-acting. He also suggested an anti-depressant I haven't tried before (I've tried many and none have worked, except to sometimes make me worse). I told him I wanted to try what my therapist and I had agreed on first. If it didn't work, I'd be willing to try the other.
One thing that both he and my therapist pointed out is that I shouldn't continue to hurt so much just because I am afraid of becoming an addict (which I am afraid of because addiction runs in my family). They said it's their job to keep that from happening. I need to worry about feeling better. It's not okay for me to remain in this state. (My therapist pointed out that not stopping the pain when I can is still a form of self-harm, which I have a history of).
So I tried the approach my therapist and I agreed on. It helped take the edge off, but didn't really calm me. And it didn't last more than a few hours. I tried it for four days. It was just absolutely not working. I called my therapist and told him what my doctor had suggested and asked how he felt about it. He said to go ahead and try the longer-acting anti-anxiety medicine the doctor had recommended and we'd discuss the anti-depressant when I saw him again.
I contacted my doctor and asked him for the meds he'd suggested, which I got. That was Tuesday. Now it's Friday. How are things going?
I wish I could say wonderful, but they're not. Before all of this the anxiety and pain was horrendous about 80-90% of my day, with a few moments of okay. That's reversed some. I am settled enough to be with people about 70% of the day, even though there is still an underlying anxiety. It's not as painful, but not really joyful. Still a lot of worry about everything. I still have trouble separating myself from the emotions of others. I still cry for almost no reason. And now I have the side effects of the medication.
I've been having nightmares recently. I'm less mentally clear. I get a rebound headache every evening; last night's was horrible. I feel unsettled within my skin (yeah, sorry I can't be more clear on that). And I still have moments with waves of anxiety that seem to come from nowhere.
I'm trying to do my part. I'm sleeping more (lots more because of how tired the medication makes me). I'm trying to remember to eat, although that one's gotten worse on this medication. And I'm trying to connect with others. But that's hard.
I went to book club last night, because I felt like that would be what my therapist would want me to do. I enjoyed listening to the discussion, but didn't participate much. It was kind of hard to be in a room with that many people. And I'm sure it was hard for people to have me there. I am usually very participatory at book club, contributing a lot to the conversation. Not last night. Last night I was mostly silent. That's a big red flag to my friends that I am not okay. Maybe I shouldn't have gone. I feel bad that I made people worry.
My husband is checking in with me regularly because I asked him to. Any medication with a sedative effect tends to throw me into a deep depression after a few days or weeks. I need help recognizing that because I am usually so deep before I notice that I no longer care to do anything about it.
Right now I'm playing a wait and see game. I'm still taking the meds my doctor prescribed. I'm hoping some of the negative side effects will wear off as my body acclimates. And that it will do so before I'm lost in the darkness again. I'm trying to do things that make me happy when I can, but I'm so tired.
I love the Olympics. I'm hoping they help.
I know this wasn't much of an update, but it's the best I've got to offer right now.
I'm still not leaving my house much. Many people in my life are aware of what I'm going through and worried about me. And it's so difficult to communicate in person, so I'll try to do it this way.
I'm not sure what I've told whom so I'll do a short recap.
I've been in a bad way since about the beginning of the year. Not really depression, although that's certainly an element. Severe anxiety, but beyond that. Such emotional pain that it's manifesting physically. And being with people hurts.
When I met with my therapist, we tried to find a psychological cause. Was it connected to the trauma work we've done or something else that came up recently? Not that we could find. It doesn't feel that way this time. It feels physically based.
We came up with a couple things to try. I went home, tried those things for a week, and returned to see my therapist in just as bad a state as before. He'd been worried about me. We talked about what helped and what didn't. I could tell after my recap and a few questions from him, at about twenty minutes into our session, he had no idea what else to do. I suggested a different approach medication-wise. He liked it. We discussed why. My idea was to take a lower dose of medication more often. The idea was to retrain my body back to what it's supposed to feel like. To calm my neurological system and hold it there for a week or two to help it find my homeostasis again. And part of this plan was that when the medication helped and I felt better I needed to engage in healthy self-care activities. If I felt good, I was supposed to do things that have helped me psychologically in the past. And I needed to go to the doctor to get a different prescription in order to try this. My therapist asked how long until my next appointment. Two weeks. He said if things got worse to call him; two weeks is too long this time. I said I would, knowing that if things got much worse I wouldn't be able to. But I would do my best.
I went to the doctor a couple days later. I love my current Primary Care Physician. I feel like he really listens and wants to help me feel better. I read him the part of my blog that described what I'd been feeling (which he said he really appreciated because it helped him understand). I told him about my visit with my therapist and what we wanted to try. And then I asked for a lower prescription and for just seven pills.
Apparently, he doesn't often get asked for a lower dose or fewer pills. It's usually the opposite.
He said he was willing to go that route, but there might be a better way. He suggested a different anti-anxiety medication, one that was longer-acting. He also suggested an anti-depressant I haven't tried before (I've tried many and none have worked, except to sometimes make me worse). I told him I wanted to try what my therapist and I had agreed on first. If it didn't work, I'd be willing to try the other.
One thing that both he and my therapist pointed out is that I shouldn't continue to hurt so much just because I am afraid of becoming an addict (which I am afraid of because addiction runs in my family). They said it's their job to keep that from happening. I need to worry about feeling better. It's not okay for me to remain in this state. (My therapist pointed out that not stopping the pain when I can is still a form of self-harm, which I have a history of).
So I tried the approach my therapist and I agreed on. It helped take the edge off, but didn't really calm me. And it didn't last more than a few hours. I tried it for four days. It was just absolutely not working. I called my therapist and told him what my doctor had suggested and asked how he felt about it. He said to go ahead and try the longer-acting anti-anxiety medicine the doctor had recommended and we'd discuss the anti-depressant when I saw him again.
I contacted my doctor and asked him for the meds he'd suggested, which I got. That was Tuesday. Now it's Friday. How are things going?
I wish I could say wonderful, but they're not. Before all of this the anxiety and pain was horrendous about 80-90% of my day, with a few moments of okay. That's reversed some. I am settled enough to be with people about 70% of the day, even though there is still an underlying anxiety. It's not as painful, but not really joyful. Still a lot of worry about everything. I still have trouble separating myself from the emotions of others. I still cry for almost no reason. And now I have the side effects of the medication.
I've been having nightmares recently. I'm less mentally clear. I get a rebound headache every evening; last night's was horrible. I feel unsettled within my skin (yeah, sorry I can't be more clear on that). And I still have moments with waves of anxiety that seem to come from nowhere.
I'm trying to do my part. I'm sleeping more (lots more because of how tired the medication makes me). I'm trying to remember to eat, although that one's gotten worse on this medication. And I'm trying to connect with others. But that's hard.
I went to book club last night, because I felt like that would be what my therapist would want me to do. I enjoyed listening to the discussion, but didn't participate much. It was kind of hard to be in a room with that many people. And I'm sure it was hard for people to have me there. I am usually very participatory at book club, contributing a lot to the conversation. Not last night. Last night I was mostly silent. That's a big red flag to my friends that I am not okay. Maybe I shouldn't have gone. I feel bad that I made people worry.
My husband is checking in with me regularly because I asked him to. Any medication with a sedative effect tends to throw me into a deep depression after a few days or weeks. I need help recognizing that because I am usually so deep before I notice that I no longer care to do anything about it.
Right now I'm playing a wait and see game. I'm still taking the meds my doctor prescribed. I'm hoping some of the negative side effects will wear off as my body acclimates. And that it will do so before I'm lost in the darkness again. I'm trying to do things that make me happy when I can, but I'm so tired.
I love the Olympics. I'm hoping they help.
I know this wasn't much of an update, but it's the best I've got to offer right now.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
The Silent Storm
A continuation from my last post, What a Bad Mental Illness Day is Like.
**********
For the most part, when I am struggling, I am not obvious about it. I get very quiet and avoid people and activities when I can. Because I have to for self-preservation.
Do I hide it on purpose? Sometimes. When I cry and cry all day long at every little thing, I fight those tears around my kids. And around most other people. I don't want my kids to worry. I don't want to have to explain myself to others. And seeing the pain in others' eyes because I am hurting is hard.
But sometimes I have to explain. And then I cry and pace and shake my arms to try to make the feelings go away. It's so exhausting and it hurts! After an hour of trying to explain and process, I feel like I've done the hardest workout of my life. I have to change my clothes because I sweat so much.
This last week I had to do this twice.
First with my bishop (pastor). I snapped at him at church. Later I apologized and told him I was not in a good place. He asked if I needed to talk. I try to keep my life off his plate because I know his plate is full. But this time I absolutely needed him. I needed a priesthood blessing. And he needed to understand how bad it was.
We visited for an hour. He listened well and asked good questions, but not too many. And he gave me a blessing.
But I scared him. Enough that he asked about hospitalization. It's not the worst I've ever been, but it's the worst he's seen me.
He asked me to promise to communicate with him more often when I'm struggling and let him worry about how much is on his plate. I promised to try. It's very difficult. I also promised to talk to my therapist about hospitalization and medication. That was Sunday.
Yesterday, I met with my therapist and had to do the whole thing again. So exhausting.
We did an EMDR scan to see if this was connected to some trauma we haven't worked on yet. Nothing came up. We did a couple of EMDR tracers to see if it was connected to either of the two traumas we've recently worked on. Again, nothing. My symptoms have been a lot like PTSD, but it doesn't seem like that's what this is.
When my PTSD gets triggered, I usually have at least an inkling of what it's connected to, even if I don't want to talk about it. This time there is nothing. I have no idea where any of this is coming from. I don't know what's causing it.
My therapist said we treat it like an anomaly and treat the symptoms the best we can until it passes (unless it doesn't). He suggested it might be SAD (seasonal affective disorder). He offered to put my name on the list for the DBT group (dialectical behavior therapy -- mood regulation training). We established a medication plan. He gave me permission to isolate myself therapeutically (you wouldn't think that permission matters, but it does).
He asked what one symptom was the worst. I thought for a minute and answered, "The way the emotions of others overwhelm me."
You see, right now I feel everything those around me feel. It's like I am permeable and can't keep their emotions out. They saturate me and drown me. It feels like everything is a crisis. When my daughter complains about someone she works with it feels the same as someone talking to me about the death of their child. Everything is a ten on the pain scale and it all comes through into me. Like they are drowning and clinging to me to save them, drowning me in the process. It hurts. The emotional pain is so intense that it becomes physical.
So I have to protect myself from it. I have friends who have been going through a tough time and I haven't been able to reach out to them because it's too much for me.
Even when I'm not with people I hurt. I feel like all my nerves are on fire. It's like I'm wearing a coat lined with little needles and they are all pressing into my skin. And it feels like if anyone bumps me they will press those needles deeper. Plus, people give off their own electrical field. When anyone is closer to me than about three feet, it feels like their electrical field is being conducted through those little needles into my body. Having people near me hurts. It just hurts so bad.
I cry a lot, over anything. My heart races. I feel like I am shaking (although I am only occasionally actually physically shaking). And I am so sensitive to everything. Today, even the shower hurt.
But this doesn't show. There's no visible sign that I'm not okay. Except for my red eyes when I'm crying. Or when I cringe away from people when they get too close (which so often hurts their feelings).
I still can't connect to myself. I've tried. And I can't connect to God. I keep trying. I don't think he's pulled away, but I just can't seem to connect. It's incredibly painful to not be able to connect to myself and to God. I feel so lost.
I've had similar symptoms in the past, but I've always been able to figure out why. I can't this time. And it's usually been of short duration, but this time it's been a month with almost no break. I know my behavior doesn't make sense. I know my reactions are completely out of proportion. I know I am angry way more than I should be, but I can't stop it.
So if you see me, please be kind. I may look okay, but inside there is a storm raging that threatens to submerge me.
**********
For the most part, when I am struggling, I am not obvious about it. I get very quiet and avoid people and activities when I can. Because I have to for self-preservation.
Do I hide it on purpose? Sometimes. When I cry and cry all day long at every little thing, I fight those tears around my kids. And around most other people. I don't want my kids to worry. I don't want to have to explain myself to others. And seeing the pain in others' eyes because I am hurting is hard.
But sometimes I have to explain. And then I cry and pace and shake my arms to try to make the feelings go away. It's so exhausting and it hurts! After an hour of trying to explain and process, I feel like I've done the hardest workout of my life. I have to change my clothes because I sweat so much.
This last week I had to do this twice.
First with my bishop (pastor). I snapped at him at church. Later I apologized and told him I was not in a good place. He asked if I needed to talk. I try to keep my life off his plate because I know his plate is full. But this time I absolutely needed him. I needed a priesthood blessing. And he needed to understand how bad it was.
We visited for an hour. He listened well and asked good questions, but not too many. And he gave me a blessing.
But I scared him. Enough that he asked about hospitalization. It's not the worst I've ever been, but it's the worst he's seen me.
He asked me to promise to communicate with him more often when I'm struggling and let him worry about how much is on his plate. I promised to try. It's very difficult. I also promised to talk to my therapist about hospitalization and medication. That was Sunday.
Yesterday, I met with my therapist and had to do the whole thing again. So exhausting.
We did an EMDR scan to see if this was connected to some trauma we haven't worked on yet. Nothing came up. We did a couple of EMDR tracers to see if it was connected to either of the two traumas we've recently worked on. Again, nothing. My symptoms have been a lot like PTSD, but it doesn't seem like that's what this is.
When my PTSD gets triggered, I usually have at least an inkling of what it's connected to, even if I don't want to talk about it. This time there is nothing. I have no idea where any of this is coming from. I don't know what's causing it.
My therapist said we treat it like an anomaly and treat the symptoms the best we can until it passes (unless it doesn't). He suggested it might be SAD (seasonal affective disorder). He offered to put my name on the list for the DBT group (dialectical behavior therapy -- mood regulation training). We established a medication plan. He gave me permission to isolate myself therapeutically (you wouldn't think that permission matters, but it does).
He asked what one symptom was the worst. I thought for a minute and answered, "The way the emotions of others overwhelm me."
You see, right now I feel everything those around me feel. It's like I am permeable and can't keep their emotions out. They saturate me and drown me. It feels like everything is a crisis. When my daughter complains about someone she works with it feels the same as someone talking to me about the death of their child. Everything is a ten on the pain scale and it all comes through into me. Like they are drowning and clinging to me to save them, drowning me in the process. It hurts. The emotional pain is so intense that it becomes physical.
So I have to protect myself from it. I have friends who have been going through a tough time and I haven't been able to reach out to them because it's too much for me.
Even when I'm not with people I hurt. I feel like all my nerves are on fire. It's like I'm wearing a coat lined with little needles and they are all pressing into my skin. And it feels like if anyone bumps me they will press those needles deeper. Plus, people give off their own electrical field. When anyone is closer to me than about three feet, it feels like their electrical field is being conducted through those little needles into my body. Having people near me hurts. It just hurts so bad.
I cry a lot, over anything. My heart races. I feel like I am shaking (although I am only occasionally actually physically shaking). And I am so sensitive to everything. Today, even the shower hurt.
But this doesn't show. There's no visible sign that I'm not okay. Except for my red eyes when I'm crying. Or when I cringe away from people when they get too close (which so often hurts their feelings).
I still can't connect to myself. I've tried. And I can't connect to God. I keep trying. I don't think he's pulled away, but I just can't seem to connect. It's incredibly painful to not be able to connect to myself and to God. I feel so lost.
I've had similar symptoms in the past, but I've always been able to figure out why. I can't this time. And it's usually been of short duration, but this time it's been a month with almost no break. I know my behavior doesn't make sense. I know my reactions are completely out of proportion. I know I am angry way more than I should be, but I can't stop it.
So if you see me, please be kind. I may look okay, but inside there is a storm raging that threatens to submerge me.
What a Bad Mental Illness Day is Like
It's so difficult to explain how it feels when you struggle with mental health issues. How do you explain emotional pain in a way that others can understand? How do you say how hard everything has become, things that shouldn't be hard at all? Especially to people who don't struggle.
I've been on the other side. I've been the one whose life was turned upside down on a regular basis because I lived with someone with mental illness. I've been the one who got angry because my life couldn't be what I wanted it to be. I've been the one who resented the person struggling. I've been the one who thought they were making up excuses for things they didn't want that I did. I've been the one who felt like I was being manipulated. And I've been the one who felt guilty because I couldn't find empathy in my heart for them because I was too close to the situation.
But this time it's me. This time I'm the one whose mental illness is affecting the lives of those around me. I'm the one who's messing up the plans. I'm the one who's dropping the ball. And I feel guilty about it and try to hide it and try not to let it affect those around me. But it does.
When you have a physical illness, it's not tough to explain why you can't follow through on a commitment or why you don't want to go out with friends. "I think I'm getting the flu." "I did too much last night and am just too worn out." People might not be happy about it, but they get it.
It doesn't work that way when it's mental illness. "I'm having an emotional breakdown." "Leaving my house is impossible." "I can't be around people." People don't get that. And if it happens over and over, they think they are excuses and you don't really want to be with them at all and they just leave you.
Or they want to fix it. They ask so many questions (which are exhausting for me when I'm struggling). Then they tell you what to do to fix it so you can be with them again. Like somehow they know what you need. Let me just tell you right now, I've been under the care of lots of doctors and therapists over my lifetime and even they don't know what will make it better. Luckily, they all knew enough to say so. "Try this or that," but not "This is the answer for sure." Because mental illness doesn't work that way. (Heck, physical illness doesn't even work that way.)
I've been in a very bad place for about a month now. Really dark days and just cloudy days but no bright days. And I am trying. I have done all the things every doctor and therapist and spiritual leader has suggested and I'm still there. In the darkness.
Usually, I can't write when it's a really bad day. But a couple of weeks ago I was able to. I share it with you now knowing it might make me look more crazy than anyone thought. I share it knowing there will be some who still think I'm making excuses. But I share it because I am able. Mental illness is difficult to communicate. So difficult. But I am a communicator, so I share this for all those who can't put it into words.
**********
January 13, 2014
I've been hurting a lot the last week or so. Headache that just won't break. I have a few hours that aren't so bad, but then it overwhelms me again. Nothing I've taken will take it away.
But that's not the bad part. The anxiety is the bad part. For a couple of weeks now. Moments of okay and then hours of worry and fear.
And I worry that whatever I've taken for my head is making the anxiety worse. But if I don't take anything, the pain and anxiety stop me cold.
Still, neither of those is why I'm writing.
Today I feel like I'm slipping away. Like my mind is going. I have visions of myself in the psychiatric ward, no longer myself. No longer able to care for my family or even for myself.
This thought was followed by the thought I often have that I need to get my life in order. I need to get things running smoothly enough and processes in place so my family can run things without me.
For the longest time I've thought this was because I will continue to deteriorate physically. To the point that I can't get out of bed and do things.
But today I found myself thinking, feeling, it might be something else.
What if I'm not just going to deteriorate? What if I'm going to be gone? What if I need to get things in order because I am going to die young?
It feels like a very real possibility in my heart. I feel like I need to get my life in order so my family can get on without me.
And today, I just feel like I am slipping away. Like there's less and less me inside this shell of my body.
And I thought I should write these feelings down while I can. Before I'm too far gone.
It scares me and I don't know what to do.
***later***
I took a shower and brushed my teeth in case I need to go to the hospital.
Writing calmed me some. But the feeling isn't gone. It's like I've resigned myself to the situation.
It's like reality is just a step away from me. I could reach out and grab it, but I don't. I don't want to. I'm not sure why.
My body is present; I am just slightly out of phase with my body. Just connected enough to go through the motions. I can put on a show. Make people think I'm here.
They see my body so they think I'm here. But I'm not. I just left a tiny piece of myself in my body like a tether. I am still connected to my body but not present with it.
I wonder if I will come back. I wonder how long I'll be gone. I wonder why I left and why I don't want to go back.
***later***
I interact with my family. They can't tell anything is wrong. I'm just more quiet than usual, until someone stresses me out with questions. Then I snap and yell and leave.
But mostly I'm just quiet. On the outside. Inside there is a storm raging. I want to peel my skin off. Inside I feel like I am banging around on the walls. Pounding. Trying to get out. Like I am trapped in an asylum. Inside I am pounding and screaming. But on the outside I'm just quiet. And trying so hard not to be touched.
**********
I need to say more, but this is already too long. For the rest of the story, see The Silent Storm.
I've been on the other side. I've been the one whose life was turned upside down on a regular basis because I lived with someone with mental illness. I've been the one who got angry because my life couldn't be what I wanted it to be. I've been the one who resented the person struggling. I've been the one who thought they were making up excuses for things they didn't want that I did. I've been the one who felt like I was being manipulated. And I've been the one who felt guilty because I couldn't find empathy in my heart for them because I was too close to the situation.
But this time it's me. This time I'm the one whose mental illness is affecting the lives of those around me. I'm the one who's messing up the plans. I'm the one who's dropping the ball. And I feel guilty about it and try to hide it and try not to let it affect those around me. But it does.
When you have a physical illness, it's not tough to explain why you can't follow through on a commitment or why you don't want to go out with friends. "I think I'm getting the flu." "I did too much last night and am just too worn out." People might not be happy about it, but they get it.
It doesn't work that way when it's mental illness. "I'm having an emotional breakdown." "Leaving my house is impossible." "I can't be around people." People don't get that. And if it happens over and over, they think they are excuses and you don't really want to be with them at all and they just leave you.
Or they want to fix it. They ask so many questions (which are exhausting for me when I'm struggling). Then they tell you what to do to fix it so you can be with them again. Like somehow they know what you need. Let me just tell you right now, I've been under the care of lots of doctors and therapists over my lifetime and even they don't know what will make it better. Luckily, they all knew enough to say so. "Try this or that," but not "This is the answer for sure." Because mental illness doesn't work that way. (Heck, physical illness doesn't even work that way.)
I've been in a very bad place for about a month now. Really dark days and just cloudy days but no bright days. And I am trying. I have done all the things every doctor and therapist and spiritual leader has suggested and I'm still there. In the darkness.
Usually, I can't write when it's a really bad day. But a couple of weeks ago I was able to. I share it with you now knowing it might make me look more crazy than anyone thought. I share it knowing there will be some who still think I'm making excuses. But I share it because I am able. Mental illness is difficult to communicate. So difficult. But I am a communicator, so I share this for all those who can't put it into words.
**********
January 13, 2014
I've been hurting a lot the last week or so. Headache that just won't break. I have a few hours that aren't so bad, but then it overwhelms me again. Nothing I've taken will take it away.
But that's not the bad part. The anxiety is the bad part. For a couple of weeks now. Moments of okay and then hours of worry and fear.
And I worry that whatever I've taken for my head is making the anxiety worse. But if I don't take anything, the pain and anxiety stop me cold.
Still, neither of those is why I'm writing.
Today I feel like I'm slipping away. Like my mind is going. I have visions of myself in the psychiatric ward, no longer myself. No longer able to care for my family or even for myself.
This thought was followed by the thought I often have that I need to get my life in order. I need to get things running smoothly enough and processes in place so my family can run things without me.
For the longest time I've thought this was because I will continue to deteriorate physically. To the point that I can't get out of bed and do things.
But today I found myself thinking, feeling, it might be something else.
What if I'm not just going to deteriorate? What if I'm going to be gone? What if I need to get things in order because I am going to die young?
It feels like a very real possibility in my heart. I feel like I need to get my life in order so my family can get on without me.
And today, I just feel like I am slipping away. Like there's less and less me inside this shell of my body.
And I thought I should write these feelings down while I can. Before I'm too far gone.
It scares me and I don't know what to do.
***later***
I took a shower and brushed my teeth in case I need to go to the hospital.
Writing calmed me some. But the feeling isn't gone. It's like I've resigned myself to the situation.
It's like reality is just a step away from me. I could reach out and grab it, but I don't. I don't want to. I'm not sure why.
My body is present; I am just slightly out of phase with my body. Just connected enough to go through the motions. I can put on a show. Make people think I'm here.
They see my body so they think I'm here. But I'm not. I just left a tiny piece of myself in my body like a tether. I am still connected to my body but not present with it.
I wonder if I will come back. I wonder how long I'll be gone. I wonder why I left and why I don't want to go back.
***later***
I interact with my family. They can't tell anything is wrong. I'm just more quiet than usual, until someone stresses me out with questions. Then I snap and yell and leave.
But mostly I'm just quiet. On the outside. Inside there is a storm raging. I want to peel my skin off. Inside I feel like I am banging around on the walls. Pounding. Trying to get out. Like I am trapped in an asylum. Inside I am pounding and screaming. But on the outside I'm just quiet. And trying so hard not to be touched.
**********
I need to say more, but this is already too long. For the rest of the story, see The Silent Storm.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Keep a Happy Thought for Me?
I am still hurting. A lot. The depression and anxiety are still bad. My patience is almost non-existent.
I am going to the doctor on Monday and the therapist on Thursday. I'm really hoping for some relief and/or direction by the end of the week. I'm kind of at the edge of what I can take.
Keep a happy thought for me?
I am going to the doctor on Monday and the therapist on Thursday. I'm really hoping for some relief and/or direction by the end of the week. I'm kind of at the edge of what I can take.
Keep a happy thought for me?
Friday, September 20, 2013
Trying to Find the Words
** If you are an abuse survivor, this post could contain possible triggers. Please make sure you are safe before reading it. Also, this is a very heavy and adult post. Listen to your heart and do not continue if you know this won't be okay for you. **
Words are important to me. I sometimes take a little longer to speak because I am trying to find just the right word. Not one that's close, but one that conveys a multitude of meanings all at once, one that conveys truth and feeling and exactitude. Just the right word.
But sometimes I don't have the word. If I could communicate telepathically, I could make you understand. But there just isn't a word for it and nothing else really does the job.
This is what happened when I tried to explain to someone what triggered a PTSD event for me this week. I didn't have the words.
A little history, somewhat vague, to help set the stage.
There are dark things in my past. There was abuse and assault. Over many years I was hunted. And too often I was caught. I wasn't killed physically, but pieces of me were destroyed. I was changed.
I was changed in a way I believe many others who were abused are also changed. But I can't speak for them. I speak only for what is true in my life.
I was prey. In many situations. And, yes, there were times I feared for my life. Other times I just feared for the inner me, the part that was being attacked. What happened to my body didn't matter. What happened to my core did.
Because I was prey, I was on constant alert (an alert that is never silent, even now). I learned to read the emotions of everyone in the room. To sense even the tiniest shift if something changed. Long before anyone else knew. Because I had to in order to protect myself. It was necessary to stay alive.
But it goes beyond just reading emotions. And this is where I lose words.
Some people have a . . . something to them. A color/flavor/spirit. Each of those is somewhat close, but none of them are accurate. I would say aura, but it isn't visible. A presence? A feeling? An emotional radiation? None of these are right either.
As a child I often swam in a lake. I would be swimming along, in the warmth, and hit a cold spot. Out of the blue all the warmth was gone. It's kind of like that.
And this last week a person crossed my path whose . . . whatever it is . . . triggered my PTSD. This person's color/flavor/whatever is darkness. This person carries evil with him. Willingly. The cold spot that he wears is that of a predator. Even with all the abusive situations I've been in over the years and all the people I've known and all the horror I've experienced and witnessed, I've never felt like I was in the presence of evil. Until him. And he knows it and uses it to control.
He is not a close part of my life, but there is potential that our paths will continue to cross. I am trying to strengthen myself and gather support so he can't wound me again.
I hate that it only took the mention of him to make me feel weak and powerless. And scared.
He triggered one of my most difficult memories. One that I haven't fully processed and healed in therapy. One of a very early sexual assault. One that causes me severe physical symptoms. So since he crossed my path, I have been having very painful uterine cramps. Nonstop. Whether I am thinking about it or not. Sometimes so bad that I have trouble standing up. My anxiety is high. I am snapping more at my family. My nerves feel like they are on fire and I cringe if anyone tries to touch me. Even when I am completely safe, there is fear. Like the rabbit whose ears prick up when he senses danger. I will not relax until the danger is gone.
I was not ready to go back to therapy. My therapist and I have some things to work out. I wanted to do more processing on my own on that stuff before I went back. But I may have to put all that aside and go back to therapy anyway. I may not have a choice. I'm having trouble functioning. I'm having trouble getting every day things done. I need help.
Words are important to me. I sometimes take a little longer to speak because I am trying to find just the right word. Not one that's close, but one that conveys a multitude of meanings all at once, one that conveys truth and feeling and exactitude. Just the right word.
But sometimes I don't have the word. If I could communicate telepathically, I could make you understand. But there just isn't a word for it and nothing else really does the job.
This is what happened when I tried to explain to someone what triggered a PTSD event for me this week. I didn't have the words.
A little history, somewhat vague, to help set the stage.
There are dark things in my past. There was abuse and assault. Over many years I was hunted. And too often I was caught. I wasn't killed physically, but pieces of me were destroyed. I was changed.
I was changed in a way I believe many others who were abused are also changed. But I can't speak for them. I speak only for what is true in my life.
I was prey. In many situations. And, yes, there were times I feared for my life. Other times I just feared for the inner me, the part that was being attacked. What happened to my body didn't matter. What happened to my core did.
Because I was prey, I was on constant alert (an alert that is never silent, even now). I learned to read the emotions of everyone in the room. To sense even the tiniest shift if something changed. Long before anyone else knew. Because I had to in order to protect myself. It was necessary to stay alive.
But it goes beyond just reading emotions. And this is where I lose words.
Some people have a . . . something to them. A color/flavor/spirit. Each of those is somewhat close, but none of them are accurate. I would say aura, but it isn't visible. A presence? A feeling? An emotional radiation? None of these are right either.
As a child I often swam in a lake. I would be swimming along, in the warmth, and hit a cold spot. Out of the blue all the warmth was gone. It's kind of like that.
And this last week a person crossed my path whose . . . whatever it is . . . triggered my PTSD. This person's color/flavor/whatever is darkness. This person carries evil with him. Willingly. The cold spot that he wears is that of a predator. Even with all the abusive situations I've been in over the years and all the people I've known and all the horror I've experienced and witnessed, I've never felt like I was in the presence of evil. Until him. And he knows it and uses it to control.
He is not a close part of my life, but there is potential that our paths will continue to cross. I am trying to strengthen myself and gather support so he can't wound me again.
I hate that it only took the mention of him to make me feel weak and powerless. And scared.
He triggered one of my most difficult memories. One that I haven't fully processed and healed in therapy. One of a very early sexual assault. One that causes me severe physical symptoms. So since he crossed my path, I have been having very painful uterine cramps. Nonstop. Whether I am thinking about it or not. Sometimes so bad that I have trouble standing up. My anxiety is high. I am snapping more at my family. My nerves feel like they are on fire and I cringe if anyone tries to touch me. Even when I am completely safe, there is fear. Like the rabbit whose ears prick up when he senses danger. I will not relax until the danger is gone.
I was not ready to go back to therapy. My therapist and I have some things to work out. I wanted to do more processing on my own on that stuff before I went back. But I may have to put all that aside and go back to therapy anyway. I may not have a choice. I'm having trouble functioning. I'm having trouble getting every day things done. I need help.
Friday, August 23, 2013
I Don't Know How I'm Supposed to Feel
My friend's sixteen-year old daughter is missing. She left a note. She ran away. But they suspect she was lured away by predator she met on the internet. It's been a week.
It's such a horrific thing. My heart is aching for my friend and her family. I pray for her safe return multiple times a day.
And I feel guilty that I still worry about my own problems.
Big problems like my husband being out of work for a couple of months, with no real prospects on the horizon. Little problems like my sadness that my son will probably get very little playing time this season of football. And in between problems like the messy house and my lack of energy or motivation to do anything about it; the medical bills that just keep coming; trying to help manage my husband's depression.
Whenever I get stressed about money and trying to meet all our obligations, I remind myself that my children are safe. When I notice the signs of depression in myself, I track each of my children in my mind and know where each of them is. I am so grateful for this. My children are my life. I can't imagine the heartache my friend is feeling or how unimportant those other things would be to me if I didn't know where my child was. What right do I have to worry about the stupid things in my life when she is going through something like this?
I know I need to do things to help myself, to care for my family. But I find myself checking on her status several times a day to see if there's news. Sometimes every half hour. Sometimes I feel guilty that I am so worried about her and her family and not spending enough time worrying about my own family. What right do I have to neglect my family and our problems by spending so much mental and emotional energy on my friend's family?
I spent years being numb. Not feeling much of anything. Most of that comes from a childhood where feelings were not acceptable.
I still have difficulty identifying my feelings.
And sometimes I think I'm feeling everything, like in Harry Potter when Hermione is explaining to Ron and Harry how Cho Chang is feeling. Ron thinks no one could possibly be feeling all those things at once. But we can.
I'm feeling sad and scared for my friend. I'm feeling sad and scared for myself. I'm feeling blessed. I'm feeling irritated and disappointed. I'm even feeling content sometimes.
But I'm judging those feelings. I'm judging myself for feeling all of these things. Like I am bad because I'm not feeling what I should be feeling -- whatever that is.
I know I shouldn't. I know I should experience the feelings and try to see what they are teaching me or just acknowledge them or just let them pass by unnoticed. I wish I could stop judging them and just feel.
I tell myself that I am not a bad person because I am worried about my own life, even simple things that won't matter in a month. It's okay to be happy. It's okay to cry. It's even okay to be numb for a while.
Now that I've said it, I'm going to work on believing it. My feelings are mine. And they aren't right or wrong. They just are.
Right?
**********
Update: My friend's daughter has been found and is safe and back with her family.
It's such a horrific thing. My heart is aching for my friend and her family. I pray for her safe return multiple times a day.
And I feel guilty that I still worry about my own problems.
Big problems like my husband being out of work for a couple of months, with no real prospects on the horizon. Little problems like my sadness that my son will probably get very little playing time this season of football. And in between problems like the messy house and my lack of energy or motivation to do anything about it; the medical bills that just keep coming; trying to help manage my husband's depression.
Whenever I get stressed about money and trying to meet all our obligations, I remind myself that my children are safe. When I notice the signs of depression in myself, I track each of my children in my mind and know where each of them is. I am so grateful for this. My children are my life. I can't imagine the heartache my friend is feeling or how unimportant those other things would be to me if I didn't know where my child was. What right do I have to worry about the stupid things in my life when she is going through something like this?
I know I need to do things to help myself, to care for my family. But I find myself checking on her status several times a day to see if there's news. Sometimes every half hour. Sometimes I feel guilty that I am so worried about her and her family and not spending enough time worrying about my own family. What right do I have to neglect my family and our problems by spending so much mental and emotional energy on my friend's family?
I spent years being numb. Not feeling much of anything. Most of that comes from a childhood where feelings were not acceptable.
I still have difficulty identifying my feelings.
And sometimes I think I'm feeling everything, like in Harry Potter when Hermione is explaining to Ron and Harry how Cho Chang is feeling. Ron thinks no one could possibly be feeling all those things at once. But we can.
I'm feeling sad and scared for my friend. I'm feeling sad and scared for myself. I'm feeling blessed. I'm feeling irritated and disappointed. I'm even feeling content sometimes.
But I'm judging those feelings. I'm judging myself for feeling all of these things. Like I am bad because I'm not feeling what I should be feeling -- whatever that is.
I know I shouldn't. I know I should experience the feelings and try to see what they are teaching me or just acknowledge them or just let them pass by unnoticed. I wish I could stop judging them and just feel.
I tell myself that I am not a bad person because I am worried about my own life, even simple things that won't matter in a month. It's okay to be happy. It's okay to cry. It's even okay to be numb for a while.
Now that I've said it, I'm going to work on believing it. My feelings are mine. And they aren't right or wrong. They just are.
Right?
**********
Update: My friend's daughter has been found and is safe and back with her family.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Trying to Be Brave
I don't feel brave. Not at all. I feel scared.
People tell me I'm brave for writing about my therapeutic journey. Sometimes it's not hard. Those days I guess I do feel kind of strong. But days like today, times like now, I'm just a scared little girl. I'm afraid someone who knows me and knows my parents will read this and tell them about it. I'm afraid of getting in trouble with my dad. I'm afraid of hurting my mom. I'm so, so afraid.
But I do it anyway. Not because I'm brave. Just because I'm so desperate to heal.
I'm fighting that deep, dark place again. Because of my seventy-year old parents and my own co-dependence.
Eight months ago I wrote about my mom and her struggles. I'd been out of touch and when I checked back in I'd found her much worse off than I was prepared for. I thought it was horrible. I thought it was unbelievable. I thought it was as bad as it could get.
I was wrong.
She is much worse than she was when I wrote that. And my life has gotten so much harder.
Things are really ugly between her and my dad. I've listened to both of them tell my why so many times I don't even listen anymore. At this point I don't care. They can't seem to stand each other. Which would be fine if they could just go their separate ways and be okay. But they can't. Because she's deteriorating. And he's trying to take care of her (I admire him for that). And she only wants him to do what she wants and leave her alone, whether it's good for her or not. Whether it's a rational request or not. Mostly, give me money and go away. And since she wants nothing to do with him, I've found myself in the middle again.
She doesn't have her driver's license anymore. It expired. She didn't know. Now she has to take the written and driving tests to get it back. Could she pass them? Maybe on her best day. Maybe. But she doesn't have many best days. So she can't drive. But she also can't stay home.
She was practically living out of her car before she lost her license. She had been for years. And without her license, the car wasn't going anywhere. But she refused to stay home. So before long, her car was parked in front of my house. Every morning she would walk a mile to my house, get into her car and do her makeup or sleep or whatever, and leave for the day. She's learned to ride the bus. She's learned that we actually do have taxis in our area. And she's done a lot of walking.
But she also gets stranded a lot. She finds herself two or three towns over after the buses have stopped running or she's run out of money. And then she calls me to come rescue her. And spends the next two or three hours complaining to me and holding my life hostage. This was probably happening three or four times a week.
Which was a hard enough situation to deal with, but it gets worse.
Memorial Day my phone rang. It was my dad. He asked if I'd seen or heard from my mom recently. I told him I hadn't for a couple of days. He said she'd left in a huff on Saturday saying she would never come back to that house, and he hadn't heard from her since. He said he was ready to call the police. I asked him to give me a few minutes to try to contact her. I called her phone; straight to voicemail. I sent her a text; no response. I let my dad know. About fifteen minutes later she sent me a text. She was in the next town over and said I better come and get her. I let my dad know and left to pick her up.
Once in the car, she started in on how awful my dad is and that she won't go back there and if he would just move her small motor home somewhere else she'd have somewhere to stay until they move this weekend. I really thought my patience and my nerves were completely depleted before this episode. I really thought I had nothing left. Apparently there were reserves, but they were very shallow. I had no idea what to do. I was not in a strong place. And I needed her to have somewhere to be other than my front porch -- talking non-stop about her horrible life and how awful my dad is. Still. So I did the only thing I could think of. I told my dad he could park her little motor home at my house until the weekend.
It took him about two hours to bring it down. We sat on the porch and she talked to me the entire time. There is no way for me to express what it's like having her talk to me in a way that you can understand, unless you've dealt with someone in the middle of a breakdown. It's like a bad, non-productive therapy session that just goes on and on. Like I am her therapist. And she never runs out of things to talk about. And it doesn't matter if I'm listening or not. She just keeps going and going. It's emotionally exhausting.
She eventually walked to the nearby grocery store to get something to eat so she wouldn't be there when he brought it down. It's now parked in my driveway, plugged into an outlet in my carport. She hasn't been much trouble out there, although she has called me from various other locations to pick her up a couple of times since. And to bring her home. To my house.
And I am struggling. A lot. Having to deal with him and his rants about her and her and her rants about him while trying to help and be kind to both of them has me at my absolute limit. I've broken down in tears multiple times these last few days. It's all so ridiculous and pathetic and sad. And I feel so selfish for not being happy to help. I feel so selfish for worrying more about how she's interfering with my life than worrying about her well-being.
But today was therapy. My therapy. With my therapist. A real therapist that I pay to help me. Not some friend or family member who feels trapped and helpless and taken advantage of. My therapist.
It was a good session, even though it was incredibly hard for me. We discussed lots of options. I can laugh it off and just keep going. I can do nothing and keep complaining. I can tell them both the hard truth (which isn't going to happen yet in any way, shape, or form). Or I can do what I need to for my own protection: I can learn to lie and fake helplessness. (Let me just say, those two things are so completely not a part of my personality -- which might have something to do with why I always find myself taken advantage of.) Little white lies like, "I'm sorry. I can't come right now. My daughter who just had brain surgery needs me" -- even when she doesn't. Fake helplessness like, "I'm sorry, dad, I just don't know what to do" -- instead of doing everything possible to solve their problems for them. I'm supposed to be less available and more helpless than my dad. So he has to start taking care of things again. One way or another.
Because this isn't taking care of my parents. This is enabling. This is prolonging an unhealthy situation. This is hurting them more in the long run than confronting them would now. Even though my heart is struggling with it.
My dad doesn't know what to do. But that doesn't mean it isn't his job to figure it out. My therapist thinks it will take a crisis for him to find his way. It might take a ride home for my mom in a police car. From a stranded situation I didn't rescue her from. And when she tells them to bring her to my house, which she will, I need to be ready to tell them she can't stay and they need to take her back to her house. Whether she wants to go there or not. This was about the time in the session when I completely lost it and started sobbing just thinking about her face when I tell her she can't stay and how her heart would be breaking. I'm letting this idea simmer for a while. I'm not capable of doing this today. I don't know if I ever will be or if it will come to this. But I'm letting the idea simmer because in my therapeutic heart it feels like truth, even if in my tender co-dependent heart it feels like the worst thing I could ever do to her.
For now, I am going to be less available. And I'm going to work on differentiating between routine care, urgent care, and emergency care. If it's not an emergency, I am going to work very hard to make myself put it back on my dad. Because this is his job. Not mine.
And, come heck or high water, that motor home is leaving my driveway this weekend!
People tell me I'm brave for writing about my therapeutic journey. Sometimes it's not hard. Those days I guess I do feel kind of strong. But days like today, times like now, I'm just a scared little girl. I'm afraid someone who knows me and knows my parents will read this and tell them about it. I'm afraid of getting in trouble with my dad. I'm afraid of hurting my mom. I'm so, so afraid.
But I do it anyway. Not because I'm brave. Just because I'm so desperate to heal.
I'm fighting that deep, dark place again. Because of my seventy-year old parents and my own co-dependence.
Eight months ago I wrote about my mom and her struggles. I'd been out of touch and when I checked back in I'd found her much worse off than I was prepared for. I thought it was horrible. I thought it was unbelievable. I thought it was as bad as it could get.
I was wrong.
She is much worse than she was when I wrote that. And my life has gotten so much harder.
Things are really ugly between her and my dad. I've listened to both of them tell my why so many times I don't even listen anymore. At this point I don't care. They can't seem to stand each other. Which would be fine if they could just go their separate ways and be okay. But they can't. Because she's deteriorating. And he's trying to take care of her (I admire him for that). And she only wants him to do what she wants and leave her alone, whether it's good for her or not. Whether it's a rational request or not. Mostly, give me money and go away. And since she wants nothing to do with him, I've found myself in the middle again.
She doesn't have her driver's license anymore. It expired. She didn't know. Now she has to take the written and driving tests to get it back. Could she pass them? Maybe on her best day. Maybe. But she doesn't have many best days. So she can't drive. But she also can't stay home.
She was practically living out of her car before she lost her license. She had been for years. And without her license, the car wasn't going anywhere. But she refused to stay home. So before long, her car was parked in front of my house. Every morning she would walk a mile to my house, get into her car and do her makeup or sleep or whatever, and leave for the day. She's learned to ride the bus. She's learned that we actually do have taxis in our area. And she's done a lot of walking.
But she also gets stranded a lot. She finds herself two or three towns over after the buses have stopped running or she's run out of money. And then she calls me to come rescue her. And spends the next two or three hours complaining to me and holding my life hostage. This was probably happening three or four times a week.
Which was a hard enough situation to deal with, but it gets worse.
Memorial Day my phone rang. It was my dad. He asked if I'd seen or heard from my mom recently. I told him I hadn't for a couple of days. He said she'd left in a huff on Saturday saying she would never come back to that house, and he hadn't heard from her since. He said he was ready to call the police. I asked him to give me a few minutes to try to contact her. I called her phone; straight to voicemail. I sent her a text; no response. I let my dad know. About fifteen minutes later she sent me a text. She was in the next town over and said I better come and get her. I let my dad know and left to pick her up.
Once in the car, she started in on how awful my dad is and that she won't go back there and if he would just move her small motor home somewhere else she'd have somewhere to stay until they move this weekend. I really thought my patience and my nerves were completely depleted before this episode. I really thought I had nothing left. Apparently there were reserves, but they were very shallow. I had no idea what to do. I was not in a strong place. And I needed her to have somewhere to be other than my front porch -- talking non-stop about her horrible life and how awful my dad is. Still. So I did the only thing I could think of. I told my dad he could park her little motor home at my house until the weekend.
It took him about two hours to bring it down. We sat on the porch and she talked to me the entire time. There is no way for me to express what it's like having her talk to me in a way that you can understand, unless you've dealt with someone in the middle of a breakdown. It's like a bad, non-productive therapy session that just goes on and on. Like I am her therapist. And she never runs out of things to talk about. And it doesn't matter if I'm listening or not. She just keeps going and going. It's emotionally exhausting.
She eventually walked to the nearby grocery store to get something to eat so she wouldn't be there when he brought it down. It's now parked in my driveway, plugged into an outlet in my carport. She hasn't been much trouble out there, although she has called me from various other locations to pick her up a couple of times since. And to bring her home. To my house.
And I am struggling. A lot. Having to deal with him and his rants about her and her and her rants about him while trying to help and be kind to both of them has me at my absolute limit. I've broken down in tears multiple times these last few days. It's all so ridiculous and pathetic and sad. And I feel so selfish for not being happy to help. I feel so selfish for worrying more about how she's interfering with my life than worrying about her well-being.
But today was therapy. My therapy. With my therapist. A real therapist that I pay to help me. Not some friend or family member who feels trapped and helpless and taken advantage of. My therapist.
It was a good session, even though it was incredibly hard for me. We discussed lots of options. I can laugh it off and just keep going. I can do nothing and keep complaining. I can tell them both the hard truth (which isn't going to happen yet in any way, shape, or form). Or I can do what I need to for my own protection: I can learn to lie and fake helplessness. (Let me just say, those two things are so completely not a part of my personality -- which might have something to do with why I always find myself taken advantage of.) Little white lies like, "I'm sorry. I can't come right now. My daughter who just had brain surgery needs me" -- even when she doesn't. Fake helplessness like, "I'm sorry, dad, I just don't know what to do" -- instead of doing everything possible to solve their problems for them. I'm supposed to be less available and more helpless than my dad. So he has to start taking care of things again. One way or another.
Because this isn't taking care of my parents. This is enabling. This is prolonging an unhealthy situation. This is hurting them more in the long run than confronting them would now. Even though my heart is struggling with it.
My dad doesn't know what to do. But that doesn't mean it isn't his job to figure it out. My therapist thinks it will take a crisis for him to find his way. It might take a ride home for my mom in a police car. From a stranded situation I didn't rescue her from. And when she tells them to bring her to my house, which she will, I need to be ready to tell them she can't stay and they need to take her back to her house. Whether she wants to go there or not. This was about the time in the session when I completely lost it and started sobbing just thinking about her face when I tell her she can't stay and how her heart would be breaking. I'm letting this idea simmer for a while. I'm not capable of doing this today. I don't know if I ever will be or if it will come to this. But I'm letting the idea simmer because in my therapeutic heart it feels like truth, even if in my tender co-dependent heart it feels like the worst thing I could ever do to her.
For now, I am going to be less available. And I'm going to work on differentiating between routine care, urgent care, and emergency care. If it's not an emergency, I am going to work very hard to make myself put it back on my dad. Because this is his job. Not mine.
And, come heck or high water, that motor home is leaving my driveway this weekend!
Friday, February 22, 2013
A Dark and Difficult Place
It can be tough to admit when I am not okay. Right now I am not okay. I am in a dark and difficult place and have been for quite some time.
So I am asking this from my heart. If you read this and are a religious person, would you please offer a prayer in my behalf? If you're not religious, maybe send some happy thoughts my way. It would mean a lot to me.
So I am asking this from my heart. If you read this and are a religious person, would you please offer a prayer in my behalf? If you're not religious, maybe send some happy thoughts my way. It would mean a lot to me.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
PTSD and Me
I have a guest post up over at Real Intent about what my life is like with PTSD. Please pop over and read it. It's important.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
When Your Heart Hurts
It's Valentine's Day, so I guess it's the right time to talk about my recent heart scare. More frustrating than scary, but there's always an element of fear when you know you need to go to the emergency room.
It's safe to say that I've been in a period of high stress these last too weeks, primarily driven by a PTSD episode triggered by a book club discussion I shouldn't have attended. Two weeks of fear, sobbing, pain, a desire to hide, a desire to hurt myself, an inability to care about or even notice obligations and people around me. Walking through life like an automaton. Going through the motions but often not being fully present. Desperately waiting for my appointment with my therapist.
About a week into this, my chest started hurting. Not terribly. Not sharply. But it hurt. Being the pain foolish person I can sometimes be, I ignored it as best I could. It didn't seem bad. I didn't have time for this. I was sure it was nothing. But it was kind of always there. Sometimes worse, sometimes better.
Until last Saturday. The day started out well. No big plans. It was a relaxing day and my stress levels were pretty good. I knew I would be seeing my therapist Monday; that was a relief. My annual physical was also scheduled for Monday so I'd talk to the doctor about the chest pains then.
But no. My body decided otherwise. By the afternoon my chest was hurting so badly I could hardly do anything. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't write. I looked up the symptoms of a heart attack and found several that kind of fit. Plus, there's that whole scare factor of knowing my cousin had a major heart attack a couple years ago at age 55. I'm 43 and not in the best of health.
So after getting several things prepped for my kids for the next few days in case I was in the hospital, I went to my husband and told him I needed to go to the ER. I didn't think it was anything serious, but felt like it needed to be checked out. He blinked a couple times, he'd been napping, and tried to process what I was telling him. A few minutes later we headed out, telling the kids (ages 14-22) that we were running errands (yeah, we got in trouble with them for that later).
The ER was slow that day so I felt a bit too well attended. (One of the reasons I didn't want to go to the ER is because I hate being the center of attention.) As they questioned me and took my vitals, my husband checked me in. My heart rate was 115 (usually in the 70s) and my blood pressure was 158/80 (usually about 110/60). The blood pressure number scared me. It's never even been close to that.
They get me back to a room. Lots of people in and out asking questions. Me feeling stupid, knowing it's going to turn out to be nothing.
They draw blood and start an IV (in my hand because they couldn't get the vein in my arm). They put on a blood pressure cuff that runs automatically every so often. They do an EKG. They take a chest x-ray. They think it's an anxiety attack (especially after noticing that I'm on anti-anxiety meds and seeing the scars on my arms). They ask if I've been diagnosed with anxiety. I haven't, but I have been diagnosed with PTSD, which I tell them.
But just in case, they give me four baby aspirin to chew and some nitroglycerin under my tongue. Shortly thereafter I feel like my head is going to explode (a side effect of the nitro) and I'm going to throw up (possibly also a side effect of the nitro). They give me something in my IV for the nausea. By this point my heart rate had calmed down to a nice 76ish range and my blood pressure was back down to the 110/60 range. The labs and x-ray are back and they look good. They are getting ready to send me home.
And then I get cold and start shaking. Bad. One blanket. Then my coat over me. Then another blanket. Then my husband's coat. I'm still shaking uncontrollably. Soon I'm roasting but still shaking. We start peeling the coats and blankets off. The shaking won't stop. The nurse checks in. My husband points out that I'm shaking. I tell the nurse I'm not cold but can't stop shaking. My heart rate has gone back up to the 112 range and my blood pressure is back up. He says, "Hm" and goes to talk to the doctor. I've now been shaking uncontrollably for about twenty minutes for no discernible reason (my muscles are hurting from all the shaking). The nurse comes in and gives me a shot of Ativan through my IV (it's like Valium). He waits a minute. Still shaking. He gives me another. Still shaking. He goes to talk to the doctor again. About ten minutes later they come back, find me still shaking, and give me two more shots of Ativan (4 mgs. total now). Boy, am I getting sleepy at this point. Finally the shaking stops.
All the test results are good. My heart rate and blood pressure are back down. So it's time to send me home (although it's tough to walk now after all that Ativan). The doctor still thinks it's anxiety. Just in case, he sends me home with a prescription for Prilosec (in case it's acid reflux), an order for a stress test, and instructions to take an aspirin every day.
The PTSD got better after my extra-long therapy session. Everything went well at my physical. I did the stress test yesterday (the EKG looked good, but a cardiologist has to look at it and the images they took of the blood flow in my heart before we really know anything).
And my chest still hurts. I should be relieved that they didn't find anything wrong with my heart. I guess I am a bit. But mostly I am frustrated and depressed. I see all these expensive tests and still no answers or relief. One more thing that hurts with no explanation. Like I needed another one of those.
It's safe to say that I've been in a period of high stress these last too weeks, primarily driven by a PTSD episode triggered by a book club discussion I shouldn't have attended. Two weeks of fear, sobbing, pain, a desire to hide, a desire to hurt myself, an inability to care about or even notice obligations and people around me. Walking through life like an automaton. Going through the motions but often not being fully present. Desperately waiting for my appointment with my therapist.
About a week into this, my chest started hurting. Not terribly. Not sharply. But it hurt. Being the pain foolish person I can sometimes be, I ignored it as best I could. It didn't seem bad. I didn't have time for this. I was sure it was nothing. But it was kind of always there. Sometimes worse, sometimes better.
Until last Saturday. The day started out well. No big plans. It was a relaxing day and my stress levels were pretty good. I knew I would be seeing my therapist Monday; that was a relief. My annual physical was also scheduled for Monday so I'd talk to the doctor about the chest pains then.
But no. My body decided otherwise. By the afternoon my chest was hurting so badly I could hardly do anything. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't write. I looked up the symptoms of a heart attack and found several that kind of fit. Plus, there's that whole scare factor of knowing my cousin had a major heart attack a couple years ago at age 55. I'm 43 and not in the best of health.
So after getting several things prepped for my kids for the next few days in case I was in the hospital, I went to my husband and told him I needed to go to the ER. I didn't think it was anything serious, but felt like it needed to be checked out. He blinked a couple times, he'd been napping, and tried to process what I was telling him. A few minutes later we headed out, telling the kids (ages 14-22) that we were running errands (yeah, we got in trouble with them for that later).
The ER was slow that day so I felt a bit too well attended. (One of the reasons I didn't want to go to the ER is because I hate being the center of attention.) As they questioned me and took my vitals, my husband checked me in. My heart rate was 115 (usually in the 70s) and my blood pressure was 158/80 (usually about 110/60). The blood pressure number scared me. It's never even been close to that.
They get me back to a room. Lots of people in and out asking questions. Me feeling stupid, knowing it's going to turn out to be nothing.
They draw blood and start an IV (in my hand because they couldn't get the vein in my arm). They put on a blood pressure cuff that runs automatically every so often. They do an EKG. They take a chest x-ray. They think it's an anxiety attack (especially after noticing that I'm on anti-anxiety meds and seeing the scars on my arms). They ask if I've been diagnosed with anxiety. I haven't, but I have been diagnosed with PTSD, which I tell them.
But just in case, they give me four baby aspirin to chew and some nitroglycerin under my tongue. Shortly thereafter I feel like my head is going to explode (a side effect of the nitro) and I'm going to throw up (possibly also a side effect of the nitro). They give me something in my IV for the nausea. By this point my heart rate had calmed down to a nice 76ish range and my blood pressure was back down to the 110/60 range. The labs and x-ray are back and they look good. They are getting ready to send me home.
And then I get cold and start shaking. Bad. One blanket. Then my coat over me. Then another blanket. Then my husband's coat. I'm still shaking uncontrollably. Soon I'm roasting but still shaking. We start peeling the coats and blankets off. The shaking won't stop. The nurse checks in. My husband points out that I'm shaking. I tell the nurse I'm not cold but can't stop shaking. My heart rate has gone back up to the 112 range and my blood pressure is back up. He says, "Hm" and goes to talk to the doctor. I've now been shaking uncontrollably for about twenty minutes for no discernible reason (my muscles are hurting from all the shaking). The nurse comes in and gives me a shot of Ativan through my IV (it's like Valium). He waits a minute. Still shaking. He gives me another. Still shaking. He goes to talk to the doctor again. About ten minutes later they come back, find me still shaking, and give me two more shots of Ativan (4 mgs. total now). Boy, am I getting sleepy at this point. Finally the shaking stops.
All the test results are good. My heart rate and blood pressure are back down. So it's time to send me home (although it's tough to walk now after all that Ativan). The doctor still thinks it's anxiety. Just in case, he sends me home with a prescription for Prilosec (in case it's acid reflux), an order for a stress test, and instructions to take an aspirin every day.
The PTSD got better after my extra-long therapy session. Everything went well at my physical. I did the stress test yesterday (the EKG looked good, but a cardiologist has to look at it and the images they took of the blood flow in my heart before we really know anything).
And my chest still hurts. I should be relieved that they didn't find anything wrong with my heart. I guess I am a bit. But mostly I am frustrated and depressed. I see all these expensive tests and still no answers or relief. One more thing that hurts with no explanation. Like I needed another one of those.
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