10:13 p.m. - 07/06/03
hakuna matata.
Must write entry. Must write entry. I can't tell you how many nights I've thought about writing and then ended up in bed without having done so. I can't tell you, but you can probably guess: it's almost as many nights as I've gone without writing. Imagine - me, not writing. I know I do this occasionally, but it still feels bizarre to me, and I know you all start to worry, so here I am, to quiet the bizarreness and calm any concerns. I've had the week from hell, but I do believe I'm still in tact. Surprisingly.
I have no idea what any of you have been writing in your journals (because I've been isolating entirely, not just avoiding my diary) - so if it seems like I've been unkindly silent during a rough time or something, know that I'm just behind. Out of the loop. I'm trying not to feel like a bad friend for that. For all the unreturned e-mails, phone calls, and so forth. I swear, if I could get to a point where it didn't take so much effort to look after myself...But that seems to be tapering down a bit again.
I really have only the slightest idea why this happened. "This" meaning a really horrible week. Horrible meaning sky-high anxiety (so bad that my oh-so-rare hyper-hygenic OCD sparked up), depression, desperation, urges to self-harm, shame, and spending most of my days asleep avoiding the world. I think Tuesday was more than a bit triggering. I'd already been thinking somewhat about my kidhood, and then I went out Tuesday, and I must have tripped some switch. Whether it was the height of my anxiety while I was out, talking with a cousin the approximate age I'm remembering myself in, or something about my grandma's frailty I really can't say. I wish I knew. All I do know is that by Wednesday, I had come down with this really horrible flu on top of these really horrible symptoms, and I no longer felt up to any task. Then, to add to the frightfest, I felt relieved. That's a pattern of my school days: I feel horrible, I feel sick, I feel relieved, I feel horrible for feeling relieved. The relief comes when I realize that I have an "out" when it comes to something I really didn't want to do (school, party, or in this case, visit to my dad's), and the guilt comes when I start to think that I'm faking the sickness to gain the out. (This is a big part of how my "you're only really sick if there's no pay-off" logic became embedded.)
By Wednesday night, I'd been ravaged by both flu and anxiety, and I begged my mom - who had tried to move my doctor's appointment to the weekend (no such luck, what with the holiday) - to simply cancel it instead. She suggested we wait to see how I felt in the morning, the earlier plan, and I begged again. I just wanted to sleep, I said. I didn't want to have to think or decide or wonder whether I felt well enough to go. I just wanted to sleep, so could she call them? And would she call Dad or did I need to?
I ended up cancelling the visit to my dad's through my mom. I've been trying to remedy it, but I don't think it's possible to remedy much with the papa-man at this point. Godd, what I wouldn't give to have him back in therapy...
Obviously, avoiding what frightened me, and acting somewhat similarily to how I did consistently as a kid, left me feeling pretty rotten. It wasn't helped by the constant barrage I could only partly shield myself from ... or the fact that physically, I still felt far too much like Ron the time he was coughing up slugs (nope, not done with the Harry Potter references, not even close...) I did my best to keep myself reminded that remembering, and even lapsing into, old behavior does not make it the present reality. I am not ten anymore. What I can't figure out is what would be so bad about that. I was horrifyingly ashamed of myself, but if that's the fear so present in this moment, why on earth did it come up? I talked a few entries back about needing to keep my anger from turning inward, but I've done well with that. The beatings I couldn't fully stop this week were not anger turned inward; they were symptomatic of shame. Why shame? It makes sense that it escalated as I began to act in keeping with it (hiding out, not making my own phone calls, not acting like a person of value) but why did it come up in the first place? Tuesday? Rogers? The last appointment with the doc?
I haven't the slightest idea. In the meantime - while I attempt to figure that out and put myself more firmly back on track - I am helping to dogsit my brother's most adorable pup. She's a total sweetie (when she's not trying to eat my arms or knock me over) - and at least since the second day (first day was the high OCD and she ran out into the street while a van was coming - and while I was watching her - visions of ...non-sugarplums... stomped through my head) she's been extremely good for me. I have contact with a living being (woot!), I'm not terribly allergic to her (how is that possible? I'm allergic to everything?), and she's getting me outside and walking. The only problem is that it's July and being outside (and walking) is a bit treacherous. I've done ok, playing with her mostly at night and taking breaks when I need to... It's cooler in the middle of nowhere then it is in town, where there's so much asphalt to suck in the heat. We went out today (my mom and I - that's two days in a row I went out) and I had a scary fifteen minutes or so where my blood pressure (and possibly sugar) plummeted. I got really pale and felt like I was going to faint. Air and food revived me fairly well, though, which was another point drilled home: I am not where I was. I used to feel like I did during that short, terrifying period pretty much all day, everyday. It's a very, very good thing to no longer hold sickness as the norm.
Now, I just want health. For myself and a few other choice folk. (Or everyone. That'd work.)
chord
p.s. Britt's coming to visit! whee!
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