death

Evening Reflection 013: Facing My Mirror

Standard

The past two months, maybe longer, have been a continuous disaster of my own making. I am left lost and confused with my identity in shambles. While there has not been a death in my family, like the loss of identity I felt when mom died, there has been an internal death. The death of myself as I knew me; of what I thought I was, who I thought I was. 

It’s a complicated topic. One I have been avoiding. Writing is my mirror and I haven’t been willing or able to face myself. I don’t know if I’m any more ready to do it now, in this moment, but I feel strong enough to make it to the outcome regardless of what it may be. 

I can face my painful truths and acknowledge my actions. I can face the death of my identity and begin the work of finding who I am in the aftermath. 

This writing is that start. 

To begin… what did I do that was so bad it killed who I thought I was?

I cheated on Ox. 

There is so much context removed from that statement. So much I want to say, not to justify, but to try to explain. To try to beg understanding from not just the outside world, but from myself that I’m not the type of awful person that word is typically associated with. 

Discontinuation symptoms were still going on. Ox and I bearly had a relationship at the point all of this happened. I had spent 3.5 years asking, begging, crying to be heard; to be understood. “I feel like the video game is more important to you.” “What makes our relationship significant?” “How are we any different from roommates?”

All of these things… all of these interactions and questions and attempts to express that I wasn’t ok… seemingly brushed aside or invalidated. 

None of my failed attempts at communication nor the true or perceived dismissals of my emotions justifies hurting someone I did and still do, care deeply about. I tried to not say anything about my actions, knowing that if I were honest about what happened that the life I had been trying to piece together, hold together, would fall apart. 

I couldn’t keep it a secret though. I couldn’t keep talking to Ox on the phone, or the few times we would see each other, and not admit to what I had done. My silence was making me sick. I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t sleeping. I was hating myself more and more. And so yeah… I told the truth. Late, but at least in the end, I owned my actions. I hold onto that. It wasn’t found out through snooping on my phone or hacking my email. I faced the consequences of my actions, and I hold on to that because it feels like one of the only things I have to hold on to. 

That moment, my honesty, was the start of true hell. Ox said, texted, and wrote through email several hurtful things. None of it I blame him for. All of his feelings were justified. All of his responses understandable. The question of how could I? Did the four years we were together mean anything? “Fuck you”. “I hope I never see you again”. 

Eventually, he released me. If you’re into BDSM you may or may not understand the level of hurt that can feel like. While we did not have a very strong D/s dynamic or a true BDSM relationship, it was the knowledge he released me from everything. The loss of our friendship, being released from the whole of his life… more than any other comment or phrase thrown at me… that one word, the knowledge of what it meant, hurt the most. 

For nearly a month, Ox and I didn’t talk. We separated finances. There were only a few things that needed to be resolved at later dates. As the time frame for those things drew closer, I reached out through email to see if I needed to continue covering some of the financial aspects.

That led to more open, receptive, and less emotionally reactive communication. Ox and I ended up seeing each other to talk about both sides; yes, even my side. 

These conversations were hard. I felt, and still feel like my emotions don’t matter. I’m the one who caused all of this hurt and devastation. I do not deserve compassion, empathy, understanding, or love. 

I deserve to be alone, lost, and crushed under the weight of not only failing my most supportive partner but of failing myself as well. 

Ox opened up to me during those conversations. He explained what the past 3.5 years had felt like and been for him. How he felt like he always had to be strong for me and hold me up. I never wanted to be held up. I wanted to be held close, and I told him that. 

I told him I didn’t know he sometimes cried when I wasn’t at the house. I didn’t know he felt like he couldn’t share his feelings with me because of all the crap I endlessly have going on in my life. I wanted to know how he felt. I needed that emotional intimacy with him and the lack of it was part of why I felt we had no connection. 

We have talked through so many things in the weeks following that initial email asking about car insurance. 

We are together again. The other night we agreed we are still engaged. 

We are working to figure out how we both fell short of each other and to work to make version 2.0 better for both of us. 

I don’t feel like I deserve this chance. I don’t feel like I deserve Ox’s love. I feel unworthy and that is what is currently holding both of us back. So… here I am… writing as a way to figure myself out. 

I don’t know who I am. I broke all of my values and morals. I’m a liar. I’m a cheater. I am honorless. I am unworthy. 

That’s how I feel. I am less than dirt even though I know I’m not. 

So… since I didn’t know how to find my way back to myself, I went to the internet to see if there was anything for “finding yourself” or “identity crisis worksheets”. I didn’t really find anything I connected with until I found some writing prompts for “Who am I?”

I read through them briefly. I may not like all of them, I didn’t read all of them, but I do feel they will help me start to find my way back to myself. So… this is my first writing in this attempt. There are 31 prompts on the page I found. We’ll see how many of them I completed. 

Prompt 1-31: Who’s your biggest critic? Who do they say you are? Why?

I am my biggest critic. No one, ever, will be able to hurt me worse, emotionally, or mentally, than myself; the only possible exception being Ox when he said he never wanted to see me again, or when he admitted to telling his mom, “Fuck that bitch.”

I say I am worthless. I say I am a failure for this transgression. I say that there is no recovery for my character. My morals are broken and will remain so forever and there is no hope of me ever being to undo the damage I have caused. 

I say all of these horrible, awful things inside my head. I say them when I’m alone. I say them in between my calls at work so I cry in between helping people fix their financial lives. I say them as I cry myself to sleep. I say them while thinking of all of the things I could do to my physical body to make the pain I feel inside slightly easier to live with. 

I don’t want to hate myself, but it’s really hard not to. And there’s no support or anything online that I can find for the cheater because our emotions don’t matter. The emotions and feelings leading to the event don’t matter. The anguish after doesn’t matter. No one cares about my struggle. No one wants to hear it. So I’m left alone to figure it out, but alone I am left with my own demons; my own “Crazy Lady in the Attic” who is more than glad to point out how awful I am. 

So how do I not hate myself? 

I told my therapist everything. 

Her first comments were, “There is no judgment. This is a safe space.”

I broke down. I cried, legit cried, for the first time. I felt wounded and broken and insignificant. 

“The first thing you need to do is forgive yourself.”

How? How can I forgive myself? 

Ox has said he forgives me, but how can he? How? How can anyone do that, even though I myself have forgiven previous partners for maliciously going out of their way to sleep with other people simply because they knew it would hurt me when they later would corner me in whatever room were we in and tell me how [insret name] was better than me? 

I have forgiven other people so much, but how am I supposed to do the same for myself? 

My therapist is primarily a Christian counselor. She respects my faith and she understands that I am not offended with she brings scripture into our sessions. I am able to view and hear the word “God” and apply it to my own life as “universe” or whatever term I feel suitable to use.

In our most recent session, she mentioned how we are supposed to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. 

Love your neighbor as you love yourself is conversely love yourself as you love your neighbor. It reminds me of all the times I have had to step back from a situation, almost look at myself as another person, and ask myself, if someone told me my own story, how would I react? 

Would I tell any of my friends that they were horrible people unworthy of love or compassion if they came to me in tears, questioning who they were as a person? 

No.

Did they mess up? Fuck yes. But that doesn’t mean at their core they are a bad person. 

We all mess up. Sometimes it’s a royal A+, top-notch type of fuck up. That doesn’t mean everything good in their past is erased or irrelevant. It doesn’t mean they are incapable of future good things. It doesn’t mean they are unable to learn and grow and move forward. 

So why? Why do I say these horrible things to myself? Why do I deny myself forgiveness when it has been freely given by the person who was hurt the most in this situation? 

Because I failed myself. I think that is my answer. 

In hindsight, how did I let myself get to that point? It’s not that I didn’t think anything bad would happen. It’s that I didn’t care. I felt so worthless and hopeless in my relationship, that I didn’t care if my actions messed up the relationship or hurt Ox. I was so incredibly tired of hurting and feeling alone and feeling unheard when I did try to talk about not being ok and I finally didn’t care. I didn’t want to hurt anymore. I just… didn’t want to hurt. 

I look back at the events leading up to my cheating and I see how I could have handled things differently. I could have tried to talk to Ox more. I could have said, “I want to break up”. I could have said I was talking to someone. 

The guy I was talking to knew about Ox. He knew I was in a closed relationship and “all I could offer was friendship”. He knew all of these things about me, and yet, when we met… it didn’t stay just friends and in the moment I didn’t care. 

It sucks knowing that I am capable of such apathy, which for me, is the opposite of empathy. I normally care so deeply about others and connectedness and harmony. And at this moment in time, I didn’t. I didn’t care about anything other than not hurting. 

How do I forgive myself for that? 

That is what I am struggling with. 

I know that I am human. I know I am not perfect even though some people view me that way. I know that I am not enlightened. 

I am not a good nor a bad person. I am human. 

I am. I exist. I live and struggle and succeed and fuck up. 

As I started in my About Me page. This isn’t a highlight blog. This is my life and sometimes I completely and totally fuck shit up. 

This is one of those moments. I don’t know how to move forward from here. I don’t know who I am in the shattered pieces of who I was. 

I do know that I am my mother’s daughter and I’ll figure it out. 

I know that I am human and I will figure it out. 

I know that Ox and I do truly and deeply love and care for each other and WE will figure it out. 

We’re working on version 2.0 of our relationship. We’re identifying the issues we had and actively working on fixing them, on both sides, together. 

There’s so much more I’m sure I need to type about, but I’m trying to take this one step at a time rather than focusing on trying to fix all of it all at once because that’s not how it’s going to be able to work. This is one problem that is going to need time more than anything to heal and grow past. A lot of it is going to be inner work on my part. Self-awareness of myself. Ox has things of his own to work on, too. We both are committed to communicating better so both of us feel loved, cared for, and valued. 

One step, hopefully, one prompt at a time, I’ll be able to find solid ground and be able to work towards self-forgiveness and self-acceptance. 

I am capable of awful things, but I’m capable of amazingly awesome things too. 

Universe, please guide me to the lessons I’m supposed to learn through the hardship I have put myself in. Please help me find meaning in the pain. Help show me the truth in who I am. Please help me learn to love myself as I am and not the broken ideal I had in my head. 

Mom, please don’t hate me. Please still let me be your daughter even though I fucked up. Please be disappointed in my actions instead of being disappointed in me as a person. Please still love me. Please believe in me like you used to so I can believe in myself and my ability to figure it out. I love you. Forever and for always, no matter what. 

Evening Reflection 006: 4 Years Later

Standard

Daily Summary:
Another day on the “not so awesome” side of the scale. Not having sinus meds sucks. Nothing is wrong, just stuffy and feeling like crap. Woke up Wrote. Cross-stitched. Went back to sleep. Woke up. Felt like crap. Went back to sleep. Woke up. Felt better. Stayed up for a bit… You get the picture. 

Been watching Centarworld. Not going to lie. It grew on me. Most likely going to finish watching it tonight.

Since I’ve felt crappy most of the day, I haven’t eaten much. An apple, some crackers with cheese… Didn’t put my cross-stitch stuff away. 

Let’s just call today a wash and try again tomorrow.  

Random Ramblings
Tomorrow is 4 years with Ox. It’s crazy to think about what the past 4, or even 5 years have been. 

Mom died. I quit my job as a teacher. I took cna, ekg, and phlebotomy courses. I became a dialysis technician. I began registering for nursing school in Florida. Ox and I met via online gaming. I withdrew from school so I could move instead. Scarlet died. I moved halfway across the country. I started work at a new clinic and began my relationship in earnest with Ox. I got my own apartment. Dagger, Saber, and I found each other. I was told Saber might have feline leukemia. Spent weeks trying to get her to eat and gain weight. Found out she was healthy and I didn’t have to worry. I started nursing school part-time in Nebraska. I was diagnosed with cancer. I withdrew from school after completing my first semester. I had surgery. Covid started. Dagger swallowed a needle and had emergency surgery himself. I helped John move to Nebraska. I moved in with John. I went back to school full time. I became suicidal. I withdrew after completing my second semester. I went back to school part-time during the summer. Work went to hell. I pulled out of school… again. John moved out to live with his partner. I turned in my two-week notice at work. I was convinced to stay. Things started sucking more. I legit gave my notice. I started a new job. I survived training and have been doing well at work. 

None of that is light, airy, easy stuff. 

When I think back about all of the major events… those are all really heavy things. For that to be the past five years of my life… that’s a lot. That’s not including losing patients at work. That’s not emotional/relational drama. There’s also the leadership program I took thought work; the longest and biggest achievement I had obtained since mom’s death. There were the kidney stones, 3 of which were ER visits. Two bouts of bronchitis. With one stone I became borderline septic, resulting in being admitted to the hospital overnight. There’s remodeling the bedroom with Ox…

There are tons of other things I could add to that paragraph, but that paragraph alone makes my heartache. All of those times I gave myself shit for being tired, sad or overwhelmed. 

I’m proud of where I have gotten in relation to where I was in Orlando. 

I’m proud of Ox and I for working through our hard times. And I will always be grateful for his love and support through all of the shit that has been the past four years of my life. 

Daily Post 003: Puzzle Memories

Standard

Hello Universe,

I should have known that eventually, I would be back here talking to you and wishing you would give me insight. 

Today has been a good day and yet I am sad. I miss mom. I started working on a puzzle I got for myself; a birthday present. And now I am sad. I miss the times mom and I worked on puzzles together. I miss her getting excited when she got a piece. I miss HER. All of her. The her that can’t be put into words. 

I wish I knew what I was supposed to learn from the pain. I wish I understood.

But I don’t. I’ve had a fairly productive day and I enjoyed my time working on the puzzle and yet I hurt and want to cry. 

I wish you could talk to me. I wish… I don’t know… that I didn’t feel like a failure every time I want to cry over things people think are silly. I wish society was better about embracing emotions rather than forcing people to be happy all the time. 

I wish you were here, Mom. I think you would like this puzzle. It’s pretty. It has lots of weird-shaped pieces so it would be easier for you to find matches. I miss the hours we would spend together listening to music and talking about nothing while we put tiny pieces of colored cardboard together. I love you so much. I’ll get through tonight, but I feel like it’s going to be a hard night and I hope that’s still ok. 

I’ll try to write a more cheerful post tomorrow. 

I love you, Mom. Forever and for always.

Daily Post 010: Holiday Rage

Standard

There is a lot of emotion in this post.
A lot of cursing and raw, unadulterated typing.
I’m not sorry because fuck holidays.

Dearest Universe,

Once again I am here; fucking lost and frustrated internally. I feel like there’s sandpaper on the inside of my skin trying to rub its way out, but it can’t get out because it’s not real, not physical and so I’m left with irritation, borderline rage that I have this sensation with no way to release it.

I’m hoping writing helps. I’m hoping by letting my fingers move over the keyboard, dancing the feelings away that I might find some measure of peace for the restlessness that has been my life for the past month or so; ever building, seldom ceasing. 

I quit my job. I think I wrote about that. I finally chose myself over bleeding out for a company that continuously disregarded my struggles and cries, pleas, for help. 

“Increase your anti-depressant.”

“Fake it until you make it.”

Fuck you guys. I have survived too much in my life to be told “fake it until you make it” when I come to you in tears. When I say I have anxiety and panic attacks when I feel hollow and empty when I have nothing left to give when I feel unsupported when I see my teammates and patients suffering… DO NOT tell me to increase my anti-depressant. 

I didn’t need anti-depressants when my mom died. I shouldn’t be told to take them to cope with work and a lack of life balance. 

Instead of taking their advice, I changed my life, because fuck being miserable. 

And yes, this post is most likely going to have a lot of cursing in it as tears run down my face. Tears of anger and hurt, of lostness and grief, sadness and frustration.

I DIDN’T WANT TO LEAVE MY JOB! I DIDN’T WANT TO LEAVE MY PATIENTS! I DIDN’T WANT TO LEAVE MY TEAMMATES AND “MY” CLINIC!

I DIDN’T WANT TO LEAVE!

That’s what I scream inside of my head, but when given the choice between my life and a fucking paycheck, the paycheck isn’t going to win. There is too much else I am capable of doing. Too many other skills that I already have and can learn; be taught. 

Fuck being miserable, and fuck your advice that I need medication to cope.

What I need is an employer that values me as a human rather than as a cog that’s only useful and valued when it’s performing. As soon as it needs any sort of maintenance then all of a sudden it’s an inconvenience. As if working 12-hour shifts five days in a row is realistically maintainable. As if constantly coping with death is doable without time to mourn or even vaguely process the loss of people you have known for years. 

It is been a little over a month since I left. 

I am still in training with my new job but the reduction in stress is ridiculous. I didn’t realize how dead inside I had been until about a week ago. Each day gets a little better. I have ups and downs still. Especially with it being the holidays, but workwise I do not regret leaving. I’m angry that I had to make that choice. I’m angry that I enabled such an atrocious business model for so long but I do not regret honoring myself. I do not regret being loyal to myself and taking care of my own wellbeing when for so long it was clear that the company wasn’t going to help me live or be ok. 

I have formed close connections with my trainers and fellow classmates. I’m doing well in training. I’m already looking at cross-training for other areas. Work is easy. Learning and retaining information is easy. I took a pretty steep pay cut, but I don’t care about it. A pay cut gave me my life back. A pay cut gave me better benefits. A pay cut wasn’t really a pay cut because had I not tried to quit once before, I still would have been making less than my brother as a new hire. 

Fuck your company. Fuck its disregard for human limitations and lack of empathy or compassion or even trying to understand what it was like working the floor. 

Anyway, I don’t really want to write about work anymore. I like my new job. I “graduated” phase one of training this past Thursday. I cried. It was silly and cheesy and mom would have been proud. She would have been happy for me and it helped me realize that I can be and will be ok in my choice. 

All of the thoughts of “did I make the right choice?” “Am I a failure at life?” “Would mom be proud of me?” All of those thoughts eating way at me could finally rest; stop. The worry and fear could finally stop eating away at me because of this one act of kindness from my trainers, and I wrote them an email explaining why such a silly seemingly trivial thing meant so much to me. 

Teachers, trainers, touch lives in amazing and unknown ways and I wanted them to know how they touched mine so I told them. They both were appreciative of my words and I’m grateful they were. They deserve to know they are valued and seen. 

The holidays have sucked. No surprise there. They haven’t sucked as much as in previous years. Maybe that’s part of the sandpaper feeling. I don’t know. 

I didn’t do anything for my birthday. I worked. No one remembered in my class which I was ok with. I stayed at the apartment and ate a pizza I cooked in the oven. I responded to messages until I couldn’t anymore and then I gave myself permission to stop looking at my phone; to stop poking at a wound that was already bleeding invisible blood. 

I let myself go to sleep. I lay with my pain and grief and in the morning I woke up more ok. I didn’t have to push myself to endure a birthday party. I didn’t have to smile when all I wanted was to break down and cry. I gave myself the gift of space and acceptance and that seemed to help this year. I did birthday stuff later; on “not my birthday” and that made it more ok. 

Maybe that’s how I will handle my birthdays from now on. The day before or after is ok, but my actual birthday is MY day to do what I want rather than people-pleasing or feeling pressured to be something other than what I am. 

Maybe in the future, it will change. Maybe I’ll look forward to parties and celebrations and whatnot in the years to come, but for now, reclaiming that one day as “my” day, helped get rid of all of the pressure and guilt, and shame that I have felt in the past years since mom died, and since I felt better, coped better, I feel like it’s something to keep in mind.

Life is different than what it was, what I thought it would be. I’m allowed to do things differently than I have in the past. I’m allowed to create new traditions and to try new or different things until I find what works; what I’m ok with. 

I was ok with this year for the most part. Ox was ok with it. My brothers and dad were ok with it. I survived and in the morning, after sleeping I was actually better than I thought I would be. I didn’t have depression lingering over me. Life didn’t feel pointless. I didn’t dread the thought of training. I worked out. I ate breakfast. I did all of these things I was fearful of not being able to do because “birthday blues” usually last more than one day. 

But they didn’t this year and I’m grateful for that. I feel like that’s improvement and I would rather focus on the positives I gained rather than having hyper-focus on the singular thought of “but you were still sad”. 

Yeah, I was fucking sad. My mom is dead. I’m always to some degree sad. But I’m especially sad when the one thing I knew I could look forward to, the one day I knew no matter what that she would call, is silent now. I won’t get my one phone call. 

The only thing I want, deeper than anything else in life, I can’t have, so yeah. I’m fucking sad and it’s my party and I will cry even if I don’t want to because that is what I need to do to be ok. 

I want to go out to a field and just scream FUCK right now. FUCK! FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!

My older brother and sister-in-law tested positive for covid. Because, you know, it’s not enough to contend with the loss of the most important person in my life. I have to also deal with the fear of losing the one person who was my rock while mom was in the hospital.

“Do you need anything?”

I can remember that question so clearly. It was the first night at the house. I had been in Vegas for less than 12 hours. The bank had canceled both my debit and credit card because I didn’t list them as “traveling” when I booked my flight. Funny how stupid shit like that slips your mind when your parent is dying. 

I was standing at the kitchen counter. Jason was across from me. 

“Do you need anything?”

“Please don’t die.”

That was most likely the most selfish and unrealistic thing to ask for, but it was the only thing I wanted, needed, in that moment. I could handle mom being in the hospital as long as he was there to help me get through it. As long as he was ok and I didn’t have to worry about losing anyone else I could hold my shit together. 

And then I find out he has covid. 

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK! FUCK YOU UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING THAT YOU CONSIST OF YOU MOTHER FUCKING SON OF A WHORE!

It’s no different than when I found out I had cancer before Thanksgiving. No different than fucking up a holiday with Life’s bullshit. 

I survived my birthday only to prepare for the onslaught of Christmas a mear four days later and I find out that my brother isn’t ok.

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?! WHEN WILL IT BE ENOUGH? WHEN WILL YOU STOP TESTING ME, PUSHING ME? WHEN AM I ALLOWED TO NOT BE STRONG? WHEN AM I ALLOWED TO BE TIRED AND SCARED? WHEN AM I ALLOWED TO BE SAFE? AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! THERE AREN’T ENOUGH FUCKS TO FUCKING FUCK THIS FUCKING SITUATION! FUCK!

And I write all of that knowing that my sister-in-law didn’t really hit my radar. It would have sucked, and I would have been sad, but it wouldn’t have been the devastating, earth-shattering, disaster when compared to my brother and I know that most likely makes me a terrible human on some level, but fuck it. It’s the truth. If I had to pick someone to die and someone to live, it would be my brother and I’ll carry that truth with me like all the other scars I wear. 

It’s been a few days since I found out about their diagnosis. They’re both doing ok, which helps ease the fear and uncertainty. It helps something inside me, the four-year-old who cries for mom. I can’t have mom but at least I can have my brother. I know at some point the universe will take him away from me, but for now, it hasn’t and I cling to that with every ounce of my unstable mental and emotional strength because fuck holidays. 

I made it through yesterday. I’ve been coloring a lot more recently. It helps. It gives my eyes and hands something to do with I try to trace thoughts and feelings through my head, trying to make sense of them, trying to hear my inner self and understand what I need. 

It’s how I made it through most of yesterday. Watching gorey anime, cuddling with the cats, and coloring. 

Today we get the kids and will be opening presents and doing all of the actual Christmas stuff. I keep swinging back and forth between being ok and not ok today and I’m so fucking tired of it. 

I’M TRIED! I’M SO FUCKING TIRED YOU SON OF A BITCH AND YET YOU KEEP FUCKING WITH ME! GODDAMIT UNIVERSE! WHY CAN’T YOU LEAVE ME BE! WHY CAN’T I BE NORMAL FOR ONE FUCKING DAY? WHY CAN’T I HAVE A CHRISTMAS WITH THE KIDS AND NOT BE AN EMOTIONAL WRECK? WHY DO I HAVE TO DRAG OX THROUGH THIS, OR JOHN? WHY DO I ALWAYS HAVE TO CRY? WHAT’S SO UNREALISTIC ABOUT BEING ABLE TO BE HAPPY?

Typing out the frustration helps. I know they’re irrational, emotional thoughts. Typing them gets them out of my head. Gives them their time. Makes the sandpaper less abrasive as if screaming through my fingers wears the paper down, grinding away the coarseness. 

There’s been a lot of death that I haven’t written about. My sister-in-laws-dad died. One of my mentors from Full Sail died. Several patients I deeply cared about have died. I haven’t written to them like I normally do to express my grief and now it’s been so long that part of me feels like my words won’t reach them even though I know that’s not true.

There’s so much that I haven’t written though, expressed, just kept inside.

I started a cessation program with work and have cut back significantly on smoking. 

There’s all of this stuff going on in my life and none of it is inherently bad. It’s just… stuff… with emotions, but there are so many of them all at once that internally I’m getting overwhelmed, drowning in the onslaught of waves with refuse to give me reprieve. 

The kids will be here soon. They, too, were exposed to covid. I’m going to have Christmas with them even though I’m unvaccinated. I know people are going to read that and think I’m dumb. Dumb for not distancing myself. Dumb for not getting a vaccine. Dumb for being dumb. 

I’M GOING TO FUCKING DIE AT SOME POINT. LET ME HAVE ONE CHRISTMAS!

Just one Christmas… one where I see lil’ ox open up a palette of makeup for the first time and do something girly with her. One Christmas where I can be fully present emotionally with Ox’s family. Just one where I can appreciate being part of a family that has taken me in as their own daughter, flaws and fucked up emotional issues and all. A family where I have never been judged and always loved. 

I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired of hurting. If I’m going to eventually die then I want to have lived first. 

This isn’t a suicide letter. This isn’t goodbye. I’m done fucking being afraid. I’m done walking on eggshells. I’m done fucking crying. 

Fuck you Universe. I’ve given you more tears than you deserve. I’ve given you more than I ever wanted to. I’ve been stronger and survived more than I ever had a right to. So yes. Fuck you. 

Happy fucking holidays you insensitive, unfeeling bastard. I hate you so much right now. I hate you for everything you have taken from me and everything you keep fucking with. I HATE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH RIGHT NOW AND I DON’T CARE HOW INSIGNIFICANT MY RAGE IS. I DON’T CARE THAT I SOUND LIKE A CHILD. I’M HUMAN! I’M EMOTIONAL AND IRRATIONAL AND ILLOGICAL AND I DON’T FUCKING CARE BECAUSE THIS IS WHERE YOU PUSHED ME TO THIS YEAR. 

So yeah, happy fucking holidays you son of a whore.

Sincerely from a rage-filled dragon who doesn’t give a fuck. 

Daily Post 009: Therapy Journal and Dreams

Standard

I didn’t write yesterday, but I did journal in my new “Therapy Journal”.

I’ve been going to therapy for a while now. Not sure if I wrote about that since I’ve been writing so infrequently. I greatly enjoy my therapist. She is supportive and accepting of a lot of my mentalities. I was nervous at first because she is a faith-based counselor and since I’m a follower of Freya… yeah… the chances of there being friction were pretty high; at least inside my head.

We’ve been able to talk about faith, spirituality, sexuality, grief, fear, tiredness, medications… just… everything. Anything. And when there is a difference or something new for either of us, we’re able to talk through it and find understanding with each other. It’s beautiful. It’s safe. It lets me be me and that’s what helps to find peace and acceptance with my emotions.

Well, one thing we tried in a previous session was me doodling and writing on a whiteboard. Since I’m a kinetic, visual person, and because writing is already something that I know helps figure out or clarify my thoughts, we gave it a shot. At it was amazing. It was one of the best sessions I can remember having, and that’s saying a lot for how many sessions I have had over the course of my life.

Her dry erase markers don’t get used all that much, and several of them were nearing the end of their life. Not that I tried every single marker that she had… but if I had tried every single marker she had… I may or may not have wanted to get her new ones… >.>;

Which brings us to this previous Wednesday. Normally I have my sessions on Thursday, around 10ish. This week we met on Wednesday though. Thursday was pretty booked for her. Since I typically leave the house with enough time to have about 15 minutes to wait in the lobby, I decided to stop at a CVS and pick up some dry erase markers. While I was there, I was left unsupervised in the Office section of the store… surrounded by pens and colors, and notebooks.

There was one notebook. A half-book really. Smaller than my normal to-do list notebooks, with a hardcover, tarnished golden rings on the side. The cover itself was a blue and white design. It was calming to look at. Pretty without being glittery or flashy. Without some dumb “motivational” message on the front. Just an open, welcoming designs and blank pages on the inside.

I decided to buy it, along with a set of G2 pens. The pens I love using so much because they write so smoothly. I also got a pen case. These would be special pens. Different and separate from my normal pens, even though they are the same brand, the same colors.

These would be my therapy pens, and I would keep them in a special case so they couldn’t get lost or mixed up. And this notebook would be my therapy notebook, so I could keep my doodles and writings and notes from therapy.

My therapist was so grateful for the dry erase markers. She wanted to compensate me for buying them. I refused, saying if I had expected compensation, I would have talked to her first before buying them. It isn’t fair to do something without another’s knowledge and then hold them accountable or responsible for the effort or resources you willingly chose to expend.

Me: If they are able to help me, then maybe they can help someone else. That alone is worth it to me.

I didn’t use my notebook during the session. It was more conversational rather than introspective, which I was ok with. Instead, I reflected on my session yesterday and wrote within my therapy journal the things I wanted to remember from it. Reminders for me as we go into the holiday season and this period of restful, cold winter.

I did a fair amount of chores and cleaning yesterday. I folded all my scrubs so they can be packed away. I don’t feel it is right to get rid of them just yet. Maybe in the future, I will. But for now, they will be packed away and kept. I cleaned up the bedroom. I swept. I did more laundry. Ox came home with a ham, and I cooked it for lunch. I made my own breakfast yesterday, an egg and cheese burrito. It was warm and tasty, and I ate all of it, rather than aimlessly picking until I threw it away.

I cooked ribs the night before, having dinner ready before Ox’s mom came home.

Mama Ox: Well, this is a nice surprise.

Part of me fluffed up and felt good about making her day better. Giving her something to let her know she’s cared for and not the only person contributing to the family. Another part of me hurts because it really has been forever since I have cooked for everyone. I used to do it all the time. But for so long I haven’t because I haven’t had the willpower to. It saddens me that all of us had to go through that period of my life. That I allowed myself to go through that for so long. That it affected people I deeply care about in such ways.

But at the same time, while I feel that heartache, I’m getting better. I’m doing more. I’m feeling more like myself. Ox and I are playful again. He tickled me the other day as I teasingly tried to wake him up from a nap. There are all of these little things, things I have missed and longed for, which are slowly coming back. I haven’t made it to the gym yet, but I know I’m getting closer to going. I can feel it building within myself.

Each day I return to another thing. Being consistent with meds. Sleeping without melatonin. Eating meals. Doing chores without crying. Planning a meal and cooking it… all of these dumb, little things that are considered part of everyday life which for so long I wasn’t able to do because of depression and burnout… It’s only a matter of time before one day I wake up, rested, restored, able, and willing to take on the day, and not just the day, but my health as well.

I’ll feel able to go to my kickboxing class and be around people and bow in before stepping on the mat. I feel able to make the drive there and back without wondering “how”? How am I going to be able to do ALL of that and still make it through the rest of my day?

I won’t have to wonder how. I’ll just know, I’ll feel, that I can, and I will and it will be amazing. I’m looking forward to that day. I know it’s closer than it is far away.

Today I woke up with a headache. I also had a dream.

It was about mom. She was there. She was so alive. She nearly glowed, vitality radiating from her with a warmth and beauty that words will never be able to do justice. We were together. She was smiling and I remember thinking that I love her smile.

At some point in the dream, she turned away. She was going to go get something. Food or some such. I remember she left and there was a noticeable change in the room/environment. Her glow was gone. The absence of her warmth and presence was physically felt.

I don’t remember specifically the events in the dream. But I remember being confused. How could mom have been here? How could she have looked so alive? Hadn’t she died? The thought tore at my heart. I knew I couldn’t “just ask” that question. In the dream, I needed to find a safe person who would give me an honest answer. I remember finding them. I don’t remember who it was. But I asked, “Did mom die?”

Instead of answering, they held me, and their answer didn’t matter because from their actions I knew. Mom really was dead, and I was dreaming and when I woke up, she wouldn’t be there.

Ox had been getting ready for work as I dreamed. He was running late and a little grouchy at me when I was slow to get out of bed. I hurt from the dream he didn’t know about. He didn’t know the depth at which I hurt. He didn’t know how his words made me want to cry.

While we were outside having our morning cigarette, he asked how I slept. I told him about the dream. He held me as I cried.

Me: I wanted it to be real.

Crying turned to sobbing and through it all he held me.

I do want it to be real. So badly. I want mom to meet Ox and his family and the people who have become important in my life. I want her to be alive and smile and hug her and feel her warmth. I want all these things and I’ll never be able to have them the way I want.

And while I’m sad and tears are running down my face as I type all of this, I cling to the memory of my dream. Seeing mom happy, smiling, so… alive and well and ok. I will cherish that. I think she is happy for me. I think she thinks I’m doing well.

I know I’m doing better, but I’m still in the transition phase. I haven’t started my new job. I haven’t gone through the two weeks where I won’t get a paycheck. There’s still a lot of things that will transpire before life settles into its new normal.

The waters of life haven’t stilled just yet, but I’m still going to swim forward with strong sure strokes knowing my mom is watching me figure it out and that she’s proud of me. Happy for me.

I love you so much, mom. I miss you and I hope you’re doing well. I’m going to get through this because I’m your little Earth Dragon who Can. Your Earth Dragon who Did. <3

Daily Post 008: Post-DaVita

Standard

Today is my first day writing post-DaVita. It’s my third day being “not a PCT”. It’s… different. It’s… not heavy. Each day I do a little better. Each day I get a little more done. Each day I add a chore or a task or a “thing”, whatever that may end up being. Today it’s writing.

I had counseling today. It focused more on the holidays and my plans for them and how I cope with the emotions that inevitably surface. It wasn’t until roughly the last 15 minutes of our session that I mentioned how I had quit my job and already accepted another. Talk about dropping a bombshell.

Overall, it was a good session. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel the need to cry. Even when we started talking about mom and death and grief. I felt ok with my emotions. I know they will come and visit. I know it will be hard to sit with them again and break bread. I won’t “want” to welcome them but being angry or sad or frustrated with myself for feeling those emotions isn’t going to make feeling them any easier.

I have had dreams lately. Positive dreams, or at least reassuring.

The one I remember most had to do with swimming. I was at a swim meet. I was supposed to do laps. The pool side was crowded, and I was worried. I couldn’t find where I was supposed to be. I couldn’t see my spot through all the people. But I found it, an empty spot just for me. The place I was supposed to be, where I belonged. The race started and I dove into the water. I knew what I was doing. My strokes were strong and sure. I was headed in this direction, all I had to do was keep going and focus on my intention.

Part way through the race I got nervous. I couldn’t see through all the splashing water. I’ve never swum laps before. I know, in theory, how to turn once you reach the other side of the pool, but I personally have never done it. During the race I became worried. How was I going to pull off the turn when I couldn’t see the wall? What if I made a fool of myself in front of everyone? What if I ran headfirst into the wall and hurt myself? What if, what if, what if…?

Suddenly the water stilled, and I could see the wall. I dove and completed the turn without issue, continuing to swim was ease, knowing that I was still doing the right thing, that I was able to do the right thing and that events would fall into place as they were meant to.

I woke up feeling more ok with my choice. Right now, I’m still in the process of swimming. Things are still in motion and some things on the other side of that motion are unclear. Just because I can’t see the other side doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing or that the direction I’m going in is wrong. I need to focus on my intention, my purpose, and keep going. Everything else will fall into place and be clear when it’s meant to be clear.

That’s how I’m choosing to think of my dreams at least. All the uncertainty and confusion, fear and self-doubt… that’s all normal. I know myself and my ability. I need to have faith in that, in myself, and so I am. One day at a time, one step at a time.

I miss my team. I miss my patients. I no longer feel a soul-crushing weight when I wake up in the morning. Some of my patients and I are friends on Facebook now, since I’m not longer an employee. It might be the ending of me starting their treatments, but it means we can have a beginning as true friends. It’s so much different on this side of my choice than I thought it would be. So much more supportive and… connective. I feel free to be me and I’m enjoying the process of self-discovery.

There is so much and more to write about, but hopefully this is the start of many more to come. I’m starting to look forward to the future again. I’m starting to be and feel alive and that is a deeply missed and appreciated feeling.

007: Confronting Burnout

Standard

I’ve been reading a lot about burnout. I guess because I’m there. I’m past there. Since about the second or third week of June I have worked 5 days a week.

That might not sound like a lot. After all, the rest of society works five days a week. Why should I be burnt out over a “normal” work schedule.

It’s not a normal schedule though. I wake up at 2 am on the days I work. I work 10 to 12 hours on the days I work. I all EMS on the days I work. I have to make wellness checks when patients don’t show up to treatment or answer their phones when we try to call. I have to be told by the Sargent that our patient was found deceased in their home. That I’ll never be able to joke with her again; never tell her stories about the kittens or what Ox and I got done on the addition. I’m an introvert constantly empathizing and caring and giving while barely getting enough sleep to keep myself healthy.

I am so out of touch with myself that I don’t know how to care for myself anymore, and I allowed it to happen.

My former supervisor went on vacation for two weeks. During that time I lost 5 patients. Some withdrew from treatment, deciding to go do palliative care instead. Some actually died, as was the case with the wellness check. One moved out of state, but I’ve been so present in our sister clinic that I never got to say goodbye to him before he left.

On top of that, my brother also went on vacation. I knew it would be hard when he left, but I didn’t know I would have panic attacks and feel mom’s death all over again while still having to go to work and hold my shit together.

A couple of Tuesdays ago, I hit my breaking point. I was training a new teammate. We were on the floor taking care of patients. One of my coworkers came on the floor, took one look at me, and asked in an extremely concerned voice, “Are you ok?”

Out of all of the responses I could have given her, all of the things I could have said, I didn’t have it in me to lie; not to myself, not to her. Not to anyone.

“No. I’m not,” I said, on the verge of tears.

We stepped off the floor and I ended up crying in her office explaining how I was exhausted, how I had so much loss that no one could prepare for and the panic attacks due to Jon’s absence.

I’m only human and each of us can only handle so much and I had reached my limit. After emotionally dealing with so much with so little reprieve or self-care I had finally reached the point where I literally couldn’t give anymore because the only then I had left to give was tears.

That coworker ended up covering the rest of my shift that day. I went home and slept for hours. When I woke up I ate then went back to sleep. The next day I went back to work and was able to function.

My former supervisor heard about my break. When she got back from vacation she sent me a text asking me to call her when I had time.

“I wanted to make sure you are ok.” It was so good to hear her voice. It was so connecting to have someone reach out with genuine concern. As I sat outside smoking too many cigarettes, tears silently running down my face I told her everything that had been going on. I told her how I felt like I wasn’t doing anything to create a culture change in our sister clinic. It felt like the only thing I was doing was working more and living less and that I didn’t know how to live anymore. I didn’t know myself. I didn’t have the energy or drive to do any of the things I used to love to do. No cross-stitching, no working out, no dojo.

Nothing.

Just work, sleep, followed by more work.

It’s sucked. It’s sucked so much and now it all feels pointless.

Working 50+ hours for over two months has put a huge strain on my relationship with Ox. It’s left me with nothing to give to our relationship.

My former boss asked if she could have a conversation on my behalf with our new FA. She said she felt like I needed to be back in my home clinic for a while to rebalance. That I needed to work less and be in a familiar environment with familiar people and away from the drama and chaos that is our sister clinic.

She said she is always here for me. I asked, “Even when you’re on vacation?” To which she replied. “Absolutely. Even when I’m on vacation.”

I felt loved after our conversation, much like I felt loved and cared for when my coworker finished out the five hours I had left on my shift. I felt like a person and like I mattered to someone, anyone. That I wasn an invisible cog, replaceable and insignificant. People in my life cared about my emotional, mental, and physical wellbeing and they were actively helping me, not just giving me pretty words about holding on or digging deep or “It will be ok”.

I want a consistent schedule again. I want my three days. I want my days off. I want my routines and quiet moments. I want time away from people and saving lives. I want the energy to save my own.

I want so many things but mostly it comes back to, “I want to be left alone.” I want to not problem solve. I want to turn off my emotional system. I want to disconnect so all of the damage from overworking and begin to heal. I know it’s going to be an extremely slow process. I know it’s going to take a while to recover from what I let the past few months be.

I also know it needs to happen. I need the space and time to be tired, to sleep, to slowly regain energy and drive and purpose again. After that step, I’ll need time to begin returning to the habits that I know are good for me. Working out. Eating well. Sleeping deeply for enough hours. Keeping up with chores and my personal environments. Things that help me feel like I have autonomy and like I’m an adult able to function and cope with life.

I want to get off my antidepressants. I want a life where I don’t have to be on them to cope with burnout. I want work to be sustainable and realistic. I want to have experiences and run mud obstacle 5ks. I want a dojo where I can spare and laugh and learn and be part of something larger than myself. I want to stop smoking but right now it’s my only way to get away from people; to get off the floor, so I keep doing it.

I’ve reached out to another coworker today asking for the contact information for her therapist. I feel like I’m back at the point I was at when mom died. There’s so much not right in my life that I don’t know where to start. I don’t need someone to fix my problems. I need someone to listen; to be a safe place where I can talk, where I have a whole hour devoted to myself where I can start to figure out and untangle things.
Where I can get an outside perspective and other ideas I might not have thought to try.

I don’t need someone to fix my life. Only I can do that. I need the time to figure out how to do that and the resources that will make my efforts successful.

I have today and tomorrow off from work. I haven’t had two days off in a row for so long. The thought of that much time makes me want to cry in relief but at the same time fills me with anxiety. I don’t know what to do if I’m not at work, and that’s so sad and heartbreaking to say.

How can one not know what to do outside of work? How does someone not have a hobby or passion or an idea of what would make them feel ok?

I don’t know. I really don’t know how I let myself get here, but here is where I am.

Ox has been supportive today. Well… he’s supportive every day, but today we both didn’t work. We were both home. We did chores together. We put clothes away, together. We organized things, together. We were together through all of it and that made it feel doable. I wasn’t alone. I didn’t have to figure it out by myself. We could take breaks. We had a homemade breakfast. I didn’t have to drink a protein drink on the way to work because I didn’t have time to digest actual food.

I’ve been having nightmares. It’s the first time I can remember ever being afraid to sleep. Which super sucks because I’m so physically, mentally, and emotionally tired but my brain is being a terrorist and so I’m terrified that if I sleep I’ll have dreams again.

Dreams of rotting teeth or sliding downward and screaming for my mom, or searching the grocery store for the one thing I know I need to get and being unable to find it no matter how hard I look. Or dark monsters who travel from deep in the underworld through tunnels made of bones to attack me.

They’re awful. So awful and I don’t want to have them but I don’t want to take meds so I can’t make myself not dream any more than I could will myself to do it before they started.

I need my life back. I need myself. And deep down, and I want to say I need my mom but I don’t know what good it would do to say that out loud. She’s still going to be dead. She’s still not going to be able to answer the phone.

I want my mom. I may not “need” her the way I need air or water or food, but I want her so badly right now. I want her hug, her scent. I want her words telling me that it’s ok, that I’m safe.

Ox has been doing that a lot today. Whenever we step outside or he’s close to me I reach out and put his hand on my cheek or the top of my head. I don’t know why it makes me feel safer, but it does. It’s helping through today.

Cleaning helped. Eating helped. Showering and meal prepping helped. It’s not fixing anything major, but it’s reminding me that there are shreds of me still left under all of the exhaustion and shattered stress and loss.

I’ve been trying to cross stitch more. I’ve watched all of Cursed on Netflix. I started watching Sweet Tooth. I’ve been cuddling with the kittens and sleeping when I feel tired.

I’m burnt out. Severely. I feel like burnout is its own time of injury and injuries take time to heal. They take rest, and calmness, patience, and understanding. Compassion.

I have two more weeks to go before the new schedule comes out where, in theory, I will be back at my home clinic.

This next week I only work four days. Most of them are shorter days, and one of them is at my home clinic. The next week is another week of 5 days, but two of them are at my home clinic. And then, maybe, possibly, things will get better.

There’s so much more to write about other than my burnout, but this was what I needed to spew the most. I can get through two more weeks. I can get through one week. I can have two days off in a row and survive. I can be something other than work. I can be tired and drained and lost and still be whole; not broken.

That’s something I’m still trying to keep in my mind. I’m still trying to work on being my friend rather than my enemy. I’m still not broken. I’m just really really, tired and that’s ok.

Soon. I’ll be through this soon and maybe then I’ll be able to breadcrumb my way back to me.

006: Confessing to Being Whole

Standard

I have been.

I have been so many things between my last writing and this one.


I have been happy. I have been sad. I have been alone. I have been suicidal. I have been on the verge of quitting my job. I have been promoted. I have been lost. I have been found. I have been connected. I have been confused, numb, hopeless, devoid, hungry, cold, hot, rage-filled, desperate, confident, unshakeable, and shattered.

I have been so, so many things. Tiring things. Exhausting things. Passionate and human things.

And at the end of it all, I arrive here.

I am.

Simply that. I am.

I have been waiting, avoiding, rejecting, searching, grasping, flailing, falling, sinking, drowning, dying.

I have known that I needed to write for months. Ox has suggested it over and over again, but inside I knew it wasn’t time yet. While I “wanted” to write, I didn’t WANT to write.

I didn’t want to sit with myself and hear myself. I didn’t want to figure it out. I didn’t want to understand or deal with pain and truth or any of it.

So I didn’t. For so long, I didn’t hear myself or let others hear me. The inner me. The me that’s been hiding soft, frail, vulnerable things for three years now.

One of my friends from work, a close friend, someone who in the timeline of my life is fairly new, but deeply loved and valued, gave me a book two days ago.

Untamed. I have already read it.

I have also read a book recommended to me by my dad. Unfuck Yourself

I have thought deeply on both books.

While Unfuck Yourself spoke to parts of me, Untamed touched things in my core. The words and messages in Untamed left me stripped of my outer armor and made me sit within myself. My inner self would cry out at points in the book, “This! This here! This is what I need you to hear. This is is why I’m dying inside you! This is why we hurt. This is why we feel unfulfilled.”

There was and is so much in that book. So much honesty. So much life. So much vulnerability. So much truth, about society, people, experiences…

And so here I sit.

I sit here, grounded, after a night of crying while Ox held me and I confessed to things I never thought I would confess to. Things I never thought I would share because they’re “dumb” or “stupid” or “fucked up”. Things that are too precious to me to risk the change of them being hurt or injured by rejection. But after reading Untamed I couldn’t NOT share them. These are my truths. These are my heartbeat and heartbreak. These things are why I keep going and why each day is agony.

And so, as we lay in bed, so far past our bedtime, we talked. We connected. I shared and cried and breathed and was held through all of the pain and vulnerability.

Me: I’m terrified of losing you. I’m terrified that you’ll die and I’ll have to figure out my life all over again and I don’t want to do that.

Me: When you say “I love you” I hear mom through you. I feel like she put you in my life because she knew I would need you. I hear her because you say it the same way she said it. With unconditional acceptance.

Me: Inside all of this is so small and frail and I want to protect it because I don’t want it to get hurt. I know not everyone will believe me. I know it’s not logical, but I know what it feels like inside me. I know it’s real for me.

And so I’ve said it. All of it.

I’ve admitted to it out loud for the first time. I hear my mom through Ox. I feel my mom through his hugs. And I’m terrified of losing that and I know people will read or see this and think that I still have issues to work through or that I’m fucked up or that feelings are dumb and logically none of this is right or ok or whatever other things people say.

I KNOW! Ok!? I ALREADY FUCKING KNOW!

And I type that with all of the internal rage searing through my body that I feel towards my evil inner voice which for so long has kept me from truly being me since mom’s death. From truly living my life and just being at peace with who I am. And I’m so fucking tired of it.

I’m tired of feeling like I can’t say things or express myself fully or be me because there’s something about me that’s too much. Too big, too small, too strong, too weak, too hard, too soft, too logical, too emotional…

Reading Untamed was very similar to when I finally read about INFJ personality types. I finally had permission to simply be. To exist. To breath. To think. To feel.

And so here I am, no longer hiding, searching, avoiding, struggling, flailing.

My biggest fear is losing Ox. The kittens would be my left vest, keeping me afloat through the destructive waves of grief which I know will crash over my life when he dies.

It will not my brothers, or my dad, or my friends or patients or my job which keep me going…

Saber and Dagger would be the two, tiny creatures that would keep me connected by thin, invisible, unbreakable strands to life.

Despite my grief and pain, they would need me to love them. They would need cat food so I would have to work to afford it. They would need to be fed so I would have to get up in the mornings. They would need and want cuddles so I would have to touch and interact with them; feel their warmth and their love.

I would have to do these things for them and so I would stay. For them. Because of them. And I would, in time, learn to live again just like I did when mom died. I would stay through all of the hard, all of the pointless, all of the lostness, and because I would stay I would eventually learn how to continue.

Another inner truth; I honor my mom and Ox by living. Dying would be so incredibly easy to do. Almost effortless when compared to living. I honor them by not giving up even though I want to. I value my connection with them enough to keep going. It’s worth the pain of being alive to have moments like last night where I can awkwardly, introvertedly word vomit all over Ox and still be loved. Unconditionally loved. Unconditionally accepted. Held and safe. Warm and unalone.

I’m done hiding. I’m done lying to myself. I’m done trying to force myself to be things I’m not or not feel things I do.

I’m done telling myself that what I feel is fucked up or wrong. I used to be my friend, but somewhere along the way, I stopped. I forgot how. I fell back into old habits. I’ve let them consume me because they are comfortable, familiar, known, and so much older and easier than the newer habits of self-love and self-acceptance I had been working on after mom died.

I have either not been there for myself or I have beaten myself down internally because that’s easier than trying to help myself grow.

I slept close to 13 hours between last night and today and for the first time in a while, I woke up not feeling dead inside. I woke up emotionally and mentally exhausted, to the point that I canceled my dentist appointment (woohoo! canceled plans are the best plans!), but I woke up feeling whole, cleaner, lighter; like I wasn’t carrying all these dirty secrets around inside of me that if people knew they would point at me in shame or disgust and reject me from the group because I was no longer acceptable.

I woke up not fearing unworthiness.

I woke up knowing that I am not unworthy. That is what last night showed me. If others reject me for being authentic and having the integrity, the loyalty to myself to stand beside and with my emotions, then that says more about them than it does of me.

I am still growing, learning, hurting. I am still becoming who I am. Constantly. Continuelessly. Tirelessly. I accept the death of my old self, my self before mom’s death. I accept that I am strong. I accept that I have pain inside my heart. I accept that we, all of us, are mortal and that life can be prolonged but death cannot be stopped.

I accept that I am flawed. I accept that I am whole. I accept that this new whole is different from my old whole. Nothing is missing; it’s that life is different and I do not fully understand all of those differences yet. That is what makes it uncomfortable. Because it’s different and unknown and as a human I crave the known and comfortable.

I am not and have never been broken.

I have been and am human.

I have been unlearned, undiscovered, unheard, unknown; but never, ever have I been broken and I finally accept that about myself. After over five years of listening/not-listening, or avoiding/searching, rejecting/accepting…

I accept I am different from what I was.

Different doesn’t mean bad. Different doesn’t mean damaged.

Different does not mean broken.

So here I am. Whole. Whole within myself, within my relationship, within my life. My mother is dead and I am whole, not broken.

I guess that’s the main thing I realized while reading Untamed. I’m not broken. I’m me. And me is a very beautiful, real, and messy thing.

Daily Post 005: Prescription Refill

Standard

Today is the first time in ages where I have woken up and felt awake. I’m not deathly tired. I didn’t go back to sleep after haphazardly stumbling to use the restroom. It’s such a weird feeling… feeling rested… that I don’t really know what to do… so here I am, sitting in front of my computer, trying to figure it out.

I think there’s a lot that factors into this “rested” feeling. The main one, I think, is medication related.

About three weeks ago I ran out of my Zoloft. I didn’t think much of it. I would get around to refilling the prescription “eventually”. I had stopped taking it before when I was on 25mg and I didn’t notice any side effects so I would be alright…

Wrong.

So hardcore wrong. Omg. >.<;

My dose was increased to 50mg towards the end of last year. My doctor increased it due to my suicidal feelings during nursing school. So queue up discontinuation syndrome about three days after being off of said medication. God, it sucked so hardcore. Mood swings, insomnia, fatigue, depersonalization… which I didn’t know actually had a term.

That feeling where you know you’re not yourself… but you are… but you aren’t… None of the thoughts you are having are really yours, but you’re the only one inside your head so they must be your thoughts… your actions… your feelings… That feeling of having your body hijacked but you’re the one doing the hijacking so how do you stop it or change it?

That feeling where dreams seem halfway real and reality seems halfway fake. You know you’re awake but your skin feels different. Everything is sort of soft, cloudy, hazy… You’re detached and you know you are but you can’t find your way back…

I spent over a week feeling like that. Like I would never be myself again. That these feelings were the rest of my life.

I got the prescription refilled. Making that phone call left me exhausted. Picking up the phone, finding the number, talking to someone and explaining that was going on… I wanted to cry I was so tired.

The next day I picked up the prescription. I then had to wait another week before the meds starting to build up in my system again. Each day got progresively better. I started being able to sleep at night. I started having focus at work again. I started feeling like reality was actually real.

Each day I have felt myself become more balanced. I get closer to being the me I remember being… the me I want to be. The me who has drive and disciple to do things. The me who doesn’t get exhausted by putting laundry away or making a phone call.

I do think a major factor of this past month being hard is the whole med issue. I’ve been more diligent with my Synthroid which continues to be something I struggle with. I finally set up an appointment with my endocrinologist. I have a blood draw tomorrow after work. My appointment with the doctor is next Wednesday. We’ll see if the increase that was made towards the end of last year was/is enough for my blood levels.

Yeah… I was supposed to meet with her in January and never did… There’s a lot of things that I haven’t been doing or have been pushing off. It’s been easier to not do them. Easier to stay inside, away from people, sleeping through the hard and the hurt of winter and mom’s death.

Mom’s fifth death day has come and gone. There’s a whole story behind that. I still haven’t gotten mom her flower. I don’t feel as bad about that as I thought I would. I think a lot of that has to do with Jon and I going out together on the day of her death. We went to Red Lobster, on of her favorite places. We drank and ate and shared stories back and forth. Memories. Emotions. Fears. We laughed. We had tears stinging our eyes. We remembered her together, shared in her memory together, and I think that would have made mom happy. Happier than me buying a flower to mark another year I have survived without her.

I will still get her flower. It’s still important to me. But I think where ever mom is, she knows that it’s ok to be a little late because what ended up happening instead was so much better than what I could have hoped for.

I haven’t been to the gym in a while. I have a membership to the YMCA again. The constant tiredness and consistent depression/apathy has kept me from actually going and doing anything. When I think about packing up my stuff, or changing, or driving, or scanning my card… I feel drained. I feel crushed beneath all of the steps it would take to actually get there, let alone actually working out.

I’ve continued to not eat the best because it’s so much easier to have a cookie or chips than it is to make a meal. But all of that is slowly starting to turn around. I feel like I can go to the gym today. I want to go to the gym today. I want to bike and listen to music. I want to push past all of the anxiety of “what if I’m not good enough?” I know I’m good enough. I know in a week, in two weeks, I’ll be so much better endurance-wise than I am in this current moment. I’ll feel better about myself. I’ll have an outlet for the stress and frustration of work.

Going will help me in so many ways, and while I haven’t done it, haven’t wanted to do it… today is different.

Part of me is scared of the difference. I’ve been… “not me” for so long that I don’t really know what to do. How do I function in the now? How do I function today with these weird feelings of productivity and energy?

And a guess a big part of my problem has always been this aching and longing to be “the old me”. The me before mom died. I know I wrote about it before. About how I need to accept the me I am now. That I can’t go back to who I was before mom died. Too much has happened. Too much has changed. The old me can still be valued and cherished, but I can’t keep expecting myself to be something I no longer am.

I’m not 27 any more. And that’s ok.

So I think that’s going to be my internal project going forward. Accepting the me of today. Not the me who went to the dojo six days a week for 1-3 hours each time. No the me who was unemployeed for a year. Not the me who was a teacher. I want to be ok with the me of today. I want to go forward with current me rather than constantly pining for someone who doesn’t exist anymore.

I am worthy. I have value. I can and will do amazing things. Starting with a to-do list. After writing I’m going to open up my Clever Fox notebook and I’m going to figure out a handful of things. And then I’m going to go to the gym and bike in front of the windows where I can see the sunny day while I listen to music. And then Ox and I will have lunch and get some of the things we need to finish up “Project-Remodel the Bedroom”.

Today is my only day off from work this week. I’ve picked up a lot of extra days recently. I’m sure that feeds into the burnout and compassion fatigue. The depression and “anti-people” feelings. After this week I don’t have extra days. After this week I get to spend a week with my dad because he’s coming to visit. I get to have my three days off in a row where I can make progress on projects and the house and myself.

I think after this week it will be nice and I’m going to start with today because finally, for the first time since starting nursing school, I feel like I can.

Daily Post 003: Update with Battle Scars

Standard

I’m glad to say that this post “shouldn’t” be super emo or depressing.

Work hasn’t been bad. Monday started off rough. There was an issue with the water room. I had to call the on-call bio-med at 4:30 in the morning. That’s never a fun way to start the day…

We got the issue figured out but we were 30 minutes late starting treatments. The patients were super understanding which helped the day not be a complete disaster.

There was an issue with the thermostat as well… Because why would there only be one issue to deal with on a Monday morning? -_-;

I called my FA later in the morning. I explained the issue with the water room and what I thought was going on with the thermostats. Four of them were reading at -42 and two others weren’t registering anything. I found the number for the technician who had done work at our clinic a few weeks ago. I told him what was going on; how it was 98.1 degrees in the water room and even the patients were complaining about it being uncomfortably warm on the treatment floor.

Long story short… he had to drive 12 hours from Ohio back to our clinic to fix the issue. That was not what I had been hoping when I called him. I had hoped it was a simple, “Try flipping this breaker,” or “Hit this hidden reset button.” But alas, it was not something simple that I could correct on my own.

My teammate reported that the temperatures at the clinic were much better yesterday, so, with luck, there won’t be further issues with anything for a while.

Yesterday I had lunch with my brother and a teammate I haven’t seen in almost a year. It was a fantastic outing. We went to a Mexican restaurant. We all had a drink and chatted about what’s been going on with the region and with our personal lives. It was extremely connective and I’m glad I went even though I had been thinking of ditching due to tiredness.

The house is coming along. I haven’t gotten anything done in regards to the addition, but I’m ok with that. Instead, Ox and I set up my new computer desk. Yesterday I spent the morning setting up my computer and doing cable management. We’re still in the process of sorting things out in the room but it’s coming together nicely.

We got the bed frame set up last week. We got a new mattress, too. It’s a hybrid mattress so there are springs, but there’s a layer of memory foam on top of them. I have my three-inch foam mattress topper on it, too, along with my army of pillows. Muahahahahaha!

The only thing missing is my weighted blanket which is still at the apartment.

I’ve been sleeping better since we got the new mattress. I don’t wake up as often during the night. I don’t have back pain when I get out of bed. My arms aren’t numb either. I feel rested and ready for my day when I wake up. It’s a weird feeling after waking up feeling crappy for so long.

The mini-dresses are working well so far. I ordered drawer organizers which should be here Friday. If they work the way I’m hoping they do then I can fully scratch that part of “project-bedroom” off the list.

I ordered a few things to utilize my locker at work, too. It will give me more vertical space along with some drawer space so I can keep more things at work. I’m hoping that makes work “feel” better. It’s been nearly three years since I started working at this clinic. I don’t know why I haven’t done this sooner. Maybe I’ll even put pictures on the outside so it’s not so bland and boring. It’s my tiny little section in the clinic. I want it to feel like mine.

I registered for Nursing Lab 2 today. The summer semester starts towards the end of May. I’ll only have to go to campus once a week on Thursdays for roughly three hours. I’m actually looking forward to being back in school and seeing my instructors again. I won’t know any of the students, but I’m ok with that. I know I can make it through the class without them.

I’m not sure if that came out the way I wanted it to…

I’ve been with two other groups of students so far. There’s my original class; the one I started with before I was diagnosed with cancer. Then there’s the group I was with last semester while I was doing the LPNS program full-time. In both instances, I didn’t pass my classes because of the people I was with. While I made “friends” in both groups, I didn’t do study sessions or really hangout with anyone.

The group I’m with won’t make or break me I guess is what I’m getting at. I can adapt and adjust to being in a new group and so I’m not worried about not knowing anyone. I’ll know my instructors and those are the people I truly connect and interact with. They’re the people I’m looking forward to seeing again.

I’m looking forward to it being summer as well. The past two days have been sunny, but super windy and cold. While that’s frustrating, I’m grateful there’s at least sunlight. The grass is started to turn green again and the trees are budding. It won’t be cold for forever. I just have to hold out a little longer.

Let’s see… what else…

Jon’s birthday was this past Saturday. I worked but once I was done with the day I spent the evening with him. I got him a Ninja Foodi for his birthday along with wings and ribs for dinner. I let him keep the leftovers so he didn’t have to worry about food for a few days. We spent the whole time chatting about pretty much everything. We had light conversation about random nerdy stuff along with deep conversation where he asked, “So how are you doing really?”

I answered honestly. I’m not really sure how I’m doing. Mom’s deathday is coming up which sucks. I hurt. I told him about the experience with Ox and him saying my name. I talked about how weird, “random” things trigger my grief and I don’t know what to do other than breathing through the pain and to try being my friend. I try really hard to not give myself shit for hurting or being sad but sometimes that’s hard to do. My logical brain is good at throwing “shoulds” at me. I should be doing this or I shouldn’t be feeling that.

I’m human and some days, some moments, are better than others. My moments with Jon, on his birthday and during lunch were really nice. I can remember what we were doing at the hospital on all of these days. I can remember stringing the letters together for Jon’s birthday and hanging them in mom’s room across from her hospital bed. I can remember screaming in the car as I drove from the hospital every morning because that was the only thing keeping me sane and grounded when I was around other people or talking to the doctors.

This year wasn’t that year. This year was different where I had the money to get Jon a gift he wouldn’t have bought for himself because it was expensive. He and I have worked through so many issues from our past and through the past four years. We’ve worked on our relationship to the point where we can sit together and talk about silly things and D&D jokes along with the hard, painful things like triggers and how the thought of giving up is always at the edge of our consciousness because missing mom sucks.

I don’t mean for that to sound emo or to steer this writing towards depressing topics. I guess, for me, I take comfort in having someone who understands what I feel. I have someone I can talk to about those feelings and because I can talk about them, they don’t sit inside my head eating away at my mind. I have someone who can give me a hug while kissing the top of my head and say, “I feel the suckage with you and we’ll both get through it.”

Having a hug like that, one where the pain is embraced rather than erased or covered up… One where I can hurt and cry and say, “I love you,” as if it’s my last chance to say it and have someone understand that I need to say it that way because I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say it again… It helps. It helps to openly acknowledge those things about myself with someone, to someone, and to have it understood and acceptable.

Anywho… Since I haven’t written in forever I want to switch gears and write about some of the stories that have happened in my life. We’ll only do one for right now since this is already a pretty long post compared to the nothing I’ve written for months.

And I suppose we can start with the most random one of all… how Saber tried to kill me.

Before the room renovations, my old computer desk used to be set up in what was the closet of the bedroom. Above my desk, there was shelving which the cats could reach. Both Saber and Dagger had jumped into the space to explore and while I didn’t like them being in that area of the room… they’re cats and there’s no way I was going to be able to keep them from doing cat stuff.

Well… there was one morning where I was sitting at the computer while Ox was at work. I was playing World of Warcraft and totally not paying attention to anything going on around me. I heard some noise like rustling and the next thing I knew I had searing pain down my face and a very stunned cat in my lap.

Of course, I was stunned, too. I mean, what the fuck just happened?!?!?!

I checked Saber to make sure she was ok. Yeah, she seems fine. Not yelling in pain or anything. Just sort of dazed. I then press my shirt sleeve to my forehead. Yep… that’s blood. Fuck.

I pressed the sleeve to some other areas of my face that hurt. They all came back dark red. Super fuck… Of course, this would happen while both Ox’s kids are here, and I work in two days. No way anything is going to be remotely healed. But for the moment fuck that train of thought. I need to make it to the bathroom without freaking anyone out in case I pass out. I can see from both eyes still, so at least there’s that going for me…

I super ninja-like stealthed my way through the living room with blood trickling down my face. It helped that the kids were engrossed in their own computer games. I shut the bathroom door and looked at myself for the first time to see what the damage actually was.

Not going to lie… it was pretty impressive. At that point, I started feeling nauseous. I knew my time was limited. I took a washcloth and got it wet. I cleaned up as much of the scratch going down the center of my forehead as best I could. I could feel my blood pressure dropping. Not wanting to add a concussion to the list of injuries from the cat attack, I laid down on the bathroom floor. When I felt ok enough to try standing again, I did, and that’s how it went for a while. Clean as much as I could, lay down so I didn’t pass out. At some point, I wasn’t quite fast enough and I did pass out, but luckily I was already on the ground for that one.

Once I got the bleeding under control I got anti-bacterial ointment and made sure all of the scratches were covered in it. I had a pretty long and deep cut down the center of my forehead, a pretty nasty cut in the corner of my left eyelid, one on my nose, and a few smaller scratches on my cheek and lip.

All in all, it looked like I had gotten into a knife fight, but nooooo… here I was, Ms. Badass Muay Thai Jujitsu Chick and I was going to have to tell everyone that a cat fell on my face…

Fuuuuuck my life…

Why couldn’t it have been something awesome like a knife fight? ;-;

Once the cuts were clean, I went back to the room to lay down. I was still feeling pretty nauseous. Saber curled up next to me, purring and being super loving. I think she was still spooked from her fall. I took a picture of the two of us cuddling together and I swear, she looks super smug. Like, “Yeah. That’s right. I did that. Try me, bro.”

I sent a picture to my coworkers and brothers along with Ox so they would know the next time they saw me I would have some impressive battle scars. There were a lot of jokes tossed back and forth which helped me feel better about the situation.

Once I finally emerged from the room Ox’s parents were surprised about what happened. They had no idea anything was going on. Score one for me because that’s totally what I was going for.

Irrational Right Brain: Hey, guys! What’s up? Oh? These? Yeah… They’re just some new scratches… that I got on my face… from a cat…

The Friday I went back to work was “cat victim awareness day” as I had to explain repeatedly what had transpired. While my patients were worried about me, we’re able to laugh and joke about it now.

It makes for a funny story, but at the time it sucked. I was legit worried about Saber being injured and my eyesight being screwed. After that, I was worried about scarring. I kept up a regime of cleaning the scratches and applying the anti-bacterial ointment. Sadly I don’t have epic battle scars. All of the scratches have healed amazingly well.

With renovating the room, the selves which Saber fell from are no longer an issue. They came out during the “tear down all the walls” phase of the project.

Sort of graphic but here’s the picture I sent to every one of Saber’s smugness and her pawy-work. Please disregard the messed up hair… also… fur babies… I swear, I can’t make up half the shit that happens in my life. XD

Saber the Smug