I’ve stopped writing.
I have a new camera and I’m not taking pictures.
I’m not knitting or crocheting.
I don’t leave my room when I’m at home.
I leave my home only to a) go to the doctor, b) go to the grocery store c) go to my mom’s for a bit d) go to work.
I don’t call friends and family.
Cooking has become a chore rather than something I enjoy.
I don’t remember the last time I read a book.
I did the unthinkable Tuesday and went to see a therapist.
I avoid making plans with people.
I’m sitting in bed, legs folded “criss cross applesauce”. I’m ready for sleep, wearing my standard tank top and a little pair of athletic shorts. I love those shorts. The little grey ones, super short, loose fitting and made out of the same fabric as a sweatshirt. You girls know what I’m talking about. You probably have some too, and if you do I know you love them as much as I do.
The evening is winding down, kids are going to bed, Don is in the shower and Lola is trying to nip at my toes because she wants to play.
In my hand rests a daily dose of what I call “Skittles”. Except they’re not little fruity bites of sugar, they’re my meds. Every night before I go to bed there’s a palm full of pills and an injection. Anti-inflammatories, a little something to help me sleep, a muscle relaxer so I don’t cramp up, three for the diabetes, and a couple more for things I don’t want to talk about.
I’m sitting there looking at my Skittles and thinking about the fact that I finally decided to see a therapist the other day. Of course, she recommends an anti depressant. Suddenly the tears threatened to spill over and I was just….. well….. pissed.
Why was I so darn mad? It was because despite the fortune I spend on prescriptions every month, despite the small pharmacy I ingest every day, I was still sitting there in terrible pain and I already knew the likelihood that I would be awake repeatedly throughout the night, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt.
As I started taking the meds, I came to the one I always hate to take; the frickin’ horse pill that usually manages to stick in my throat and leave me thinking, “How’s that for ‘tasting the rainbow’? Thanks Skittles.” Then I took it and, of course, it stuck.
I gave myself my daily injection, hit a small vein and groaned because I knew that was another bruise to go with the map of little purple islands on my belly. Connect the dots anyone?
At that point I realized Don was getting out of the shower so, I cleaned up my face and adjusted my expression so he wouldn’t see that I’d had a brief breakdown and a small pity party. He has enough to worry about. He doesn’t need to know that I’m falling apart too.
It’s funny to me that he doesn’t notice but, at the same time, it doesn’t hurt my feelings that he doesn’t. He does so much already that I’ve convinced myself that I’m somehow protecting him by not letting him help me.
He climbed into bed next to me, and in his usual fashion, very slowly attempts to cuddle, making sure he’s not hurting me.
Maybe he knows more than I give him credit for. Maybe he feels as helpless as I do to fix it.
What’s next?
I don’t know. But, it can’t be more of “this”.
For now, I’ll just commit myself to seeing the therapist weekly.
Baby steps.
That’s the best I can come up with.
