Happiness is just a moment

 

It wasn't out of nowhere, this feeling, missing you, and finally breaking down and crying. It had been building inside of me for a long time. It started at the beginning of September with Suicide Awareness Month, and continued through Facebook memories of when we found out we had lost you. I cried then, in September, thinking that's what I needed. But it was still there, the grief, sitting in my back of my mind waiting for me to see it, and spill over all over again. 

And just now, in a moment of attempting to relax while my brain feels like it's splitting apart, rubbing my beyond tense neck and shoulders, the grief came pouring out again. It was missing you, all over again. It was that sense that you should be here, but that you still aren't. I know that there's part of me that will always hang on, some odd sense of hope that this was a mistake and that I'll see you again. What is it about this specific grief that is so unwilling to get to the "acceptance" phase. 

Once again, I recognize that I do not desire to reach that phase. It seems kind of silly in a way... logically I know that grief isn't linear, and that one doesn't just reach a phase just because one feels as though they should. I know that we can slip in and out of these so-called phases too. I know that you are gone... and yet... I think the hardest moments come from that self-perpetuating sense of hope. I expect you to be here, so when I think about not being a phone call away, it's just... no, I'm still trying to logic my way out of this one, and there is no logic here. It's just me, sad as fuck that you aren't here and trying to convince myself that I can be over it... but I'm not. I'm sad and I'm alone with my thoughts, so it's hitting me and I need to allow myself to feel this. That's one truth that I know for certain... if I keep shoving down the feelings as I'm so prone to do, they will in fact keep resurfacing in the worst possible ways. I just need to allow myself this moment. It's just a moment, and it will pass. But for now, I need to feel sad.

Sometimes, Some Crimes, Go Slipping through the cracks

 Once again I've been slacking on the whole mental health stability side hustle I've been running... and by side hustle, I mean, a primary concern that I really need to keep at the forefront of my brain at all times (and at times, this need to make my mental health a priority falls by the wayside way too easily). So, this is me getting back on track. It's not like I have been fully putting my mental health aside. I still meditate every night before bed, and stop to take deep breaths every so often during the day. But I haven't been writing, which for some reason helps me process things. And checking in with myself overall, I've been more anxious than usual lately; complete with chest pressure/tightness/occasional pain. However, big however, there has been several changes to my routine, so logically I know it's situational too.... that being said, a big focus of mine in counseling is expanding my tolerance window so that I can roll with these types of changes. Sometimes, all the things I have to simultaneously keep in mind while also, you know, living my life, in of itself makes all of this hard. But one thing I know I've been letting slide again in particular is staying in the moment. My anxiety often stems from the spirals I can dive head first into instead of staying present. So what's the worst that could go wrong? I could forget to pick up my kid from the bus stop, or take her to the bus stop. I get so hyper-focused on what I'm doing at work sometimes, that I worry that if I don't constantly remind myself that I need to live in however many minutes, I'll loose track of time and forget. Never mind that I have a reminder on my work computer and my phone. Never mind that I have time blocked off so that I know when to leave. I know myself, and even if I have had weeks to get used to this new routine, I have the absolute hardest time sticking to a routine for some reason. It's infuriating. I absolutely need routine to stay on track, and yet it's like my brain completely rejects routine. I could do something the same way at the same time a hundred times no problem, and then every once and a while it's like, OH SHINY, and completely fall off track like a derailed train, going full speed into a ravine. I had a pretty big miss at work recently, so I'm also dealing with a shame-spiral. Everyone else has moved one, why can't I? Why can't I make mistakes without me feeling like a failure with no redemption available?

I also haven't been getting any exercise with the new schedule. I hate when someone talks about being anxious or having another mental or physical health challenge, and someone says "oh you just need to exercise!" The obvious baloney of that statement shouldn't even require comment, and yet, some people are just so fucking clueless. That being said, I do personally notice that exercise is a crucial component of my mental health management. There's no way that I could solely rely or exercise to manage things... or meditation, or journaling, or really any one thing by itself. It's always a combination of things that help me overall. And that goes back to the crux of my ability to manage this... it's just a lot to remember all of the time, especially with my "routine-rejection" obsessed... subconscious? I don't know where it comes from. It's like there's a whole other person living in a corner of my brain subtly sabotaging me from time to time. I've gotten pretty good over the years at shutting her down or quieting her to a tiny buzz, but occasionally she's a real fucking loud bitch, and I'm too tired to shut her out.

Ugh, there is no neat and tidy end to this post. Just me, exhausted and overwhelmed, and hopefully trying to work on staying present and journaling and getting some exercise... and finding time away from being a busy mom running around like a chicken with her head cut off for self-care... yeah.

Feelings, nothing more than feelings

 Once again it's been a long stretch since I've written anything... actually, that's not completely true. I have been writing letters to someone recently, and they have certainly taken on a blog-like, or-my-brain-spilling-out-everything-that-comes-to-it, like. Which is sort of my writing style. 

Today would have been Matthew's 51st birthday. The sense that it's easier to digest this year than last year makes it actually harder in a way. I think that's been my issue from the start - thinking that I should be obtaining a sense of letting go, but also desperately not wanting to let go. To hold on as long as possible. Because if I somehow let go of the grief, I'm letting him go. I didn't want to let go three years ago. I didn't want to let go a year ago. I don't want to let go now. I want to hold on because somewhere in the back of my mind I think that if I keep holding on to this grief, he'll come back. That he'll never have left. That it was some conspiracy out of a book where it was all fake, and all I have to do is hold that hope in my heart. If I keep holding on... and logically I know (through counseling) that there is no true letting go. I know through personal discovery that there is not point in time in which this grief will cease to exist. It will always be a part of me.

But it does get... I don't even want to say easier. I still stand by my original sentiment that this will never be easy or forgettable. I don't know the word for it. It's not easier, but I guess it is less obtrusive in my life. Ok, that's probably not the best way to look at feelings (Damn these feelings, they're getting in my way! Stupid crying, for the love of Pete stop fucking crying!). But I don't know the word. I may not cry every day. I may not think of Matthew every day anymore. But it's always there, the grief, the sense that I can never let go. The sense that if I wait long enough, he'll still be just a phone call away. 

Here's the recent list of things I wish I could call him about in no specific order. 

1. The Pandemic. I know everyone is sick of talking about this, and many people have moved on to their new normal, but that's not the case for me. But as a former nurse/ curious person, I think he would have found the pandemic, the vaccines, and the general response to everything incredibly fascinating. I can picture our long drawn-out conversations. We would have traded off what epidemiologists each we were following, what the treatment options were. Granted, he probably would have found the pandemic isolating, depressing. With all of his health issues, he would have had a hard time.

2. Collagen. I started taking (grass-fed, but I'm still on the fence about it, but need more joint support) collagen for my joint issues because I've been assured it helps. I'm 100% certain he would have had a lot to say, especially given the additional amino-acid makeup of the product. I'm certain he would have had a lot to say about the health benefits, and perhaps have steered me to a different product to try altogether. Or perhaps a supplement - he sure loved his supplements. 

3. My kids. I love talking about my kids, it's just part of who I am now no matter how long I fought being "that parent." But Matthew was one of the people in my life who loved hearing about my kids. He was always reacting to the pictures and videos I shared with the family. I'm so sad he only got to meet Ahsoka once, and will never meet Ashla. I think Ashla's little snarkiness vibe would have tickled him. I miss his laugh so much. 

4. Anything happening in my daily life in general. Really, I would just love to hear his voice again. I'm heartbroken that I don't have any videos of him or recordings of his voice. 

Nothing is Free

There's been some discussion recently about how breastfeeding is "free". Being a data geek, I decided to export my breastfeeding data from my app (for Ashla only):

Total Hours across 2 years: 1700.43
Average Hours Per Week Year One: 20.12
Average Hours Per Week Year Two: 12.58

Total Hours Pumped: 191.82 (One year only)
Average Hours Per Week: 3.69

I am very lucky to have been able to breastfeed both my kids, but between the time investment and the amount of tools I had to purchase as a working parent, breastfeeding is far from free; plus, the emotional and physical toll this took on me. Not to mention the time it took the first three months to pump and supplement my children with additional feedings, so bottle-feeding on top of these stats. Looking at these numbers, breastfeeding alone, on top of working full-time 40 hours per week, and maintaining a household with another older child in tow, was an additional full-time job year one, and a part-time job year two. Tell me, how is that free? And how is that accessible to everyone?

I would never have been able to breastfeed my kids without the support of my family, my community, and my employer. It's a pretty big slap in the face to both breastfeeding parents, and bottle-feeding parents to be told that there's this free option waiting in the wings when so many parents are unable to do this. And furthermore, not all parents want to breastfeed for a myriad of reasons (that are no ones business but their own), and that is valid too. FED is best.

That day is not today

 

I called my mom on Mother's Day; a yearly obligation that I try to fulfill... I love my mom. She's the only parent I have. But much like most conversations with her, this one ended with her crying about her past. And I realized after that conversation that I don't want that for myself. I have felt trapped or haunted by my past at my points in my life. I know that I've come really far with counseling the last several months, and I've become better at managing my anxiety - identifying my triggers, breathing through things before they become overwhelming. So I try to take stock of the ways in which I've grown... but hearing my mom going through a moment where she was trapped in her trauma in real life solidified for me that I don't want that for myself. There are always going to be these moments in my past, and I'm not saying that I want to forget about them altogether; however, I hope that I do not look back at my life years from now feeling trapped in all the terrible moments in time the way my mother is. 

Coming away from talking to my mom is always a little big "triggering." I wish that wasn't the case. I wish that I could have a conversation about my life or even a day in my life with my mother that didn't lead to her talking about her past and crying. I wish that I could come away from those conversations without feeling a mixture of that sadness that I've always felt around my mother - sadness that she feels sad, sadness that no matter how much I want to make her happy, making her happy is impossible - and also this feeling of resentfulness that I feel for my mother. The resentfulness is really part of my past too. The things I resent about her are largely in the past, and I wish I could let go of that. Maybe someday I will. But that day is not today.

Sitting on the Dock of Bay

 My mom is in the hospital again... as my brain floats between the worst possible case scenario to an overly sunny outlook, and everything in between; my body and brain's natural mode is to disassociate. My brain is floating, my emotions are distant, and it feels like... it's so hard to describe. It feels like I'm not actually connected to anything. Not so much how I've heard disassociation described where people say it feels like it's something happening to someone else - it definitely feels like it's happening to me. But maybe it's like, I'm watching it happen to me from afar. I'm in some distant, hard to concentrate place, just spinning from thought to thought. And I've learned tools recently that should help me move out of the disassociated state... and logically I know that I should tap into those tools... But I also know that this is my brain's way of trying to protect itself. And I know that the alternative may lead to a severe anxiety attack. Is it so bad to just let myself float for a little bit? Probably... the down side to disassociation, or at least the down side in the past, is that when I come back to myself, the anxiety is so much worse. Floating is just so... easy. And that's the rub, isn't it? Nothing should be easy, it always has to be hard before it can be easy.

On the other token, we really don't know what is going to happen. She's in the hospital, but she's alive, we're awaiting results of a brain scan to see if she needs surgery or recovery. So I would kind of like to just float until I know if I should actually feel anxious... which I also recognize is not really logical either. But emotions aren't logical. It's not that I feel nothing. And it's not like I don't feel the anxiety waiting on the side of the shore. It's out there. My chest is tight. My brain is also incredibly foggy. I also have a day job and work to do... wither I'm floating or anxious, that's going to be a bit tough today. 

I suppose if I address the disassociating (which I guess by writing I'm starting to do), and then deal with the inevitable anxiety, I could just to get myself to a somewhat, what, non-anxious state? Is that even possible? The answer to that is that I don't know. And I hate not knowing. I had not knowing what is going to happen to my mom. I hate not knowing what my body and brain are going to do at any given moment. 

And all of that not knowing just feeds off itself pushing me further and further into a state of... well, a battle between disassociation - lost in a sea of floating - and the anxiety; waiting on the shore for me to come back to myself so that it can hit me like a sword falling on a solder who saw the battle coming and is there to counter the sword - either by their own sword or their body, uncertain which way it will all come down until the second it does.

Is it any wonder why my brain decided that taking itself away from itself was the way to go as a kid, and has been hanging on to that ideal for all these years? In counseling, we talk about this tolerance window, and expanding that window so that we can do what we need to do without either extreme. And that makes sense. I get that my goal is to expand that window so that generally speaking most things are within that tolerance window. But life is so full of extremes, and difficult situations. Is it any wonder that I find myself often outside of a tolerance window? I don't think so. But... here's what I'm avoiding, I think. My tolerance window is small, yes. My mom being in the hospital is an extreme situation, also true. But if my tolerance window were larger, maybe less would feel extreme so that when something extreme does happen, I am better equipped to handle it; maybe even extreme situations would still fall partially in the tolerance window. Or at least things outside of the tolerance window wouldn't put me into such an extreme variation of floating or anxiety.

Fuck, I guess I better do the exercises that I should do to bring my back to shore. Then I will deal with the anxiety waiting for me, that fucking asshole.

The Path of Daggers

 

I love reading fantasy and sci-fi books. Throughout this recent counseling journey, I think often times when I'm asked to visualize things, I end up pulling fantastic elements from things I've read into my toolbox. "Visualize a box, and put your negative emotions/thoughts into that box until you are able to work on those things. What does that box look like?" Well, it's clearly a large chest, with three locks - a thrice locked box. It has an enchantment on it, so it is very hard to open. "Where can you put that box so that you don't need to think about it?" In the back of my closet, behind the boxes, so far back, it's like the box has been placed in a portal to another world.

I think fantasy often describes things for the purpose of the story, that may or may not be intended to be an allegory for the trauma in your life. I've been reading more books recently than I have in a long time, which I think has been very therapeutic for me in terms of self-care, and possibly a bit of escapism. What do I want to escape from? I've been working so hard on my anxiety and both developing and remembering to utilize the tools in my toolbox, but I haven't really ever focused on the trauma that started all of this to begin with.

When Matthew passed away a few years ago, it hit me really hard. So hard, I felt like I was having trouble holding everything together. But the it just kind of stopped. It wasn't like I had addressed what was going on, but more like I just didn't feel like I had time to deal with it, so I stopped dealing with it... or acknowledging it... or even feeling it. Then my anxiety got so bad this year after so much build up with COVID, it was suddenly like I had been smacked in the face with everything I hadn't been dealing with for so long, and then all the new things on top of it. I was slowly and then very suddenly, overwhelmed by the physical manifestation of my anxiety. So, with several months of counseling, my anxiety is getting better, but there's still something else, hiding, under the surface, not being dealt with... the trauma. The childhood trauma, the trauma of losing my brother, and everything in between. 

We talked last week in counseling if I'm ready to address that trauma, if I'm ready to start processing the grief of loosing my brother. I said I didn't know if I was ready. I felt, I feel, like I just want to start working on it and be done with it! To finally face it head on, and slay it with my mythical sword of truth - all the anger, pain, love, and grief, and just get through it. But it doesn't work just like that. You have to be ready, as in grounded. You have to have your full arenol of tools to keep it from tipping you over the edge.

Thinking about my brother, I'm reminded of one of my favorite fantasy series where a protagonist receives a very deadly wound, a wound that is full of hatred and evil energy, a wound that never fully heals. The protagonist goes on, and the wound heals just enough for him to go about his day to day live unscathed. But every time he has to battle, every time he over-exerts himself, the wound reopens - sometimes worse than others, but continues to remain unhealed fully. 

That's my life since loosing Matthew. It's a wound that is so full of grief, and remorse, and pain that it never heals. It's always there with me. It scabs over just enough for me not to constantly think about Matthew all the time, but it's always there. And any time something too difficult happens, or I talk about Matthew (either in counseling or otherwise), it's like the wound has been been freshly received. It's like I'm always starting over with this terrible pain.

So where do I go from there? That's a theme that keeps coming up. What do I do with this? I guess the answer is that I keep going, but do I keep all of this locked in my thrice locked box, or do I push forward into a potential Path of Daggers?