I have a ridiculously hard time typing in here, at night, when my mom is still awake and/ or my door is open. I think I must like the idea of winding down entirely here, and if I feel there might be even a slight social connection left in the night, I end up waiting. She's made a comment here and there over the past week about my staying up "so late" (between eleven and one). I countered that I was enjoying myself, I've alternated sleep habits for most of my life, and (to myself) that if I journal after she goes to bed, and she doesn't go to bed until eleven, I'm going to have a more difficult time doing my own wind-down routine. And yes, she has been staying up later herself. There was also something about the fact that the time skipped an hour ahead, and the days I was up until one or so were just following that - meaning, it only felt like 12 or so. And of course, if she was making a big deal out of it, I could point out that I'm nineteen and capable of managing my own bedtime. I've mentioned before that I didn't have a bedtime growing up - that even when I was very small, I'd simply pick myself up from the family room and go to bed when I got tired. My parents never had to say a word. It changed when I got sick, so there's a little more emotion there than the simple adolescent rebellion and coming of age. It's not like I really feel I'm an adult or that I should be allowed to conduct my life as if I were simply her roommate, or as if my room were my apartment. I'm living with my mom, and I'm doing that for a reason, and so it's reasonable for her to actively be my parent. I need her to do that. I don't need her to tell me that I'll "get my days and nights mixed up" if I stay up an hour or two later than she does.
I don't doubt that was one of the most interesting paragraphs you've read in some time. Oy.
Today, I am very happy with meds. Me, from the podium: "I would like to thank my desipramine. Without your support, I simply could not have made this happen." Scary, yes. Seriously, though. I've had the mildest of migraine symptoms all day; I slept rather late and felt I could sleep longer. I slept again later in the day. I've had the occasional pang of queasiness causing me to raise an eyebrow or two. And now, in the last hour or so, the headache has become present. But honestly, all I can think is what this day would have been if I did not take meds to control the migraine. My Godd. I'd have been writhing in agony all day, hiding beneath the covers in a room with no light and so sound. A world with no sugar and not enough anxiety meds to counter the caffeine that takes care of the migraine. Maybe I'm wrong; maybe I'd do better to be pessimistic and complain that I'm on meds for migraine and still have symptoms...but I remember those months upon months of agony. Three or four days every week gone, as if they didn't exist at all, given over to the demon-plague that would not allow me to blink, let alone go about living. I'll take the second dose with my night meds and fall asleep smiling, aware that I had a day - a good day - I might have missed.
I could fall asleep smiling to that thought every night, technically. And it is a wonderful thing to think that, in a few years, (hark! is that a future I hear scuffling through my thoughts?) I might make a similar statement with agoraphobia in the place of migraine. "The place" in question being far away, of course. Again, I feel like I could look at that cynically; am I seriously saying that I expect to put at least another three years into this recovery before I'm functioning somewhat normally in spite of my agoraphobia? Typing that made me grin. Typing that made me want to laugh hysterically and point at the statement until it feels properly mocked. Come on! Three years? Five years? Who the fuck cares, honestly? Years go by quickly - I used to think because of school, but it has nothing to do with school - and when one is so used to thinking something is entirely inescapable, the idea that it might take some time to escape from, the idea of being upset by that news, is laughable. What do I care if it's going to take awhile, so long as it's going to happen? If I'm going to get to live and go about life peacefully, joyfully - how can I care that it's going to take awhile? There's comfort in that, honestly. I want a real life now; it's true. But at the same time, the idea of flinging myself at college or work is terrifying. I know I'm not ready, the same way I knew I wasn't ready this past fall. And I don't see why I should bother to put myself through hell for an experience like college, when I could take some time to learn better how to live my life, deciding afterward where I want to go and going there without the added difficulties and traumas that would occur now.
This is how I talked during my session. As if it's all laughably obvious. As if it's all marvelously simple. As if life is fun, and the idea of hopelessness ridiculous. I have a strong memory of Saturday and Monday, of hopelessness that did not feel amusing, and I know in a few minutes three years will probably feel like eternity again, and after that I will quit believing I can overcome this no matter how much time and energy I spend. I don't believe hope's here to stay, but her trips away are fewer and shorter, and she's leaving more stuff around.
So obviously I scared the hell out of my doctor. I'm kidding. I didn't really get a good look at him (feeling weirdly shy today, didn't even make much eye contact with the staff folks in the waiting room, which is unusual) so I'm not entirely sure how he "took" my randomly enthusiastic and optimistic outlook. I'd venture to guess he enjoyed it. I think that we like each other, and we both find it difficult when communication is rough, or we aren't clicking, or there's a frustrated, abrasive feeling to the conversation. I had two rather terrible Friday sessions (can't remember what happened the Monday between) followed by Monday's session which felt pretty terrible but did involve a very good move on my part - to flip out in front of him - (and even that makes me laugh right now) as opposed to waiting. I didn't expect today's to go well. I walked to the mailbox earlier in the morning, and it was absolutely gorgeous outside. I honestly wanted to twirl on the sidewalk; I was very disappointed that I'm not seven, which of course means that I must learn to be a nineteen-year-old (or whatever) who twirls when she feels compelled to do so. I returned to the apartment and said to Mom, "I say we skip the doctor. He's just going to beat me up anyway. Let's just go to the gardens instead." She was up for it. Well, as much as she was up for anything today. She was mostly up for crashing, which, poor thing, she couldn't really do. Oh, I would have liked to go lie in the shade or the sun of those magnificent grounds. I didn't go feed the fish that day I said I wanted to; I believe that was the day I ended up breaking down and crying instead. Wasn't that yesterday? I have no concept of time anymore. I've been convinced for days now that the Wi trip is this weekend, (Easter has completely disappeared, which should make brunch with my dad's family even more interesting), and now that it's more obviously not (for instance, the fact that I haven't left is a clue) - I'm starting to just feel like I'm in this suspended non-time place. Which is technically what I believe in all the time. (Ha, ha.) I don't believe in linear time. The difference is something like, I don't believe our calendar is all that accurate, but I do make a habit of knowing the day and date. This isn't a concept I believe in, but I still use it to ground myself in the same world as the people around me. To be able to properly contact people, have therapy appointments, that sort of thing. Now, I have no idea what day or night it is. Mostly because there's been so much emotion around this trip that I don't believe it's a week away. If it were a week away, I wouldn't have felt any of this yet (based on my other trips - pretending any trip compares to this). No anxiety, no intense emotions. Since it's not happening now, it must not be happening at all, but it has to be happening because otherwise I would never have felt all these things I've felt the past week or so. It's rather confusing. But then, my whole situation (having a hospital across two state lines for a home, finding it when I was sixteen, going back for the first time now, etc) is a little unique. Whee, idiosyncracy.
It makes me nervous to think that I've committed to it, so I'm staying aware of the fact that I can back out, should the need arise. (Which upsets me, too, so mostly I don't think about it.) It makes me nervous to think that it's as close as it is, so I focus on the moment instead and look at it in a vague future where I can't count down the days. The shortness of the trip calms me, and so I keep throwing that at all the fears and anxious thoughts. "Right, right, right, right - I know! It's terrifying! But it's only, like, 48 hours!" The doctor made a good point about the meaning of that; the quickness and intensity of events will probably keep me so busy and overwhelmed that I won't feel a lot of it until I get back. In some ways, I'll be emotionally holding my breath, while flying through the experience. If it were going to last two weeks, I couldn't fly through it; I couldn't hold my breath that long. This isn't to say that I'm going to try and turn off my emotions while I'm there (don't think that'd be too successful) - but just that the whole thing will go so fast, most likely, (not counting the sojourn, that is) that I won't have time to feel it's drained me. I feel that when I get back. There won't be a point where I'm worn out and have to find the strength to continue on, like I often have after an hour, a few days, or a week in New York. And it will be padded (a little loosely on the starting end, but nevertheless) with two therapy sessions. (Wednesday and Monday.) I feel good. I'm excited if I don't think about it too much. And... when I asked for a future to imagine, this wasn't the one I had in mine - so near as all this... but it's still a future. I'm doing something, something big, and something I'll probably be really glad I did. (I will definitely be glad for at least a few reasons.) And hell, I'm going to Wisconsin. I'll be able to buy ridiculous plastic crap praising the proper state. And then, you know, the rest of it.
(Needless to say?-) The session went well. I had a good time, joked around a little, but stayed honest and focused on the topic at hand. I explained several of the situations to him as best I could, and he understood really well. I talked to him about having my hopes up around things that very likely won't happen, and that I can't get myself to stop hoping, so I want to set something in place to grab when I have to face reality. For instance, it's possible that although Dave will be at this vigil; I won't get to talk to him. It's possible that I'll talk to him and we won't resolve what happened most recently. I can rationally realize that, but I can't quit hoping it'll just all fall in place and be wonderful...that we'll have this great, affirming conversation, he'll realize how harmless what I want is, and that he wants it, too, etc. So, I know to tell myself - if either of those possible things decides to happen - that it's not the end of the world; I can come back and continue working through the channels to give him that information. The next level is if we talk, and he restates that there's yellow do-not-cross police-tape between the two of us. I don't really know what to do for myself then, other than to say, "If you're leaving, say goodbye." Maybe it's a reasonable request, maybe it's ridiculous, but we had a really non-existent, poor-excuse-for-closure parting when I discharged, and I know what I need. It won't come to this (please God). It can't. And I don't know what to do to pick up the pieces of myself afterward. But that's one scenario for which I've started to piece together a plan.
I listed a few thousand others. Things like: I know that it's not going to be the same, but I still expect it to be the same. I know all these people who don't even work there anymore, but I still expect everything to be just like it was. I know that the people I know who do still work there won't all be around on this one day that I'm there; I won't see them all... but I can't take that in emotionally. (Why on earth would I want to, other than to be prepared? And why be prepared when I can busy myself expecting the better-than-best-case scenario?) After I'd talked about a few of them, the doctor really understood it, and asked a rather brilliant question. He asked if all of what was going on might not keep me from realizing what wasn't. And really, I believe it will. I can imagine a thousand holes in the trip from here, but when I get there, it's going to be so intense, so saturating as is, that I probably won't notice many things I might think of now that could be "missing." He pointed out that talking to Dave seems like a big one; I'm going to notice if that's not successful...it won't be below my radar. And that's true. He said he thought there were probably a few others like that one, but for the most part, what this trip is will take over and let me forget/ overlook little details of what I need it to be. I told him he was right. The list of things to prepare myself for, to plan in case they fall through, went from more than I can remember at one time to "about three." Three or possibly four. And before I could even ask, that darling doctor suggested we use our remaining time to plan around those few scenarios. This was the second point in the session when he read my mind. The first had to do with a decision we made to have handy a letter to Dave from me and a letter from the doctor. It's tricky right now because where before, having the doctor contact Dave seemed perfectly legitimate in terms of communicating to Dave that I wasn't seeking therapy (Dr. R said all these really nice things about how I come in and do the work; I don't just show up for appointments, I work hard at them, and I think and grow in between...I directly thanked him for the compliment, and then I really quickly laughed and said that I don't know how I'd manage not to think about things, and besides, I have no life, what else am I going to do? etc) it now feels a little like when I was in school and used to have notes-from-a-parent all the time when I really could have just had the conversation myself. (By really could have, I mean, the teachers would not really have eaten me. "Really could have" overlooks the fact that I really could not communicate when I was that terrified. And I was always terrified.) I have the opportunity to talk with Dave myself, and so it feels weird to have someone else go in on my behalf. It does not feel weird to have the option of handing him a note from my purse, to have the option of evidence, of documentation. Options make me really, really happy.
(I think the doctor likes that I'm catching onto this whole, create a way-out of every situation so you're never trapped, always make sure you have options and understand that you're in charge, partition and plan around obstacles in an event instead of avoiding it altogether, Thing. I like it rather much. It's like a technological miracle, a huge advance. I was trying to write words in shallow dirt with a really short fingernail, and now I have paper and big markers. Or, I was trying to hold my breath, run outside, and come back in time to gasp for air, and now I get to take an oxygen tank with me. Skills like this are really, really cool. And they do feel like miracles when you've lived your life in need of them for so long, without any idea they existed.)
The other situations: I really do need someone to make it clear beyond an unreasonable doubt that they accept and even appreciate or reciprocate my feelings. If that doesn't happen...? Unless the rules are broken on my behalf, I won't be allowed to go into the unit I lived on those three months. I won't be able to see my room, or the room at the end of the hall, or the day room, or the staff office. All hard things, but harder not to have. There was one other smaller thing I can't remember now. I'm sidetracked with a memory of when I first told the doctor about the idea of being in that building and not allowed to go through this doorway into the part of it that mattered most. He suggested then that what I was experiencing might overpower what I wasn't. And I laughed and smiled and said, "It's true. You're probably right. I'll probably just get through the door, I'll be in the lobby, and I'll be a puddle on the floor. I'll fall to my knees. I'll get into that building and the idea of second floor and my room won't even occur to me." At first. They probably won't. And I'm impressed that, in this fantasy, I trust myself to manage driving up (and down, down, down the big hill) to home; I trust myself to get out of the car and walk all the way to the door and across the threshhold before I collapse with emotion. I consider it quite possible that I'll be goop in the car, and Sara will have to carry me drop by drop into the building via a spoon.
I did ask him if he wanted to come. Field trip! He didn't look bothered or against the idea, really. He said it would probably be very interesting or give him good insights or something professional like that. I said it would probably make him realize how much he didn't want to be in Dave's shoes, (he'd put himself in them earlier when talking about what he thought Dave needed to hear to feel secure about me contacting him) and that made him laugh, too. When we got up to leave (same time, this time), I went to shake his hand and said, "Wait! I'm not crying. Something's wrong!" to which he replied (with equal enthusiasm, drama, conviction, and grins) "The session feels incomplete! Sit back down a moment."
I laughed and walked out into the waiting room. (For once the next patient stared at me for looking so damn happy, which was a nice change.) I said, "No, no! We can do it this way every now and again!" and was still chuckling when I got to the car. Mom asked why he decided not to beat me up today. I told her I didn't know, and what's more- I even drank the water from the snowman cup. (And I didn't cry. What's up with this?) Well, there wasn't ice in the snowman cup; there usually is. So, I'm thinking, it's the ice that has something in it. It makes extremely good sense after all. You could choose when to use it, and if the recipient was watching you, they wouldn't see anything put into the water because it would already have been added to the ice. I detailed a long theory about how the ice holds the secret potion he uses to make me cry, and then asked if she was frightened by my criminal mind. She'd mentioned being a little scared by my brother's ability to logically doubt one of his coworkers' association with a certain crime, when being interviewed by the FBI. Apparently, my ice cube conspiracy is less worrisome. Small potatoes in comparison.
Ah, such is life. Life! Which means I have one. Whee!
~me