Starting Over

Boomer Thoughts.

This blog’s been docile for years, a microcosm of my docile, calm world. What’s been realized, through months of therapy (which will turn to years, if Medicare and Medicaid agree on a payment plan for me) is this: I don’t know how to be angry. I don’t know how to respond to anger.

My parents did not exhibit anger. It was truly a rare moment in our house. And they were angry … reading letters, thinking back about events … they must have been in despair over so many events. My grandmother (Mom’s side) was obviously manic-depressive with horrid depression, episodes of BLAMMO anger and despair. She would tell my poor Mom, back when Mom was a very young child, that she (my grandmother ) wouldn’t BE there when school ended. Mom would come home to an empty house. Whether this meant running away or suicide, Mom was too young to know.

So my parents spent my childhood remaining level, rarely lashing out at anyone unless it was behind a closed door. What’s the story in this? What’s the effect on me? Well, since this blog is about me — the adult-me doesn’t know how to handle anger. How to diffuse it without capitulating or losing ground (when it is not in my best interest).

Why type this for the world to see? Why use a blog as a diary? WordPress corrects my spelling rather nicely. The format is so familiar, after 20 years of slapping the Dead Mule into the “page” or “post” space gives me the ability to type as quickly as I think. So I think that I’ll think right here.

I am married to a man with schizo-affective disorder, PTSD and other neurological abnormalities. I have been diagnosed Bi-Polar and am on disability because it is so severe. Now my own diagnosis is such a bitter pill to swallow that I rarely take my pills. Ha, bitter pill – me not taking my meds. Right now, I’m on Abilify and Buspar, Lyrica, tramadol and more, like Belsomra, Ativan, and Modafinil. My mood is fairly stable. Depression creeps in on little cat feet, a fog of emotional detritus, it covers my eyes and makes my gait unstable, creates open wounds that will not heal and so I go to my therapist, my psychiatrist, and try to make sense of the world around me.

I’m learning. I want to learn here, out in the open, on a blog for the universe to read.

Then there’s the chronic pain. Fibromyalgia, connective-tissue disease, robs me of days or pleasure, pain creates an abyss one cannot pass through, a cavern of disability, how to be poetic about a disaster? Mostly by saying how much time I’ve lost, gone and I won’t ever get it back.

Bi-Polar depression, chronic pain. How much more do I reveal? Fibromyalgia, degenerative disk disease. People I know online seem to revel in their lists of diseases, of neurological abnormalities, of surgeries long ago and recent. Do I list my surgeries here? Is anyone interested? I doubt anyone is reading this in the first place, so it hardly matters. No one is out there. It’s a wide internet universe net and no one will catch this website when fishing for what to read.

That means I can scream here and no one will hear. It’s comforting in a way, knowing no one is out there. It turns this blog into a message to my parents, my brother, my sister who are floating around, happily, in the ether. Like a Terry Pratchett audio-book. That’s how I picture my dead ones. With imagined voices …

Where to go from here?

Okay, here’s an easy one, how to fall asleep when you  live with chronic pain and you top off that Big Old Pain Cake with a Depression Icing? Audiobooks. I take my Ativan, get comfortable in bed, usually with a heating pad on my shoulder, and after an hour of a Disc World audiobook (I’m on my 7th, not listening to them in any particular order), I take my Belsomra and sleep 7+ hours. I tried giving up the books but now it’s the only way I can fall asleep. Why would I give them up? Couldn’t afford monthly fee, but can’t give it up so I got rid of NYTimes subscription. Well, I tried to get rid of it, did you know they will cut your subscription rate in half for a year if you’ll just keep with them? Since the Times is the last bastion of real journalism, I support them and lowered my rate by 50% and stayed with them.

I remind myself to read the New York Times every day. Right now, I’m steering clear of the transition articles and reading about Art and Books and long articles on cultural studies or new contemplative methods concerning relaxation or meditation.

This could turn into a very long post. Best to be stretching out my thoughts over time, not slamming it all into one moment. The topics have gone from mental illness to how to fall asleep to reading the New York Times every day. I think I’ve wondered about sufficiently for a beginning.

It’s comforting to know that no one is out there reading. Let’s keep it that way, shall we? I write, you ignore. Thanks.


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