When I'm Stronger

NOTE: This is an extraordinarily long post and delves into more detail in ugly places than normal. Don't feel you have to read it.

My therapist and i talked about journaling at my last appointment, referring to my last blog post and the epiphanies that came to me while journaling early one morning. Michele suggested I continue to journal when I first wake up because your mind is still open then; it hasn't put up the usual barriers it does once you get up and start your day. That was Monday. (We had to meet out of order due to Xmas, and we'll meet on Tuesday next week due to New Year's.)

So I started on Tuesday, two days ago. In less than 2 pages, memories of Mom bubbled up in my mind. These memories promptly turned into ones that hurt and disturbed me, memories I have shunned and shunted away, memories I don't feel able to deal with. i want to be able to deal with all my memories of Mom during the few, short months leading to her death with acceptance and equanimity. The set of memories that came to me Tuesday morning hurt. They scared me the way the events I remembered scared me. My stomach is tight just remembering my reactions on Tuesday. I cried a little, but held myself back from full immersion into the emotions those memories contained. I was strong enough to hold myself back from that. I tell myself I'll deal with those memories when I'm stronger.

Today, after I'd been home for about an hour and a half (I spent Xmas with other friends), I took a nap. it was a wonderful nap: a gentle sinking into unconsciousness under a warm, fluffy cloud of a comforter with the sun shining through the window onto my face. Then lovely vague dreams, and waking up feeling soft, pliable, and happy.

Somehow, ideas relating to my past rose up inside my mind. I remembered a memory from when I had to be nine months old: I was lying in a cool, twilight-dim room and knew I shouldn't cry or make a fuss, just wait for someone to come get me out of bed. I know I was 9 months old because I knew who was my regular babysitter at the time (I checked with Mom). It was my Aunt Nita. She and her sons always seemed kind of tense and unhappy, for very good reason: Uncle Jack was a drunk. He wasn't just an alcoholic — he drank himself into a stupor, drank himself into the gutter, and, when brought home by my father and/or his other brothers and put to bed, would promptly climb out a window and go back to yet another bar. As an infant, I was completely aware that I shouldn't cry, shouldn't upset that household, should wait to be picked up from my nap.

That memory came to me as a corroboration of how I could remember that my cousin's molesting me started when I was two. How can a two-year-old remember anything? How can a nine-month-old? But traumatic events can set memories into stone.

Solstice Epiphanies

Last night Griffin and I talked about the sleep problem I’ve had for some time. Basically, I average 4.5 to 5 hours of sleep a night. Not only is it bad for me in general, it’s particularly bad for the fibro. Unfortunately, this is a habit I settled into after Mom died, or maybe just after I returned to Houston. I had developed the habit previously off and on over a few years prior to that, but never quite as extreme as this and not for as long an ongoing period.

Griffin suggested I keep a diary. He suggested I note when I go to bed, what time I wake during the night, what time I return to trying to sleep, and my feelings at the time — I think he meant my feelings as I try to return to sleep, but I think I should do so when I first get ready to go to sleep, and maybe when I first wake, if appropriate. To this list I’m adding a) what plans I have for the next day and what time those plans are for, and b) any events of note that occurred during the day, especially the evening.

I went to bed at midnight. I woke at after 6 a.m. to go pee. Then I sat in bed and journaled, and the rest of this post came from that journal entry. I made some important realizations and am going to write up the appropriate ones into thank-you cards for Griffin and Sabine, each. The following is the majority of the entry, edited for clarity.

***

6:20 a.m.  12-21-13  YULE! SOLSTICE!

Realized earlier that I didn’t do much for a long time [after I moved to Seattle] because I was healing. I’d wanted to just be cared for during all those months and years after Mom’s death — was so tired and drained and hurting and scared for all that time. So I got here and [Griffin and Sabine] took care of me. I may have needed care for longer than we all expected, but I am finally coming out of this mental and emotional space and doing chores around the house. Griffin being temporarily less able spurred me.

I am feeling more healed, I realized. Something that was clenched inside of me has loosened. I still have a lot to work on, but maybe I am now better able to not only work more effectively but recognize my progress.

Fix the Brain, Not the Body

I went to the rheumatologist today to do three things: 1) get set up with a new doctor, 2) talk about adjusting my main medication, and 3) ask about the current knowledge regarding fibromyalgia.

I like this doctor. He asked a lot of probing questions, such as "if you think you are having problems with mental acuity, why are you here rather than seeing a neurologist" and "who told you that the gabapentin might be causing such a problem." I figured these were good questions because firstly, I never even considered seeing a neurologist because the lack of mental acuity has gone on for so long (although it seems to have been getting worse, but then the last few years have been extra stressful) and I haven't seen any other odd neurological signs. At least none that I'd peg as such.

As for the second question, I told him that it had been suggested by friends who are or have been on gabapentin and found that this is a possible side effect. it has also been suggested by mental healthcare providers, too.

He was curious about everything dealing with my health, including my mental health. And then he gave me great insight into his interest in my mental health (and I really should have made this cognitive leap). The current understanding is that fibro is not a body problem at all: it's a brain problem. Specifically, it's a brain chemistry problem. And that is the center of the entire fibromyalgia universe.

It's why all the currently approved meds for fibro are brain-related rather than body-related: gabapentin, and its cousin Lyrica, are originally anti-seizure meds; Cymbalta and its cousin Effexor are anti-depressants that are both serotonin and norepinephrin re-uptake inhibitors; and a final medicine that I didn't get written down in time so I've forgotten the name, is also an anti-depressant. Doctors are trying to regulate fibro and its symptoms by manipulating brain chemistry. it makes sense.

I knew already about how fibro was considered a neurological disorder rather than a joint/muscle disease, and that gabapentin was an anti-seizure medicine. The point of using it is to quiet the brain impulses or transmitters or whatever is going wonky (yes, it's a technical term; why do you ask?) in the brain.

Validation

Follow me!

Sometimes I forget what this blog is. Sure, it started out as a way to share info with friends and family as I made my way to where I ended up. But I ended up somewhere, then this was a blog about my new home. And, when my life fell completely apart, it became a journal, a place to process what I worked on and discovered within therapy and without, and a place to vent my raw feelings and thoughts, without need to censor or be tactful.

It remains a journal, and I am very grateful to those of you who visit and comment because I enjoy what you have to say and I feel uplifted by your support. However, I began to crave comments. As someone who has long sought for validation externally, it took me long enough to figure that out. I realized this week, maybe Wednesday, that I feel bad if only one person comments. In fact, I feel inadequate if fewer than four people comment. (Weird, to have a number, but I do.)

At such times, I worry that my posts are too long, too boring, too negative, too sad, too much about myself. I wonder if I should change my posts to please my "audience". I forget, in other words, what this blog is.

**Allowing the laughter to subside**

I guess this is a good Learning Moment. It's pretty sorry that I need external validation so badly I consider changing what I write in my personal journal to try to get more comments.

**Quiet moment for obligatory shame**

I hope to remember this moment and this realization. I forgot it about five times over the past couple of days, luckily remembering it again each time. I'm staying up late to write this before I forget again. It's worth remembering.

Will writing this post help me learn to find my validation from within rather than without? On first consideration, it wouldn't seem so. It's just a blog post, right? But given what I, and all of you, have seen on this blog in the past almost three years (I know!), writing these posts has become part of my processing new information and making it possible to internalize changes. So, yeah, I think that's what writing this post will lead to: greater movement toward my finding my validation within myself. (That's a lot of "my's".)

It's hardly fair of me to put all of that on all of you.

Christmas Memories: Sadness and Joy

I always loved Christmas while growing up because it was a big deal to us as a family gathering, both immediate and extended. For the first 11 years of my life, we got together with my dad's family on Christmas Eve, even at immense inconvenience to other family members, to open presents after midnight when my grandfather arrived from closing up the movie theater he managed. After that, the younger siblings (my dad's generation) rose up in protest and we began having our gatherings at a more suitable day and time and took to drawing names instead of giving gifts to everyone, another hardship on the younger families. Even with all the craziness and sometimes 35-40 people in a small, three-bedroom house, I loved the holidays. And Christmas morning was always just about the four of us: Mom, Dad, my little brother Jim, and me.

However, the year I was 16, we moved 1100 miles away from the town, and everyone, I’d known my entire life. At least that Christmas, it was still the four of us. Unfortunately, Dad died of a heart attack the following May (or March, I'm not sure after 35 years) and Mom insisted we stay where we were. So the Christmas I was 17, there was just Mom, Jim, and me. Mom wanted to make it something to remember as being different, so that it wouldn’t be a memory of loss — any more than it already was — but a new memory. So the three of us talked about it and decided to have lobster tail for Christmas Eve dinner! Mom had never cooked lobster of any sort before, but she asked the man at the fish counter where she bought the lobster. Jim and I made the salad and melted the butter and set the breakfast bar for our feast. We even had little glasses of wine with Mom's regular-sized glass. And it was a very fine meal! It was a nice way to start a new memory.

In addition, my brother and I were panic-stricken that there was no one to fill Mom’s stocking or give her gifts from Santa that year, so we did it. We bought small gifts for her stocking, and we went in together on a single gift for her from Santa. On Christmas morning, Mom quickly figured out who the 'elves' were who had surprised her by filling her stocking, but the look on her face when she found a package to her from 'Santa' was one of shock. I think she believed in Santa for a moment, or that an angel had reached down and given her a gift. Then she saw the smug looks on our faces and realized that her 'angels' were the two teenagers who were her anchor in this world.

By then, our extended families no longer extended. Our family was just the three of us.

Anger and Compassion

Dangerous

My housemate Sabine is a very angry person. She is also kind and generous. But as someone living with her, I would not agree with "sweet" the way those who do not live with her (or are not married to her) think she is. Because when she gets angry, she uses her anger like a sledgehammer and woe to him, or her, who gets in her way.

Unfortunately for me, I have issues relating to anger, particularly to other people's anger, whether it's directed toward me or not. I want to cower, I want to hide, I want to run.

My friend Julie would say this is one of my Life Lessons. My therapists would all say I can use this as an opportunity to deal with my issues about anger. I'd like to tell them all to jump in the lake, but that would just be petty. Especially because they are right.

I wish I could help Sabine. I think she needs therapy, but she is not someone I can suggest that to. There is always a wall around her that I think no one can penetrate, except maybe her mom. Not even her husband, Griffin, gets that close.

And, basically, the only person we can fix is ourselves. That's another lesson I'm learning.