Mar. 23rd, 2017

quirkytizzy: (Default)
I feel better this morning, if not plagued by Trazadone and high blood pressure headaches. I'm going to wake Pat up early and just...hang for a while. Try to utilize my support system. I've always thought that people who wind up in my situation do so because they don't have a good support system.

But I've got a FANTASTIC support system. Jesse's unfailing attentiveness to my illness, Pat's knowledge of being there for over half my life. My sister, whose been through this over and over, you guys, access to health care - even as a poor person. I've GOT THE TOOLS. I just need to fucking use them.

Mornings are the time when I'm alone. For most of my life, I've needed those several hours. Right now, I don't need so much alone time. It's bad for me.

The dreams...I like the idea that they are all parts of me, reoccurring themes in my life right now. It makes so much sense. It's also in its own way terrifying, because what's coming up is so graphic. Graphic but also appropriate.

My head hurts. I'll be okay.

Maybe I should write out the nightmares as stories. Stephen King says that's how he gets his ideas. And Poe did as well, though under opium deliriums, so he saw his while awake. The problem is that revisiting those dreams often makes me ill, but maybe it's time to fight through some of that and do something...useful with it for a change.

I keep trying to compare this time of my life to other difficult times. As a teenager, fighting the home abuse. My drug abuse and recovery, fighting myself. I'm trying to see if what I'm going through could be easier. But I can't recall what's been harder or easier.

I had a thought a couple of days ago. That the thought of "This isn't how I saw my life at 35" is NOT AS IMPORTANT as the thought of "This IS how my life is at 35."

I feel like I need to stop feeling so much about what I'm going through and start DEALING with what I'm going through.

I'm also making a concerted effort to return to talk therapy. I need professional help. I've never fought that before. As I've gotten sicker and sicker over the last year, I have fought it.

But I'm not going to survive without professional help, both psychological and medical. I can no longer separate the two. Both depend on each other to literally keep me alive. I'm still struggling to reconcile that. It's so much more goddamn work than I think I've ever done. It's a full time job to keep all these appointments as a sick person.

But it's not like I'm employed right now. The only obstacle to fulfilling those duties right now is me.

And goddamnit, I've never let me stop me for very long - and damn sure never to the point of dying.

I'm not going to die. I'm tired. I hurt all the time. I'm scared.

But motherfucker, of all things, I'm not going to die. Not like this. Not like that. Not like anything other than old age and a possible oxygen tank because I've refused to give up smoking.

So far, at least. I'm getting the feeling that in the end, the one thing that will be the tipping point will be my smoking. In due time, though. One thing at a time.

One day at a time.


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