Saturday, February 12, 2011

Yesterday...I had a little breakdown

Despite my best efforts, I did not get to sleep before 9AM on Friday morning, and slept until about 4:30PM.   I set my alarm, but I don't remember hearing it go off.

Immediately upon waking and checking the clock, I knew I'd slept too late to get to the post office or to the bank or to the county tax office for my car tags.  Another day, wasted.

I went to the kitchen because I was hungry, and decided on something easy - mac n cheese.  As soon as it was done, I took a bowl to Mrs. Potatohead, whose immediate response was, "I'm not hungry."  For a split second, I was just thinking, I don't really care if you're hungry or not, I spent half an hour in the kitchen cooking, and you're going to eat this whether you like it or not, you ungrateful little snot.  The thought passed, but its embers of anger remained.

Back to the kitchen to get my own food.  Of course, being OCD, I must wash the dishes first, so that I don't have to come back and do them later.  I'm not really sure if that's OCD or laziness.  lol  I finish washing the pot (those damn noodles were sticky yesterday, despite a touch of oil in the water to keep them from sticking.  Reaching over to put the clean pot on the stove, I find a roach ambling along.  I kill it, but it kills my brain's appetite.  My body's still hungry, but my brain will not let me eat now.  I couldn't even finish my root beer, because I couldn't see into the can.  I mean, I have no way of knowing where that roach has been while I've been turned the other direction doing dishes.  Maybe it walked in my mac n cheese.  Dump the Clorox wipe into the trash.  Take the trash out the front door.  Put the mac n cheese into the fridge, even though I'll probably never eat it now.

Walk back toward my bedroom, well on my way to crying, and Mrs Potatohead comes out, asks me what's wrong.

Putting it all into words today, it just sounds silly, but yesterday, it really wasn't.  I cried about being in pain, and cooking food I now couldn't eat even though I was hungry, and not being able to pay the bills on my own, and not being able to do anything with my left arm without hurting it more, not being able to get out of the house and do anything, because nearly everything costs money I don't have, and I don't even remember what all else.  I told Mrs Potatohead the only thing going right for me was being gramma.  I was in such a bad place yesterday, though, that I didn't even want to hold the baby, for fear I would poison him with my depression.

Since being off all my meds, these breakdowns happen all too often for me.  I've never been an outwardly emotional kind of gal (I learned early that any emotion someone could see was an emotion someone could use against me), and not being able to control myself in front of people (even when that people is only my daughter) is humiliating to me.  (so, why am I blogging about it, you might ask)

During my little episode, I wondered how I was going to function without someone to help me dress, and get things out of the cabinet that I can't reach with my left arm being wonky, or lift something that is just too heavy for me anymore. 

Today, I'm still worried about those things, but they seem much smaller.  Yes, I cannot dress myself without help - and yes, it's just that I can't do my own bra.  The rest I have continued to be able to manage myself.  Yes, I cannot carry anything through the house without stumbling or nearly falling, so I just walk more slowly.

I read an email from someone the other day who talked about how much energy it takes just to roll over in bed, much less get out of bed and do something.  I can totally relate.  It's demoralizing.  And the physical inabilities are bad enough without adding depression on top of them.  At this point, for her and for me, it's all a vicious circle, with disability and depression feeding each other, so that I wonder if I'll ever get back my ability to function in the real world, and if I don't, how long can I keep living this way without really breaking?

As for why I'm sharing this, I guess I'm writing this, imagining that I'm writing in a journal no one will ever read until after I'm gone, and also hoping that what I say will let someone know that they are not alone in their struggles.  Maybe my struggles are not exactly like yours, but maybe there's some kernel that you can take with you into your day to make it better.  And maybe, I'm writing this as a form of prayer, asking the universe to help me tame this monkey on my back.  Maybe I just like to hear myself talk.