Matt has been gone since Tuesday morning. It is now Thursday evening, and despite my best efforts, I've succumbed to my depression. Yesterday was the worst. To be fair, I was triggered. On Tuesday morning I woke up covered in itchy bumps, and I found a bedbug in my husband's bed. (We usually sleep in separate rooms, not because we're fighting or anything, but because we have very different needs when it comes to sleep. I like it freezing cold, he likes it warm, he uses a CPAP, I toss and turn, he goes to bed early, I go to bed late, et cetera.) Anyway, he was leaving in the morning, so I spent the night with him. There was sex, which was good, because I've either been in too much pain or too sick or too "meh" for sex for a while. And I managed to fall asleep next to him, though I spent much of the night itching. Man, talk about a buzz kill. I'm really glad we found the bugs after... anyway.
I am, at this point, genuinely phobic of bed bugs. Last October, we went through a horrific situation in which the apartment we moved into was so infested that we were forced to move after only three weeks. The allergic reaction I had to them was so bad that I had to get a cortisone shot to counteract the swelling. To make matters worse, we were harassed by our landlord and threatened with eviction when we brought the problem to their attention. We spent weeks in fear that we were going to lose our home. In the end, we lost our deposit, spent $3000 treating everything we owned, and had to move to our current apartment with less than three days' notice. The entire thing was a nightmare, and given my past -- I've often been in situations where the roof over my head was tenuous -- I was in a constant state of panic for two weeks straight at least.
Since moving to our new apartment in November, I've been super-paranoid about the bugs. I change my bedsheets often, and each time I vacuum the mattress. I feel my heart rate rise every time I see some little crumb that could possibly be a bedbug. I had been relaxing about it lately, though, because I figured if we hadn't seen any sign of them in 8 months, we should be fine. And as soon as I let my guard down ... bam. (This has done nothing to ease my phobia.)
Immediately I went into "battle mode." We told them we had bugs when we moved in... well, that was stupid. They're going to blame us and all the cost will be our responsibility. We can't afford it. We're going to be kicked out. We're going to lose our home again.
Matt says we'll be okay. That's what I needed to hear... "It will all be okay. Don't worry." And my rational mind knows this. My rational mind knows damn well that whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger and that if I got through this shit once, I can do it again. Besides, this time we are doing business with a reputable rental company. It's not like dealing with the slum lord we had before.
But I talked to our rental agent, and he said that it was our fault. There's no way they're paying for an exterminator, and we better take care of it before they spread to the next unit. Well, what if we can't afford it? I mean, you could kick us out, but you'd still have bugs and you'd still have to treat the building anyway. So we're at a stalemate.
I just wish we'd omitted the bed bug story when we had rented in the first place. We were understandably concerned and did not want a repeat experience.
We're going to lose our home. We just can't get rid of all the bedbugs. They're just going to keep coming back, and no one will rent to us because the rental company will tell them. It's like having a communicable disease. It's not our fault, but we're being blamed. What the fuck are we going to do?
With Matt out-of-town, I just had to stop thinking about it. I am just not able to conjure the strength to deal with this shit on my own. I'm itchy and miserable. Yesterday I didn't even put clothes on. I left my room only to go to the bathroom and get food. I laid in my bed (which does not seem to be infested) and watched documentaries all day. I dissociated. I was ten years old. The one thing that cheered me up was that I got my new wolf plushie in the mail, and I clung to it and napped.
Then, today, I was able to get out of the house, and, thank the gods, my shrink refilled my anti-anxiety meds. I realise that I haven't done anything that I had thought of doing when Matt went out of town. I was going to fix his trousers and work on digitally restoring his parents' old wedding photos. Have I even touched those things? No. I just shut down.
I think that at this point, I am willing to concede that there is something wrong in terms of my meds. I am cycling harder than I have in quite some time, and I am absolutely not functional when left alone for more than 48 hours without actual, face-to-face human interaction. I am unable to break through the heaviness of the depression, which seems to weigh me down like a sodden wool coat. It's just easier to sit down and do nothing, zone out, get as far away from emotion as possible. I can't seem to focus, even for a moment, on artistic pursuits. I have even lost interest in some of the silly stuff I do-- internet games, writing fan fiction, chatting on Facebook.
I'm going to preface this next paragraph by saying that I'm not feeling it. I don't get this kind of thinking, and I don't think it's this simple. But at this point, I'm willing to try anything. My therapist suggested that instead of asking my gods for help, I should thank Them for what I need as if it has already come to pass. I find this idea rather presumptuous and counter-intuitive. She insists that it's a test of how much faith I really have in my gods. (Boy, did that get my hackles up.)
So, here goes nothing.
Odin, thank You for the wisdom you have given me to see my way through this dark time in my mind.
Freyja, thank You for Your protection in my battles with the forces of doubt and despair. Thank You for Your love.
Thor, thank You for the cleansing rains and blustering winds that scour the filth of apathy from my mind and allow me to forge new creations with newfound strength and inspiration.
Sigyn, thank You for imparting Your serene patience and comfort, as One who understands and appreciates loss as mortals could scarcely understand.
Loki, thank You for Your light in the darkness, Your laughter and Your tricks. Thank You for giving me the strength to fight on, to vanquish fear, to come back to ritual, to make things in Your honour, and most of all, keep the Hearth Fire lit in my own home.
Hail the Aesir!
Hail the Vanir!
Hail all the Gods of Old!
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