Therapy burnout, and some other stuff

I don't want to go to therapy today.

Don't get me wrong. I really like my therapist, but I have been seeing her an average of once per week for well over a year, and I feel I'm getting burned out. She's also my husband's therapist, and my in-laws' therapist, and the therapist of a friend I had a falling-out with. She maintains perfect professional distance, but after all this time, it's starting to feel a little incestuous. I think I want to continue to see her for marital sessions with Matt, but I'm thinking of finding another practitioner for myself. I feel kind of bad. She's worked really hard with me, and I have made progress, but I've been stagnating. I think a fresh start with someone else might help me. After all, I'm moving on with my life, and my priorities are changing. I hope she understands. I think she will.

So I'm convinced this depression stuff over the last couple of months has been entirely chemical. I'm on three different medications that make me sensitive to sunlight, and oh, look, it's been sunny most of the time. I have no energy to do stuff during the day, and at night, when Matt goes to bed, I tend to just screw around on the computer.

There is hope, though. I have started up physical therapy again, and this helps both the pain and with having a routine. I always feel so accomplished when I finish a workout. I also have a couple of friends who want me to do some work for them. One friend wants me to do some more clerical work for him. I had flaked out on it because of the depression, but he is entirely understanding. We had lunch on Sunday, and I explained to him that I need the work broken down into bite-size chunks, and reminders to get it done. We agreed that's what he'd do for me. The other friend wants me to restore a damaged vintage photo in Photoshop, and I'm really looking forward to working on that. It's been some time since I've gotten to put my artistic skills to good use.

Marcon (a science fiction convention) is coming up in a couple of weeks, and it's a place I always feel at home. It's great to see old friends and make new ones. Then, a couple weeks after that, I get to see my girlfriend for the first time since Christmas. So, I have quite a bit to look forward to. I just need to concentrate on one thing at a time, instead of letting everything get to me.

A few things have happened to upset me in the last few days. My mother adopted a couple of kittens, and they both died. I feel kind of angry, because I'm almost certain I could have saved at least one of them, but I also feel bad for her, because she really tried. She called me last night just as Matt and I had gotten to the pub to watch what would be the final Blue Jackets game of the season. I'm actually surprisingly sad about them being out of the playoffs. I've never gotten quite this emotional over a sports team before. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I associate hockey with Matt, and the time we spend together. It's been quite an emotional roller-coaster, during the playoffs. So much excitement, and then, bam, it's over. Kaput. Am I weird? At least hockey season is ridiculously long, and off-season only lasts until September.

I haven't thought much about theoretical baby as of late. It's like I pulled back into my child mode for a while, but I am starting to come out of it again. Hey, making a human is scary as shit. All the changes that will take place, all the things I will have to change about my lifestyle are intimidating. But I'm not even pregnant, yet, and as I've said before, I'm leaving it in the hands of the gods, and not trying too terribly hard until I find out what's up with my back surgery.

I guess that's it for now.

Why I hate Easter.

There were two things that were always guaranteed at Easter in my youth: arguments, and my mother's shitty potato salad. Every year, my parents would get me up to go to church. They'd argue on the way there. They'd argue on the way back. We'd go to my paternal grandmother's house, and my mother wouldn't want to be there, and she'd let everyone know about it. We'd go to my great grandmother's house for dinner, and there would be ham, and more shitty potato salad, and more arguing. At least at Christmas, there were gifts to distract everyone from sniping at each other, and I could stay in my pajamas all day (we'd usually go to church the night before) and no one would care. On Easter, I had to get all dressed up in uncomfortable clothes, and dragged around by the adults. Ugh.

This year, I made a point to celebrate Ostara when it's meant to be celebrated, so my spring holiday was more than a month ago already. Matt is out driving today. I'm actually both relieved and annoyed by this. On one hand, I don't have to pretend to celebrate a holiday that is meaningless to me. On the other hand, most other people are celebrating while I am home alone in my pajamas watching things go terribly wrong for Manchester United. I guess I can't win.

At least all the chocolate and Peeps will go on sale tomorrow. And there's no shitty potato salad.

The spirit is willing ... (TMI warning)

I went back to physical therapy today. I think a regular schedule of physical therapy (twice a week) is going to be challenging for me, but I did it before, so I know I can do it. What frustrates me is that my insurance wants three months of intensive therapy before they will consider my surgery again, and both my surgeon and my physical therapist agree that I absolutely need surgery. I haven't thought about the surgery for a while, probably because the idea still scares me, and I need to face facts. As I've said before, all the physical therapy in the world isn't going to make my disk grow back, and if I don't get the surgery, the stress on the surrounding disks is only going to get worse. And, when I finally get the surgery I need, I will have to start physical therapy all over again. It will take a long time to heal.

The most difficult part of this is that I know I need to put any thoughts of trying for a baby on hold until I am fully recovered from surgery, and that could be over a year. After my physical therapist finished my evaluation, I realized that I am in no shape to be carrying a child right now. My range of motion has again diminished, and my core strength is poor. Adding the strain of a pregnancy is clearly not in my best interest, or in the child's best interest. I suppose I could go ahead with my pregnancy plans and, assuming I got pregnant within a couple of months, put off the back surgery until after I had the baby, but that would come with a whole host of other problems. No, it seems that the most reasonable course of action, for the moment, is to resume "safe sex" until I get my spine sorted out. I can't take any kind of hormonal birth control, but I'm not willing to go back to condoms, so I guess I'll just avoid sex on my fertile days, which I've been keeping track of.

I'm extremely frustrated right now. I had geared myself up, almost a year ago, for the possibility of surgery. I jumped through the required hoops. Then, I was denied. I mentally breathed a sigh of relief, because I am afraid of the procedure, but the result was that I ignored the pain and lapsed on my exercises. (No wonder I haven't felt like doing much.) Then, I had an epiphany that I want to have a baby with Matt, and I further pushed my physical well-being out of my mind. I never discussed my degenerative disk disease at length with my gynecologist, only the medications I was on. I wasn't thinking. Smack. Another reality check.

I suppose all I can do is make a plan. If I want to be healthy for my theoretical child, and I want to have a healthy baby, I need to take care of myself, first. If that means waiting longer, that's what I need to do. But the screech of my biological clock is becoming deafening. I really feel like I don't have a lot of time to waste. At this point, I'd probably be looking at giving birth at the age of 38 or 39, and I am thinking, "Do I really want to be a senior citizen by the time my child graduates high school?" Matt is younger, of course, but I am really feeling my age.

I'm fighting the urge to hate myself. How dare you think you could ever have a baby? How dare you think you could ever be normal? What were you thinking, you idiot!? I feel stupid. I feel disappointed in myself, angry at my body, annoyed at my inconvenient urges and shortening time on this earth. I don't know what else to do but trust in the gods. If it's meant to be, it's meant to be. If not, there's nothing I can do, and I must find other things to be grateful for.

Why I'm depressed.

I have been dealing with a depressive episode... again. It isn't as striking or severe as the one I had before starting Latuda, but it's an annoying reminder that even when meds are working, they aren't going to fix everything. I've been extremely tired, and have lacked motivation to get out and do things. I've pushed myself to do things anyway, but I've still canceled as many things as I've completed. This includes my physical therapy evaluation. When I start to put off or neglect things that will help me in the long run, I am in danger of backsliding. I can't let that happen. In fact, I am going to call them right now to reschedule. RIGHT NOW. Hold on. BRB.

...

Okay. Rescheduled for Monday the 14th at 11:45. Anyway. I'm having body image problems. I'm a fat girl, and that doesn't usually bother me much, but my new meds have caused me to gain even more weight, and this is not cool. I'm fat, but my weight has been stable for years. Anyone will tell you that when your clothes stop fitting, and there's not a really good reason for it (like pregnancy or getting really buff or turning into a dragon), it's depressing. I need to get out and exercise more, I need to walk, I need to get into the pool, I need to get back to physical therapy, I need to do all this stuff, and it's overwhelming. I can't just sit on my ass getting fatter, especially not when I'm trying to have a baby.

Do I really, really want a baby? I've been wondering about that, too. This month, I was relieved I wasn't pregnant. I think I'm still not ready. Then again, I'm also not ready to start treating sex like a sterile operation again. I don't know. My head is in a million different places. I look at people with children, and my inner reaction vacillates between adoration and disgust. It's like the old me is trying to break through, and ruin everything. Or save me. I'm honestly not sure. This all became awfully real awfully fast. Maybe I need more time to think about it. At any rate, I'm definitely not pregnant right now, so I still have the option to sort things out. It's funny, because when I talk about it, I get excited about the prospect of having a child with Matt, and being pregnant. When I am alone, though, even for a minute, all the old fears come back. My private brain still wants to sabotage any chance I have of being a parent. Despite all of this, I see it as a journey I need to take. Even if I never get pregnant, I need to reconcile the idea of me being a mother.

Mother. What a word. Until that word no longer makes me cringe, I am still going to have issues with the idea of parenthood. Maybe it will take the personal experience of actually raising a child to break me out of the ideas that limit me. It's all just fear, anyway. Some of it is justified, most of it isn't, but all of it can be dealt with. I feel like I need to talk about it more. I feel like I need to talk about it with Matt, and not just keep my fears inside. Yet, fear, by its very nature, hides like a creeping demon, protecting itself with its victim's own anxiety. Well, I don't want to give birth to a demon, or feed it with my worry. So I need to drag it into the open.

What does the word "mother" mean to me?

Oppression.
Repression.
Authoritarian.
A domineering attitude.
Smothering.
Passive-aggressive behavior.
Anxiety.
Worry.
Sadness.
Anger. So much anger.
Shame and guilt.
The child being a burden.

When I associate all of these negative things with motherhood, why would I want to be one? The obvious answer is that I know these things don't have to be true. Maybe if I work on consciously countering these things with positive ideas, I can get over it.

Openness.
Nurturing.
Friendship.
Respect.
Protection.
Communication.
Calm.
Concern.
Happiness.
Love.
Encouragement.
The child being a gift.

I'll work on it.

On to a different topic. When I was 12 years old, I went to a community theatre camp. It was the one thing I was allowed to do every summer that I truly enjoyed. The camp was a place where I felt free to be myself and explore my talents. It was also the place where I first fell in love. Oh, it was unrequited, just the sort of love you'd expect an overly-sheltered, over-sexed 12-year-old girl to be afflicted with. His name was Rick. He was sixteen, and he was perfect. He played the piano, and danced, and sang. He was brilliant. He was on his way to college when the drunk driver hit his car head-on, and paralyzed him from the neck down. I never forgot him. I never stopped being angry at the driver, who was out of jail and driving less than two years later. That man had taken away Rick's life. He'd taken away my ideal. At the time, I did everything I could to support him. There was a special production put on that year, in order to raise money for a van that would accommodate Rick's wheelchair. I got the word out, ushered at the performances. No one knew the extent of my pain, because, being too young, no one took my adoration for Rick seriously.

My mother emailed to tell me that Rick died on Friday. And I keep thinking, the drunk driver who hit him is still living out his life. Can it be considered murder, now? Can we go back and charge him with Rick's death, and throw him in jail, or at least prevent him from ever driving again? Of course not. And it's none of my business. It was twenty-two years ago.

For twenty-six years, I have thought of Rick every day, in one way or another. He never knew how much he meant to me, how much of an inspiration he was. After the accident, he became very bitter for a while, but eventually decided to give his life to the Church. He joined the parish I had been a part of when I was little. I saw him maybe twice after the accident. I remember his smile. Smiling was the only thing he could do, but he was still really good at it. Despite the pain in his eyes, despite the sadness and bitterness, his smile shone on. It shines now in my memory.

I'm glad he's at peace, now. I wish I could do something, reach out to his family, but they wouldn't know me at all. I don't want to be a creep. It was bad enough when I sent him a picture of myself back when he was in the hospital. Way back when I thought he'd just get better, and learn to walk and dance and sing and play the piano again. I like to think that his spirit is dancing again. That his spirit-body is perfect and beautiful, just as it once was. But I am still having trouble letting go of the anger at the man, whose name I don't even know, who took Rick's life. That incident contributed to my own fear of driving, and is the reason I have zero sympathy for anyone who gets behind the wheel impaired by alcohol or any other substance.

Anyway, I think I've done a pretty good job at getting all the stuff down that's contributing to my depression at the moment. There are a few other things, but I've hit my limit.