Today, I feel sad. And I hate it.
I feel sad more than anyone knows though. I don't know who to talk to anymore. The other day, I mentioned something to my mom, who has been my most patient and non-tiring listener. I said it, and then....the conversation died. I couldn't help but feel that even with her, I've used up my talking about it time.
The funny thing is, that since IZ died, I really haven't talked about it much. Partly from me, because truthfully, it hurts so much that denial seems like exquisite relief, but also because nobody really asked. I think everyone thought I was already a pro at the grief stuff. I can't help but feel every one's tiredness with my whining. Even here, my supposed outlet, I don't let it out fully. After all, I have A. Why can't I just appreciate that and quit being sad about what I don't have?
I wish it were that easy for me.
It has been almost a year since IZ died, and I really, really wish I felt better. I've been reading this memoir about a woman with a drinking problem. She was very functioning and was successful at her job. She has long paragraphs in her book about about her outside life, the one everyone saw, and her inside life, the one she was dealing with. I couldn't help but see myself in those descriptions even though I don't drink.
I think I'm a good mother. I do all the things you are supposed to do. And I do laugh and have a good time with A. Sometimes though, maybe every couple of weeks, I feel like I could be so much more. More happy, more joyful, more patient. I want my outside to match my inside more often than it does.
This post over at Glow in the Woods about the grief vs. depression question struck a strong chord in me. Honestly, I think I could use some help this time around. But, my visit with a therapist after M died left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and I can't quite seem to move on from it. I'll try to sum it up quickly.
After barely talking to me, I got sent to a prescribing doctor who quickly gave me anti-depressants. The therapist kept calling M a miscarriage. Someone from the office accidentally put down that I was there for bi-polar disorder, a label on my chart that followed me through several other doctor appointments, even though I kept calling and asking them to fix it. I quit going, quit the anti-depressants even though the doctor, kept telling me I needed them. (in hindsight, I don't think I did at all, it was just grief) On my first doctors appointment for IZ, I saw the bi-polar label. I called once again was assured that it was removed. At the next doctors appointment, sure enough, the computer screen was clear. Then, when IZ died and I got sent to an outside clinic to remove him, the nurse practitioner says, "how is your bi-polar disorder?" I take a look at the paper copies of my medical chart they were sent, and there it is, once again. I still haven't sorted that out.
Whew. There you have it. On top of that, I keep thinking, well, what the hell can they do anyway? They can't solve it. So.....what's the point? Even though I know those thoughts don't help me either.
I go through long periods where I can quickly think of all the reasons A is lucky to be an only child. All the pluses. But then I have a week or two where I just can't accept what's happened, and I am miserable. In those weeks, I think all the time I was feeling better were fake. I was only pretending.
Tell me, how can anyone, any drug make this seem better for me? It happened. I have to live with it. Somehow. Sometimes I can't figure out how. It sucks, but maybe this is just my life.
Maybe a drug would give me little more pep in the morning. Make it easier to deal when things got a little rough, like when A gives me such a hard time about brushing her teeth or changing her diaper. Because sometimes it feels like every ounce of energy goes towards feeling okay
and I don't have anything left for those normal bumps in life. Maybe a drug would help me feel more real joyful and not so forcing it joyful.
And, round and round my mind goes.
What is the right answer? What should be my expectations at this point in the journey? My expectations for people listening to my pain? My expectations for happy?
I can't figure it out.