Quick update on Red Dog – he’s splintless and coneless as of this morning. The wound has closed completely but still looks a bit sore, and he’s favoring the leg after not walking on it for 3 weeks, but otherwise is extremely glad to be rid of all his extras.
My depression is still with me for the most part. When I get engrossed in good TV or a work project I forget about myself for a while. I’ve been on an SSRI for quite a while now but it doesn’t prevent depression and anxiety completely.
The thought that keeps coming to me is this: I’m not comfortable with comfortable.
Perhaps things are going too well. I’m on the lookout for the next giant boulder or anvil that’s going to come flying off the cliff anytime now.
If I can just keep my focus off of myself I won’t have to feel whatever it is I’m keeping myself from feeling. If I can focus on an external issue (money, work, the fact that my car needs washing) or someone else and their issues and the way I feel about them (dog, mother-in-law, all the sadness in the IF blogosphere), I will be safe.
My earliest memories of my mother are about her being sick. Having to be quiet during her daily naps, not being able to do this or go somewhere because she wasn’t feeling up to it. If you told her you had a headache, she would say something like, "I've had a headache since 1974, and it feels like someone is stabbing me in the head with an icepick." She would happily prattle on about her various ailments to anyone who would listen (or who was trapped by a line in a supermarket or elevator and forced to listen). My sister and I called this Seven Major Illnesses Time. She’s spent her entire life going from one medical crisis to another. Once she’s healed or gotten over something, she’ll come up with something else that takes her back to the doctor, gets her another prescription or (best of all) onto another operating table. She’ll keep getting referrals to another specialist until somebody agrees to cut her open. A couple of years ago she became convinced that she’s diabetic and now checks her blood sugar many times a day even though the diagnosis is still “borderline” – she’s a fucking genius. I thought for a while she was just addicted to painkillers, which I’m sure is true, but she’s really addicted to the attention and doesn’t know how to get it any other way. She also loves to be the martyr and play the sympathy card, and well, who doesn’t feel bad for someone who feels bad? When my brother died last year it was her Golden Ticket, her ace in the hole to always win the Whose Life Sucks Most contest.
I have very little tolerance for myself feeling bad, can ya tell? I do not want to be like her in any way. I hate going to the doctor, so making the decision to enter the world of ART was a difficult one. How’s that for irony, eh? Well irony can take a flying leap. As my good friend C says, I hate ironing.
I will work on being more comfortable with being comfortable, and try to stop wondering when I’m going to crash my car on my way home from work or when that anvil is going to find me. It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.