I'm also still trying to get all my energy back. I feel thirty years older than I am, but I'll get back to normal eventually. People have always told me I am strong; I don't always feel strong but I do pride myself on having an outlook that can help me see, if not the good or the positive in any situation, at least than what other things I can look around and say, okay, I have this, I am grateful for this, things are okay. That is pretty much how I handle everything.
The other night, I was driving through sudden floodwaters here in Pennsylvania, and in the space of ten seconds I went from having water only on the road where it's supposed to be to my car suddenly being immersed in water, such that the water was mid-way up the doors (from what I could see, I didn't feel it appropriate to get out of the car and measure it). It was high enough to make me wonder if I was going to be completely submerged, but only for a split second. This is Southeastern Pennsylvania, not that horrible TV movie I saw when I was an impressionable child about the time that some sort of mass flood surrounded the earth and Barbara Eden had to save everybody but she couldn't and people died and stuff. I saw that movie almost 40 years ago, you guys. I only watched it because Jeannie was in it, but it tricked me. Scarred for life.
It was time to give my car, Frank the Camry, a pep talk. There were people ahead of me, there were people behind me, there were people in literally more dire straights going in the opposite direction, but all I was focused on was pushing through the waters. I slowed down enough to give myself room so that I wouldn't hit the guy in front of me, and I said to my car, "Frank, what do we say to getting immersed in water? Not today." And we fought and pushed ourselves through the water. We were doing pretty well, but then I heard something crack underneath Frank.
At first, I was worried than I ran over something, but once I was on dry land again (literally five minutes later), I could hear this horrible scraping noise under the car. Once I parked, I was able to assess the situation. The big piece of black plastic that hangs between the bumper and the undercarriage had been ripped in half by all the water pressure, and it was now dragging on the ground. I called the car place I go to the next day and asked if they could either take the plastic thing off or shove it somehow back together, and just add it to the list of charges for all the work I have to have done, and they said they would. They took it off, and then let me know that my bumper was now, in fact, loose.
Yay.
So, I can now add that to the lsit of things that need o be done, to the taxes, the medical bills, the vet bills, the contact lens check up, the medical diagnostics on myself that I haven't gotten done yet because eotionally I can't handle it (I know, I know, I'm going this week when I see my doctor so she can comfort me in case there's anything scary).
So that immediately brought the usual litany of scolding myself for being where I am financially at the age that I am, for not doing this, that, or the other differently, for feelign stuck. Taking me back to the feeling as a child I had when I was being teased at school, and I had to stay there around people who didn't like me and let me know it, stuck, and not able to improve my situation on my own. But I pulled back, and I told myself: You will be okay. You are safe. You are overwhelmed now, but we will get through one thing at a time.
Then I started thinking of all the good things. I love this car, and it's mine, and it's no less mine if it needs work, and all the work will get done one item at a time. I wasn't in a car accident. I did not go underwater. The rain had cooled things off so that the heat was dispelling and the asthma wasn't kicking me at that moment.
Usually, that process works really well. Which is why, I suppose, people have called me "strong." But when you have to be strong all the time, the little things, like broken plastic things under your car, start to feel overwhelming. I have never really addressed the idea that I have a tendency towards depression, and that is because I am honestly not sure how much of that is inherited, within me already, or a symptom of PTSD. I don't remember struggling with depression before my Mom's suicide, but that doesn't mean I didn't. I know I have always been called "oversensitive" but I have come to learn that just means I do not hide my emotions as well as others do, because I think people often react to things that could be perceived as "overreacting," but they just don't share it and you can't tell by looking at them. Whereas with me, you can.
Without writing what happened in case anyone I work with reads this, let's just say that I was made to feel bad today a few times. It wasn't that it felt like a personal attack; it was a personal criticism, in that I was told that what I was wearing was flawed. Or that I was flawed in what I was wearing. The reason it was flawed is because once I have gained weight and boy that crap isn't coming off as fast as it used to; so my clothes are tighter, and my skirts look shorter, which was the problem here. I don't have money at the moment to buy new clothes and shoes. Immediately, I was the 12 year old girl with glasses and literally no friends getting pushed off the school bus for being weird, and probably for looking weird (or poor, for these were a bunch of rich kids judging me, and this kind of thing happened a lot, and no kind grownup ever spoke up for me, because they were all in their own worlds.)
No wonder I judge myself.
So what I have to do, is find the balance between admitting my flaws, and being able to work on fixing them such as they are without judgment. This is either self=love, self-compassion, or acceptance, I suppose. Then, I have to also find a way to speak up for myself when I feel I need to. It seems that sometimes I can only speak up for myself when I'm angry. If I'm not angry, then I make excuses for the person or rationalize that I was somehow wrong.
A brilliant social media friend of mine posted the other day about a true-life experience she had with her depression. She said she gave her depression a name. Oh my God! I thought as I re-read the post. That is absolutely brilliant! What a creative way to try to accept myself!
And to continue to heal from all the stuff that has popped up from my hospitalization.
The writer in me immediately set about finding the perfect names for these emotional states. They're all TV characters.
I'd like you guys to meet my depression, Laverne. She likes beer and she's from New York.
I'd also like to introduce you to my anxiety, Rhoda. She loves a scarf, does Rhoda, and she is also from New York.
And finally, my PTSD. She loves coffee, and to talk. No big whoop. It's Linda Richman. She, also, is from New York.
Note to self: Explore the idea that maybe you wish you were from New York?
Don't worry you guys, i don't have disassociative or multiple personality disorder; I just have a creative mind and a determination to get through all these triggers, be good to myself, accept myself, and heal.
IF you liked this and want to talk about your own experiences with emotional struggle, write me here.
I still have the GoFundMe going. It's been hard to ask for help. And I know you're not judging me for it the way I have judged myself.
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