One of the biggest problems I’ve had the last four years (OK, longer than that but I can’t remember when it started) is figuring out time. Time management, time projections, time allocation. Looking back, that began due to a combination of boredom with my former dayjob, undiagnosed ADD and increasing pain.
Even though the combo of Cymbalta, Neurontin and Flexeril I now take every day keeps pain at a lower ebb, I can no longer work full time, or even out of the house for that matter (unless someone knows of a job I can do part-time in a recliner?). That lack of externally imposed structure makes it even harder for me to regulate my behavior according to my needs and commitments. Just having a pill schedule isn’t enough. Nor is the hard-won knowledge of how bad the pain will get if I don’t maintain regular sleep, hydration and activity. Word on the street is that Cymbalta can increase apathy and anxiety, while Neurontin and Flexeril have a sedating effect. I’ve found it’s possible to be stoned and sleepy, yet anxious at the same time, which I guess any paranoid pothead could have told me. And you’d think that apathetic is the opposite of anxious, but somehow I cycle though both those mental states to varying degrees most days, further confusing any vestigial memory of how to accomplish what I want to get done.
A time for everything and everything in its time would be nice. If there were a discrete organelle in my brain that handled the fourth dimension, it would be undifferentiated, hemorraging mush. So for now, time is broken. At least I’m still here to bitch about it.
“I try so hard to convince myself that I am not ill, that I am not truly suffering, that I am keeping it all together. This is the opposite of compassion, is it not? This denial only keeps me from taking care of myself. It is the “push through” method, and it doesn’t work.”
I would so very much like for the “push through” method to work. It did for years, to an extent. And yet, crazy = doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. Expecting the results I want instead of the results I’ve gotten so far, doing the same thing over and over again, hammering away at every problem like I never learned how to use a paintbrush or a suture needle or a rotary blade or a shotgun. I’m afraid. What if I put down the crazy hammer of denial and have nothing to pick up in its stead? Been a long damned time since I studied Shotokan, or even Bujinkan. I prefer blades for their surety to easily broken fingers, but the lack never stopped me from punching at all the really hard things, no matter how much it hurt. Which takes me right back to my default.
Mom: I haven’t heard from you in over a week.
Me: I’m recovering from having my neck zapped, remember?
Mom: Well, you could still call your mother.
Me: Well, you’re a nurse, you should know better.
Mom: Not about that.
Me: You knew I had a painful surgical procedure that leaves me screwed up for a few weeks afterward. That calls for a pretty generic response in the “How To Be A Mom Who Is Also A Nurse” handbook, and your phone works fine, so there’s no reason you couldn’t have called me in the last TEN days to see how I’m doing.
Mom: … (starts yelling at my stepdad to put the dog down)