Another 24 Hours.

I'm still here. Josh noted that when I am ill, my eyelids are smoother. This seems very strange, but I noticed it in the mirror. Are they swollen? Do I not open them normally? I don't know. 

I told Bruce that none of the seeds I'd planted over the previous twenty-four hours had seemed to do anything, but I'm still planting. Bruce said it will grow into something that can help me climb out of the way I'm feeling. I told him that most of what I did was really basic maintenance, what I have to do to be okay on a daily basis. I said I was looking for more I could do. So, I tried to do more. Intensive care.

• I asked Josh to make me Ramen instead of skipping dinner. It's not great nutrition, and I may have swallowed the noodles without chewing them, but I ate something.
• I hummed "Waltz for Eva and Che."
• I thought about the lyrics: "How can you be so short-sighted/to think no further than this week or next week/to have no impossible dream?" or something like that. It reminded me of the time I saw my thesis advisor at the college where I worked (he had come for a reading). I told him I was teaching full-time and I was pregnant, so all of my dreams had come true. He gave me a serious gaze and said, "Never."
• I sent my blog post to those three people again.
• I listened when Josh said that writing is who I am, and that to destroy my writing would deprive the world, and that this blog should be a book...even though I didn't believe it. 
• I asked Josh to rub my shoulders and talk to me.
• I grinned at my son and spoke sweetly to him, calling him by his little love names.
• I showed Josh the sticker books I ordered with Amazon Christmas money from my grandparents. Mermaids and pink and purple self-care.
• I drank Glacier Freeze Gatorade Zero.
• I cut my toenails even though I really didn't want to, and I hate the word toenails. But I also didn't want to see my uncut toenails.
• I took a shower and washed my hair with philosophy Pumpkin Icing gel. I could kind of smell it.
• I spent a few extra minutes in the shower, the water against my lower back, where I carry most of my tension.
• I opened a new deodorant instead of scraping my armpits with a nearly empty stick. I also hate the word armpit. 
• I fixed the blankets. This may not sound like much, but the blankets are heavy, one had fallen all the way to the floor, and I had to run around the bed a few times. But I can't stand messy blankets.
• I didn't make myself dry off (seriously? Too hard) after my shower; I just got in bed damp. Pajamas later.
• I started another blog post.
• I typed S into the tags space and saw so many topics I've written about on this blog.
• I looked again at the Studio Strand merch and filled a dream cart with bookstore shirts, magnets, stickers, keychains, and notebooks. Of course, I didn't check out.
• I reminded myself of the Studio Strand tote bag wedged between Josh's desk and the rainbow nonfiction bookcase. It holds my Christmas presents.
• I thought about the presents I will give Josh.
• I thought about our trip to New York City a couple of years ago. Josh described the memory, today in a long E-mail, as a magical cloak.
• I looked at the Cinderella print I love: Cinderella just transformed, still sparkling with magic against a dark blue night, on blue-and-white-striped matting in a white wooden frame above my dresser. I remembered that I found a tiny love note taped to the glass last week.
• I tried not to clench my teeth.
• I looked into my closet at all my pink tops and my three pairs of shorts with stars on them.
• I looked at my Madame Alexander Cisette doll Violette, who looks as if she just stepped out of the flagship Sephora on her way to a Broadway show. She probably has a swanky apartment. Her gray jacket is trimmed with faux fur and purple ribbon. Of course, she has a silver silk blouse and a gray brocade skirt underneath.
• I smiled (just a little) at the leaning tower of books, journals, and magazines by my bed, which Josh stacked in his attempt to vacuum my She Leaves a Little Sparkle Wherever She Goes rug. I'm messy, and a week ago, I had dreams.
• I did not feel like dumping all my pretty things in the foyer to gather dust.
• I remembered how Josh once said "The Perfect One" by Lit reminded him of me.
• I tried again not to clench my teeth. It's a real problem.
• I thought about Christmas. I'm still kind of looking forward to it, even if I'm still too physically sick to travel.
• I graded student journal entries, which didn't exactly put me in a good mood but was a good distraction.
• I took a bath--with Eucalyptus Spearmint bubbles this time.
• I messaged with Megan, who is also dealing with terrible illness and terrible timing. And she's hilarious and good at getting mad (or not, depending on my mood) on my behalf.
• I showed Josh a meme that made him say, "That's fantastic," which is one of my favorite things to hear. I ignored the fact that he was 90% asleep at the time.
• I took my night meds, NyQuil (I snore less), and Trazodone.
• I cleaned and wore my nightguard for the clenching.
• Though I could have done so much more, I turned off the light at 10:30.
• While I tried to fall asleep, I had a sad thought that wouldn't help me. I whispered, "I'm not going to think about that."
• I got up at 6 and sat with Josh. We rewatched my current favorite Key and Peele sketch. https://youtu.be/hhfHu6IHBiI?si=BIY_3Bw7bhzZZrA2
• I took ibuprofen, Sudafed, and my morning meds.
• I smiled, watching my cat, Starry, pawing Josh's leg for pets.
• I drank the iced peppermint mocha Josh brought home.
• I ate the last donut.
• I opened the shutters, positioned myself so the sun was in my face, and took a sunshine nap with Josh.
• I got a call back from my PA's admin and left an actual message for my PA.
• I watched the Key and Peele sketch again.
• I scribbled while Josh worked out.
• I showered before noon (this is a goal on my daily chart--remote worker stuff).
• I ate the turkey, gouda, and pesto sandwich Josh made me.
• I lay across Josh's lap while he tickled my back with both hands.
• I did marriage counseling with Josh.
• I spoke more than usual in marriage counseling. 
• I ate a Christmas tree cake and drank Dr. Pepper.
• I got back in bed with Josh and snuggled (Thursday has been our day together this semester).
• I set up an appointment with my PA for 10 a.m. tomorrow. 
• While Josh went to pick up Oliver, I lit three candles downstairs: Spiced Cinnamon Vanilla in the living room, Merry Cookie in the study, and Vanilla Bean Noel in the foyer, all so that the house would smell good when the boys got home.
• I scribbled in my Italian, black and gold, celestial journal while sitting on the pink velvet loveseat with Josh.
• I opened a new ink (#14--I'm actually on the right day!) from my Diamine Inkvent calendar: Rainbow's End, a chameleon ink that is purple with pink glitter.
• With Josh's help, I found 18 photos in which I'm truly happy (not just smiling for the camera--in some, I'm not smiling at all). They span the last 18 years. In many of them, I'm holding Oliver. In almost all of them, I'm smiling at Josh. He took every photo but one.
• Though my self-regard has not (yet) recovered, I haven't had any self-destructive impulses.

Today was better than yesterday. 

One Year.

 This week hasn't been easy for Josh. Yesterday marks one year since I last went to the ER for myself. That was the night of my suicidal intent. I don't think of it as an attempt because I never took any pills or used the razor. But I think everyone else thinks of it as a suicide attempt, and I can understand that. I did write notes. 

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I all but gave up. Suicidality is a hard thing to forgive. I know this. And with fear, I remember how gone I was. I was all hurt and dread with no end. For those minutes, that hour, everything else was gone. Hope was certainly gone. Integrity was gone. Responsibility was gone. Even love was gone. It is the ultimate selfishness. I was no longer a person but a void. 

But I didn't hurt myself. I was still talking to my best friend, texting. He said GET JOSH NOW and I did. I showed him everything. He said, "You know you have to go to the hospital, right?" My friend came and took me there. My son was asleep.

I spent one night in the psych ER and two nights in the psych ward. I journaled with a blunt black crayon. I slept often. I went to group and individual counseling. I showed nurses my body, free of self-inflicted wounds or scars. I lifted my breasts so they could check underneath. 

That was a year ago. It hasn't been an easy year, but I've not come near where I was. I was deeply depressed through much of the winter, unable to do much but sleep. Showering was impossible some days. It's still hard. My son, most likely aware of my state, had major behavioral issues and anxiety. He hit and grabbed me often, leaving bruises up and down my arms. I couldn't fix myself. But I did not give up. My doctor prescribed a new medication. And another. And another. I took my meds, went to telehealth therapy sessions, dragged myself forward. 

I track my daily overall moods with colorful hexagon stickers. Last month, only two or three days were blue for depression. Only one day was brown for mania. My illness is in check. Josh and I are connecting better than we have in years if not ever. My son is now going to a school just for kids with autism, and he's now on a medication that dramatically decreases his anxiety and limits his meltdowns. He hasn't bruised me in a long time. 

I look out. I look forward. At least once a day, I just want to hide in bed. I buy too many pretty little things as if I'm trying to embroider the tatters and anchor myself to the physical world. I play loud music to distract me from the exhausting and anxious task of taking care of myself, of showering, of dressing, of putting on eyeliner on a good day. I show Josh my mood charts. I coach myself, often through writing, on every step of every day. Now, I can pick up my son from school. I can do a load of laundry. And I've been taking writing classes that show me I still exist, that I still have substance and intelligence and passion. I read books even though it's often like scraping my brain.

I'm not all better, and I probably never will be. But I am okay. I get many glimpses of better-than-okay. I get lonely. I get scared of what I have to do, whether it's an online meeting with Oliver's therapist or a trip to the grocery store. Sometimes, I wonder what the point is. The days keep coming on. But I don't live in dread anymore. I see hope and beauty and humor. I'm glad I'm here. Most of my days are pale pink for hopeful. 

We're all traumatized, and a chunk of that is my fault. Death has been an airborne infection. But I'm alive. I plan on being alive next year when this hard time comes again. I plan on saying I'm sorry, and I plan on forgiving myself. Forgiveness isn't a one-time endeavor. Forgiveness is a cycle, something I have to replenish, to choose again and again. I'm ever in a present progressive state of forgiving myself and everyone else. 

But I'm one year away from it now.