The Harrowed Heart

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  • A little secret…

    I don’t know how many of you have actually had to deal with any kind of trauma, and if you have, I’m sorry-it’s no bueno.

    And for those of you who haven’t, I sincerely hope you never have to struggle that way, and I want to let you in on a little secret about trauma. It’s probably one of the most under-talked about issues related to trauma: it changes your thought processes. All of them, even the little ones, even years later.

    For example: I had what I thought was a completely normal interaction with a colleague yesterday:

    They called to tell me a patient was headed my way. OK

    They said the patient needed customer service. OK

    They said what the patient’s issue was with their bill. OK

    Nothing out of the ordinary; I answered everything he told me with an OK, and didn’t think anything of it. The patient did come to my entrance for the customer service team, I got his name, let the team know he was there, and told him someone would be out to help him in just a moment. Standard response to anyone who comes in my doors. Helpful, understanding, and direct without being cold. I didn’t think anything else of it…until my supervisor told me we had to talk.

    Here’s part one of that thought process change: I felt a little anxiety but not too much. I knew I hadn’t done anything that would warrant a serious discussion or rebuke or write-up, none of that. And then I started thinking about every interaction I had had with every patient, co-worker, caller, and walk-in for the last 2 weeks. What did I do? What did I say? Was there a misunderstanding? And it went on. And nothing came to mind.

    My supervisor finally came over, just as I was about to send her a message with a funny meme about the things that keep us up at night, to ask her to come see me before my shift ended. So she walks in, and I shut down the music so I can give her my full attention and prepare myself to hear what I had done. Because it must have been something, right?

    She tells me that my colleague I spoke with, said I had a tone.

    I gave her a blank look, like, what? He said, through our lead-not the same as our supervisor-that I had a tone. So I told her about the conversation, that I only said OK… She said “is that all?” Yeah, that was it, such a mundane conversation that I didn’t even remember it initially.

    And here’s where it gets fun, part two: I’m calmer after she tells me what happens–a little frustrated that my direct approach is seen as too blunt, or aggressive, or mean. And, yes, that last one has been going around; said colleague even gave me a sticker that says: I’m not funny, I just say mean things and people think I’m joking–But I immediately start replaying the conversation again, and again wondering where I went wrong? Questioning myself and whether I actually had a tone. Or if there was any other way I could have responded without seeming like I had a tone.

    And the sticker is funny-I’ve learned to laugh at myself- but I’m not even saying mean things, I’m just saying it like it is. I’m particular about how things are done, a perfectionist, if you will. I have standards and a solid work ethic, and I expect the same from my co-workers. I’m not the best at explaining things and I don’t have a lot of patience after explaining the same 6 things 27 ways, to the same 2 people, but I’ve learned to be proficient in training others. I guess you could say I don’t suffer fools. I also know I come across a little sharper than I mean to, so I do actually put in effort to soften my edges-I know not everyone responds well my brand communication. And I make sure that people know that any sharp, brash, or short response is not a reflection of them, but of me and the things that I struggle with.

    I cannot expect people to have the same level of understanding that I have after 20-some-odd years in the industry. I know it take time, and some learn more quickly than others, and some will never pick it up. I know these things, and I still work to be sure that I am not negatively affecting their mental health. They shouldn’t feel bad because this role is not their strength and they cannot do this job, the way that I do. I emphasize when I’m training that ‘this is how I get this done, when you settle in, you’ll find your own way.”

    And this is what I still work through and still struggle with: I was more confident before-I knew I needed to work on the short-comings I mentioned, and I do-and I had more faith in my interactions then. Now I get to deal with anxious moments when someone is not happy, when they have a bad day and there is no reasoning with them, and when my words or actions are misunderstood or miscommunicated. Yes, I say that, because again, that conversation was so mundane I nearly forgot it.

    So, what I’m going to do now, is hear my supervisor when she told me earlier that this is nothing to be worried about. I’m going to trust that I acted in a professional manner-because I did-I’m going to remember I am damn good at my job, and trust that being direct, is not the same as being rude, or having a tone.

  • I’m ready now

    Way back when everything first happened and everyone kept asking: “What happened? How’s Kevin? Do you need anything? What happened? ” It was kind of exhausting…it felt like our life together had been reduced to the accident, and that no one realized that they were asking questions dozen’s of other people had asked, and that every single one of them hurt me. Every last one.

    So I wasn’t really interested in hearing others’ perspectives from that day. I think there are one or two there, but I can’t quite call them to memory. Kavi says that it’s normal I struggle with my memories while I was stuck in survival mode-trying every day to make sure my family had what they needed, take care of my Kevin, and go to work, because I had to get back to work. I realize now I was just using it as a means to stop thinking about the accident and how that backfired terribly. I struggled then to set my boundaries and tell people I didn’t want to talk about that. I was still processing.

    But I’m ready now. And asking questions. And sometimes, the story comes up organically.

    T– in the lab, for instance; she runs the lab. She’s actually the reason there was enough blood and plasma on hand to keep Kevin going. T– saw a need that needed met in case of a severe trauma and acted on it. It helped as Kevin lost twice his blood volume that day and depleted the supplies on hand.

    T– was telling me that the day of Kevin’s accident, she was out taking a walk near the hospital campus, but not necessarily in that direction, and wondering if she might be called in. At some point she got the call and rushed in. She went to the ED and ran into A–, an ED tech.

    We’re no stranger to A–, having needed his assistance several times as we needed to visit the ED for appendicitis, broken bones, jammed fingers, and abdominal pain. Kids. Anyways, A– was in the ED that morning and he stopped T–. T– says he pulled her into 1035, one of the larger observation rooms (I think) to talk to her. A– told her what happened and who the patient was, Kevin, and that they both cried a bit and hugged. Then they just tucked it away and got right back to work, jumped right back into the desperate fray that was saving Kevin.

    I still don’t know how they did that. I know I was way more invested, but I struggled to maintain my composure. I know, I know. What I mean though is I deal with the occasional difficult situations with patients and I struggle to tuck my deeper emotions aways, keep it impersonal. They are both amazing.

    Then there’s W–, Kevin’s boss. We were talking about the book Kevin wrote: a short story about his experience- and I let W– know that I had I hard copy I would lend him, otherwise, it was only available digitally.

    W– started to recall that day: he was traveling between our home and Denver and there’s a gas station they usually stop at; he was in that area when he got the call about Kevin, and it didn’t look good. I still remember the call W– place to me, as we were headed to Grand Junction, and I remember the emotion in his voice, and I chided him. I told him he needed to pull over and take a minute because it sounded like he was speeding and we didn’t need another casualty that day. I promised I would keep him posted.

    I mentioned to W– that he still sounded a little choked up, hoping to lighten the mood; his response surprised me. W– said he still has a hard time remembering that day, it was difficult, and then he mentioned it must still be hard for me, too. So I told him the truth.
    Yes, it is still hard but I’m better now sharing with people who mean something to us, to people we care about and who care about us, and in setting boundaries and telling other’s when I don’t want to talk about it.

    And now I want to know more, I’m ready to listen to their stories about that day. I plan to start asking all kinds of questions.

  • Feeling better

    Still on Alaska sleep.

    Or maybe fooling myself… don’t think I’ll ever sleep peacefully again. Too many thoughts clogging up brain space.

    But feeling better. Stronger.  Lighter. Still can’t wait until I can fall asleep before 2 am…getting there.  Baby steps.

    Had a thing a few days back… we were making the final leg back home,  last 15 miles or so before getting back into town.  I had been reading most of the drive but I always look up as we get close.

    Nothing much but the town I love before us and a small smile and deep breath crossing my features. Kevin said,  “There’s home .”

    This is nothing, right? But the way he said it? It took me back to our bedroom the first day he was home after the accident. For the briefest moment,  I was there again. 

    Fresh from the hospital,  the harrowing drive, the terrifying, death defying nail to the heart, the temporary, lingering grief from almost goodbye. We were standing in a moment I was too afraid to think I’d see.  “I’m home, ” he said.

    I broke. Cried. Panicked.  Grieved. Choked. And celebrated.

    I held it, the pain, the grief,  the memory.

    Deep breath in.

    Closed my eyes and slowly exhaled.

    Breathed. Let it go.

    I remembered the 9 agonizing nights I had to sleep away from him and thought,  “I never want to do that again.” Thought about the anxiety I feel thinking of spending a night away from him… my home. My peace.

    And that’s when it struck.

    It hurt because home is not a place.  It’s Kevin. 

    I’m safe where his heart beats.  Loved where his soul breathes.  Real where he holds me together.  Home is where Kevin is.

    I keep saying I’m not mean or selfish and I’m not. I’m real, particular, and rough around the edges. But I’m a big softy at heart.  So I’m tough but only because I learned a long time ago that being soft is a weakness. Not everyone deserves my vulnerable side.

    I’ve learned better.  I recognize that my heart on my sleeve is my greatest strength AND  I can be selective and selfish about who I share that with.

    But home is and has always been Kevin. Where he goes, I am.

  • Just … wow

    made it to Alaska!! It’s been amazing so far… and I’d just like to add… that last post was an anomaly. I had not been feeling like myself but I’m glad to say I’m starting to get there. This trip has helped.

    Tried to get to the gym on the AFB a day or 2 in but the system was down so I couldn’t get a guest pass. So what did my brilliant self decide? Just go for a run.

    Just. Go. For. A. Run.

    I’m in idiot. It hurt. Not the same as the elliptical, girl! NOT THE SAME. But I did that mile. Half running, half walking, Half crying. But I did it. And it felt good, until the pain set in

    So what did I do? I did it again the next day! Told myself it would help loosen the muscles up…say it with me guys… I’m an idiot! So much pain! But I think I’m going to start on the treadmill when I get home, might even take another little run tomorrow. We’ll see.

    so Alaska… we’ve been to Chena hot springs and soaked for a bit; visited an ice cave and had an apple-tini out of a glass made of ice-that was amazing; toured the AFB as visited Heritage Park and saw some old, awesome, and retired planes-it was a beautiful way to honor the past; and we’re returning from a trip to Denali National Park as I type.

    It was so beautiful; we took a short 2 mile hike along the Savage River and I took an amazing picture that nearly convinced me a move was imminent; Kevin, pancake, and I even did aore difficult and shorter hike up a mountain at the trail head there- all I’ll say is that Mirabel had a point when she said Bruno’s room was the worst- too many stairs! But we made it to the top and the view was unbelievable.

    We got to see a lot of wildlife, too: caribou, seagulls, dall sheep, hare, moose, tons of birds, and the cmon tourist was everywhere! It’s been a great day.

    The only blip was as we were coming off the last hike: the parks and wildlife personnel were seeing to three young children who appeared to be abandoned. No word yet on the full story, I’ll be looking for details to share, because, just…wow.

  • I’m not the same

    Right now I’m sitting in the DIA terminal waiting to catch a flight.

    So stoked for the trip. But missing a kid.

    Still happy. Still sad.

    Ready to be out but not to meet what it means. Tired of performing. When did I start doing that?

    I’m not ok. I told Kevin that today, “I don’t feel like me.”

    I also don’t know how to make it through.

    I’m still trying though. I’m not mean, or uncaring, or selfish.

    Right now, I’m looking around the terminal and no one is concerned about anyone else… they’re all in their phones, moving forward, forgetting their purpose.

    I weep for the world.

    I’m looking at these people and they seem angry. They don’t even know why they’re mad. But they’re there. Sitting. Waiting. Judging. Angry

    That’s not me. I’m not that person..

    I’m not the same, I’m better. I’m stronger. I’m here. I show up.

  • Trauma doesn’t tremble…

    … it breaks; it twists; it shatters; it make you doubt and question.

    And when its feeling settled, it breaks through without warning. That’s what happened tonight.

    I was finally getting to sleep, enjoying the novelty of actually being tired ang sleepy enough to surrender before 11; I closed my eyes and listened to the distant sound of a motorcycle passing, thinking what a great serenade, and that was my last thought.

    But pounding on my front door startled me out of bed and into a sprint minutes later; it was the sound of urgency that took me down the stairs-a flash of red lights seen through the window that spiked my fear and my fight or flight response.

    “Who is it?” I called. A hundred scenarios raced in my thoughts. My pancake (youngest child) was out camping with friends but my other children, were home.

    Was she OK? Was it my brother that prompted this late night visit? Kevin’s? One of my friends? Wtf is happening?

    “It’s me.” My son. He had gone out and had decided to walk.

    And this is where trauma is a pain in my ass… I jumped head first to worst case. I flashed through what I knew immediately before bed- pancake is camping, the vehicles belonging to my others kids are parked, Kevin is here-and I clocked an urgent pounding on my door and red lights out my window.

    Trauma response engaged.

    It’s been 20 minutes since then and here’s what happened and what I see now: the knocking wasn’t urgency-it was firm enough to wake someone to open the door; my son didn’t have his house key. The red lights outside-my son making sure the lock was engaged on his car before he came in. I can make out the outline and color now that I think on it a little.

    My heart was still racing so I curled into Kevin who briefly woke and reassured me I wasn’t being silly by defaulting to fear; he fell back to sleep while I took several deep breathes and tried to slow my heart rate. And that fight or flight thing? It means I’m now too warm to sleep and still over thinking.

    When I said trauma doesn’t tremble it breaks? What I mean is that things that used to be simple, things that I used to wait to worry over? They’re all they’re on a loop now, like a thread waiting to snap…but the body remembers what the mind forgot so…the anxiety, the fear, the accelerated heart rate… they all act in ways meant to protect, all perfectly, natural responses; what’s broken is there isn’t always a reason for them. And when they happen now, and it is something simple…well, that’s why I’m still up writing.

  • And that is beautiful

    Well, we did it. It’s done. Our youngest child has officially graduated from high school. I was a wreck.

    There had been a lot of anxiety for me leading up to her graduation and it took me too long to figure out why there was a sudden return to destructive behaviors. But as I sat in the university gym where the ceremony took place, I thought back to our oldest child’s graduation…and the fact that Kevin almost wasn’t there. Then it hit me: I still hear my bug’s screams from that day-that her father wouldn’t see her graduate.

    That kind of thing doesn’t leave you.

    And I realized that I was still holding onto that irrational fear that he almost didn’t make it to see any of our babies walk; the irrational fear that he almost wasn’t there for a lot of things. And that first year was the worst…

    Birthday’s, anniversary’s, holiday’s, special occasions, gatherings, celebrations, wedding’s… I felt anxious at all of those first events. I couldn’t stop thinking that he almost missed this-and how absurd it is to still harbor this fear-it didn’t come true. It did not happen. The worst, the absolute worst for me was the first anniversary of the accident-that’s when my anxiety was at its peak. While I had never had issues with anxiety before-I’d had multiple anxiety attacks following the accident. Something would trigger me and my breath would catch, my chest would feel tight, and I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs, no matter what I did.

    Colleagues caught me running down the hall sobbing, crying in restrooms, struggling to catch my breath as I held it…and that was the worst of the anxiety attacks…I can’t tell you the number of times I sat crying quietly at my desk, box breathing, repeating my mantra-it’s fine, he’s fine-and desperately trying to distract myself from my spiraling thoughts. I actually had to take meds at one point to help control the acute attacks, the one’s I couldn’t talk or will away or work myself out of. I didn’t like it-it made me too sleepy and foggy. Effective but not functional.

    I’m better a managing my triggers now-avoiding one’s that I believe have the potential for catastrophic consequences and managing the ones that are merely bothersome. Kavi has been phenomenal in arming me with techniques and tools to help me manage these trauma responses. I need to remember they are there, that I set a few myself, and that I am still stronger than I was.

    I am also coming to see that what I was feeling this week was two sides of the same coin: yes, there was anxiety in remembering what we almost lost. That will always be there. And two: My babies are no longer babies. Their lives are about to diverge and change in ways that are frightening and exhilarating in equal measure.

    And that is beautiful.

  • The first purge…

    This is the very first entry I ever made, when writing became a way for me to release the memories I held onto. It’s pretty raw, emotionally speaking. I was trying to purge the memories I kept then, the one’s that I still keep. They’re quieter now, and I know it might seem strange to refer to them like a tangible entity, but when something like that completely overwhelms your limbic system, it feels like it’s attacking your soul. Kevin wrote a song about it called “Seconds later” that I feel captured that day perfectly. It was hard to listen to the first time, triggering even, but I can see the beauty behind it too. I’ll see about attaching a link… Song listed at the bottom of the post

    19 November 2022: If he’s still alive       

    Time: 14:00 ISH  

                   I felt like my entire world just shifted off its axis when I heard those words. I feel like my brain is physically protesting understanding the meaning of them: “If he’s still alive.” What did that mean? This was just a simple accident, what sort of damage had happened to lead to those words, “If he’s still alive?” Does that mean that he could die? Who’s he? Surely, they’re not talking about Kevin, my Kevin. I was briefly glad that Kevin’s brother L– was here to offer support while I struggled with the information before me. But there was no one else in that emergency room and the flurry of people in and out of it seemed to indicate that whatever was happening inside was not good. Life threatening even. Is that what this meant? That Kevin could die? I couldn’t understand.

                   I feel like I blanked out for a few seconds when I heard those words, self-preservation at its finest. The background noise seemed to reach me from a long tunnel, it was muted, dull, and incomprehensible. A hush had already fallen around the Emergency Department: Everyone knew Kevin; they’d worked with him for years, almost 2 decades in some cases. They knew what was happening and did what they needed to do to keep Kevin alive. And the unspoken thought screamed from every direction: would it be enough?

    “What did you just say?”

    I felt Kevin’s brother, L– step closer to me, put his arm around my shoulders and Dr. G– stopped speaking while I struggled to grasp the situation. To this day I’m still not sure what it was that Dr. G– had said when I blanked out, the jargon far exceeding my knowledge of medical terminology; or maybe my brain had temporarily blocked my ability to understand it. But one thing seemed to be very clear: The people going in and out of emergency room 6, the lab techs running blood bags in; the frenzy surrounding the prone figure on the bed; the machines beeping; the cardio-ultrasound machine; the lights shining brightly overhead; the sounds of doctors and nurses yelling out directions and vitals; all of them were fighting to save Kevin. This is bad.

                   So I do the only thing I know: I cry. I run to the closest bathroom and try to slam my way thru the door, barely acknowledging the two cops standing guard outside the room down the hall. But the door doesn’t open, at least not fully. Instead, I’ve slammed the door, or maybe it was the handle, against a person, a woman. Specifically, I slammed that door with my full weight behind it, against her head. A blonde, 40’s-ish woman with pink-looking clothing around her ankles as she plays on her phone while she tries to do her business screeches and grabs her head. I notice the second door is open into another emergency room and there appears to be someone in there. The woman yells that I should knock and while I briefly think I should’ve shoved the door harder, it’s a fleeting thought; there is no room for animosity or anger towards this person. Knock? That was the least of my concerns. I just need a quiet place to think. To cry. God, I want to scream! All I know is I needed to get out of that room, out of the hospital if I could, but that wasn’t going to be possible. Not for a while. So I turned into the wall there, just beside the restroom door. I curled into it, I wanted to crawl into it, and tried not to collapse, tried not to lose my breath. I fought against the misery straining to escape and looked for anything that would help me keep my hold on sanity, anything.

                   The cops there knew me, I don’t know how, but Officer A– called me by name, “Andrea, what happened?” I tried to calm myself enough to speak, but I still couldn’t breathe. “Kevin…had an accident….he…shot himself…with a nail gun…” I don’t know whether that was enough to explain what had happened but I’m pretty sure they understood the brevity of the situation. Their faces looked concerned; it seemed like that they understood this was life or death. Please don’t be death. And the female officer, I have really got to learn (or probably remember) her name, she looked like she wanted to come give me a hug but stood in place, remembering her position on the room she helped to guard.

                   I’m not sure what happened next, but I think I asked to sit somewhere, anywhere that was not in that room. Kevin’s brother, L– came with me and we sat quietly in one of the offices off the med surge floor.  “He’s strong, he’ll pull through.” I think he was trying to reassure himself as much as me and I wondered when and who had called him. That seemed like a lifetime ago. I remember asking that someone call them, Kevin’s brother, L–, and my brother R–: I think I had asked R– to go sit with the kids at my home. But everything was a blur and disjointed. Painful. It was fragmented.

                    I had only caught one piece of information prior to being told Kevin might die, and that might explain my behavior. Because I understood what it meant when the tech had said there was fluid in the cavity. Or did he say sac? Or did he say that it was blood that was leaking into the cavity or sac? Either way, I knew that the body shouldn’t leak after having an accident. Leaking was bad, especially around the heart. Especially if it was blood. Wait…where was the blood coming from? What was leaking? What did they mean by cavity? I wish that everyone would just shut up so I could think for a moment. But they didn’t… And then Dr. G–’s meaning became all too clear: Kevin might die.

    And I didn’t know what to do.

    I really shut down this time. My mind immediately going to every scenario and every thought of what needed to be done if he didn’t make it. What would I do? He’s not going to see any of his kids graduate; L–’s high school graduation is just months away. We’re meant to be in Florida for our niece’s wedding in March: Can I refund the tickets? I recalled the family gathering to help plan his mother’s funeral…oh my God, I was going to have to plan his funeral…Could I bury him…that’s ok, right? No, Kevin wanted to be cremated, didn’t he? Did he? Oh my God, I can’t think. I don’t have enough pictures of him.

    And I tried, I really tried to keep it together through my tears as I looked at L– and told him we needed to call the rest of the family: T–, C–, and Kevin’s father L2–. L– called their father. I called T– and C–.

                   I had to try calling C– three times before he picked up-he was still at work, as he made very clear when he answered. We hadn’t been on the best terms recently, but we were still family. I choked as I tried to explain what was happening. The words were fighting against me, fearing their place if I spoke them out loud. And I was frustrated: Did he really think I was going to call him repeatedly just to chat? While he was at work? “Kevin had an accident…he might…not… make it.” I just couldn’t give voice to the very real possibility of death. I didn’t want to fathom life as a widow. I was only 41!

    “I’m coming,” he said, and the line disconnected.

                   I called T– next.

                   What time was it in Alaska? 10? 11? Would she be in class or would the kids be at lunch? Wait, it’s Saturday. T– answered right away. She and her husband S– were driving, I think, as I again tried to explain what had happened. Her voice…I didn’t like it. There was too much emotion in it, too much in it that threatened to release everything I was feeling; too many things I didn’t want to feel. T– sounded broken. This was her brother, of course, and though they didn’t talk often, they were close and loved each other. They all did. We all did. Kevin and I were both close to our siblings. T– thanked me for calling her and told me to keep her posted and that was that. I remember feeling like the conversation, either of them really, should have gone on longer. But then I realized that T– was feeling what I was but on another level: I may have been Kevin’s wife, but that was his sister: I’m sure she didn’t want to think about losing her brother, not when it had only been a year since they lost their mother. T– wasn’t rushing to get off the phone but if she couldn’t be strong, she wouldn’t lose that with me.

                   L– had finished his phone call too. L2 had been heading out to spend time with his sisters, Aunties squared. I’m glad he wasn’t going to be alone for the news he just received. I don’t know what he must have been feeling but I also knew that while he was with his sisters, Aunties squared wouldn’t let Larry fall off the deep end. Hopefully, someone would be able to keep a calm head. Waiting to worry until there was something to worry about was something I tried to do whenever I found myself in worrisome situations. I just couldn’t find the spot in me that told me to sit down and stop worrying until we knew what was going to happen, and there were really only two options left to us: Kevin was either going to live, or he was going to die.

    As I come to this conclusion, I see Dr. S–, the surgeon, running up the hall; he all but throws his things on the desk and rushes into the room where Kevin is. I feel relief that he is here. I don’t know why but I know as a surgeon he is here to help.

  • It’s invasive

    So I have been struggling trying to write this most recent post: At first, I wanted to share how wonderful my therapist is: I’ve decided to call him “Kavi”-it’s Sanskrit for “sage” or “poet”- and I wanted to include the letter I had written to his boss in full…but that seemed like a bit much…

    And then I wanted to touch on a trigger I met in the last two weeks: And while I did have a momentary reaction to it, it didn’t affect me in quite the same way the other triggers have hit. Which is good, I suppose; it could mean I’ve become adept at handling them-jury’s out on that. It didn’t feel big at the time, but when I started thinking about it, I understood why it hit.

    See, while golfing on opening day, another group hit an errant shot that came far too close to us for our liking. Kevin being Kevin, yelled “ow” facetiously, though it took me a moment to realize he was absolutely fine as I was not looking his way at that moment. As I was thinking about my reaction to it-the panic and fear I felt- I realized it was a trauma response to last time I thought Kevin was “fine” and wound up facing his mortality.

    Any thought of Kevin injured or in pain does not sit well with me.

    There is a direct correlation to that, and my dark days; the thoughts, the fears, and the pain that came with them.

    Not a fan. Do not recommend.

    So I was struggling to figure out what I wanted to say, how to say it, what I wanted to touch on and I’m still not sure, to be honest. Some days I feel like me, most I would argue. And some days are just…meh.

    I also think the reason that I’m having a hard time settling on or sticking to particular topic is because I feel like that little bit of panic is pulling at different pieces of me. It’s invasive.

    It’s also a cognitive distortion-I know this-I know Kevin is fine, he’s okay, he’s here with me; I know it’s unreasonable to fear his pain; I know he can have an injury AND be absolutely fine; and I know, I KNOW, that feeling that panic is perfectly normal for what we survived.

    I am seeing “Kavi” tomorrow, time for my regularly scheduled sanity session. I know he’ll guide me as he always does when I can’t settle my thoughts…and that’s one thing about these little moments of panic, or even the larger ones, that feels debilitating: I hate how they pull at the pieces of me; how they pull my thoughts to darker corners, to what if’s and could have been’s; how they flitter to “I can’t imagine” and “you were so lucky” (I still hate those phrases, by the way); I hate how those thoughts steal my focus, how they steal the light; I hate how they interrupt my sleep. And I hate how easily it happens.

    I’ll keep going though: keep writing, keep breaking through the minutes, and keep leaning into Kevin. I’ll find a way to reclaim those pieces of me again. I always do.

  • Not okay

    Well, the end to this day sucked.
    I was let out of work late, again.

    I’m talking minutes; not long, but enough to interrupt my process. It feels silly that I can’t be patient enough to wait for my coverage to show up, but it’s exhausting that I have to keep reminding them that I leave at four. And more exhausting to remind them that they just need to communicate with me if they’re going to be late.

    And I wasn’t very nice about it, either. I believe what I said was that my coverage “needs to learn how to show up on time.” It feels very much like it did when I walked away from my friend last week.

    And I’m starting to wonder why I am fixated on this very precise time. I have ideas: the first being that I need that control-that is the moment I walk out the door and get to the gym. That’s the time that I take for me, for my peace, and I don’t like it being…adjusted. Changed? Negated? I’m not sure what the right word is there, but I need that consistency. I’ve started to live for those times when the world is quiet, even when my playlist is slamming against my ear drums. I love running out of work to head to the gym, finding my spot, changing, deciding if I’m going to run 5 that day or just 3 and include core work out, or legs, or arms.

    That control aspect is what is bothering me; I’ve worked a long time to let that go because so much of what happens on a normal day is out of our control. And what happens on an abnormal day, and what keeps happening past those abnormal days, none of that can be controlled. You just kind of roll with it, not because you want to but because there really is no other choice. You know the saying, “if you’re going through hell, just keep going.” What they don’t tell you is that the fear you carry through it stays with you.

    What they don’t tell you is that when one thing, one small thing changes in what you’ve defined as part of your new routine, that small change is enough to bring the fear back.

    I don’t need to leave at four on the dot, precisely. I need what little autonomy belongs to me.

    It’s not that I wasn’t very nice because my coverage was late, it’s that disturbance that lets the fear reclaim my thoughts.

    And more than anything, it’s not that I’m not doing everything that I can to be well, it’s just that sometimes I am not okay.

    After my run today, after coming home upset because I didn’t leave on time again, after my shower, Kevin came in and just held me while I cried. He reminded me that it’s ok not to be okay. He knows that none of this is easy or linear; he knows sometimes I just need to let that out and be not okay. I’m only entitled to my feelings.

    I need to remember that: I am only entitled to my feelings. And regardless of them, I need to remember to be respectful. Which I know I wasn’t. It’s probably what led me to make an appointment with my therapist this week, instead of waiting for my next regularly scheduled appointment next week. Because right now, I don’t feel okay…and that’s not okay.