Being in recovery doesn’t mean it’s always going to be rosey. Sometimes it’s going to weird and shit, just like yesterday.
Yesterday I woke up feeling strange in an off-ish way. I hadn’t felt dreariness of that dark somber cloud in a while. I dragged myself out of bed to take the children to school. Fatigue sat in etched in my bones. Every move I made was a chore. The want to look good wasn’t there. No lipstick. No smile. I just wanted get back to bed. I wanted to escape people and their smiles and laughter and zest for living. I wanted to escape life. Just for that day, I was done with it.
I dropped the kids off, blew my sad kisses and drove back home- in a daze. I was in dark trance. I didn’t want to exercise. I didn’t want to eat. I heard the negative talk whispering in my ear. The bipolar’s smokey lips almost pressed against my ear. I smelt its disgusting breath. My emotions ran high. How could I let it come for me again?
I have not been taking my meds as I’m supposed to. I ran out. I failed to fetch more. Stupid. Rookie error. Or maybe I was asking for trouble?
So many things have been happening in my world. Good things. Great things.
Then yesterday happened to remind me that I’m not super woman. It saddened me because it reminded me of those times I wanted to give up on life completely. It reminded of those times where no matter how hard I prayed, days were a torment to live through.
I spent the day in bed. Messages streamed in. I zoned out. My husband took some time out to call me so that we could figure out some sort of plan of action. How were we going to tackle this beast yet again?
We decided the plan of action would be to drop all my current projects and then rest for the day. We would make sure I’m taking the right meds at the right doses. Besides those important things, I would need to rewire my way of thinking. Around every corner, there would be a negative thought or belief. One would be borne out of the simplest of situations. I’d lift a glass to pour myself water and instantly I would see a vision of cutting myself. It’s almost natural. The negative thoughts would pile on top of one another, one sad one after the other. Yesterday, I practiced not believing the thoughts or not dwelling on them. I didn’t let them linger long enough to cause damage. Even though I couldn’t stop them, I could control the way I reacted them, the way I handled them. This is a first for me. And maybe that’s what recovery really is: being strong enough for the battles that may come your way.
Today I’m feeling much better. My mood has lifted and I’m excited about things again. Yesterday’s torment was short lived but I know it will return. At least I know I’m ready. I’m capable.