The Bloody Doors Off

Not to jinx it. But today turned a corner for me.

A feeling that maybe, just maybe, the current spate of depression and anxiety is lifting. I still had a moment earlier, but it was recognized and countered with deep breaths and positive thinking.

Of course, my body decides to say ‘fuck you’, and I started feeling like utter shit physically, come nighttime. But I took a nap for an hour, and that seems to have helped. Hoping a good night’s sleep bolsters my immune system.

Now if I could just generate some billable hours. (December traditionally sucks for freelance work.)

The doctor says I can apply Zilactin to the affected area of my tongue. I believe it numbs the pain.

So I pre-tested by rubbing the area with my index finger, and yes, there was something there.

Trying very hard not to have an anxiety attack right now.

And no, I didn’t apply the Zilactin. I’m quite nervous to do so.

There’s a white circular patch under the right side of my tongue. Doctor thinks it’s an ulcer; she’s referring me to an ear, nose, and throat guy.

She did admit they may need to take a biopsy, to rule out pre-cancerous concerns.

So yeah. Fifty-five and moving into the “is this gonna kill me?” phase of my life.

It’s true, when you’re in your twenties you feel invincible. But now? Just cover me in bubble wrap.

On another note, she thinks my restless leg was aggravated by the lithium, and will hopefully settle back to being a minor annoyance now that I’m purging the drug from my system.

I had a simple choice to make: have lunch (salad) or take an hour nap.

This should’ve taken 30 seconds, most, to decide.

It took me over five minutes.

Settled on the salad.

Of course you need a drink to go with that. I chose chocolate milk. That only took thirty seconds.

And five seconds to spill it all over me and the floor.

Clearly the universe’s way of saying ‘wrong choice, assbutt‘.

You know what’s ironic?

I wanna write. But I can’t. Because my fucking computer keeps freezing.

I’m taking it into the shop tomorrow. I’ll have to haul out the laptop in the interim. I just don’t feel like doing that now.

I woke at 5am with a blood sugar level of 3.3. To be in range is 5.0-7.0.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened of late. Without fail I will wake up shaking, curse the blood glucose monitor and wander out to procure something to bolster my sugar.

It’s 5:45am now, and I am preparing to climb back into bed.

But I think I needed an info dump first, as I haven’t been writing in my blog consistently this week.

There’s no way else to say it.

I’m struggling.

Harold’s been whispering in my ear. So soft, barely audible. Which makes it even more insidious. It’s chipping away at the mental brick wall I’ve constructed to keep him out. It takes massive amounts of energy to do simple tasks. Hell, I’d only been up an hour yesterday morning before I went back to bed. I wasn’t feeling well.

I was feeling defeated.

I am feeling defeated.

I’ll try to keep writing.

But I can’t promise to be around much over the next little while.

I had a blanket when I was a toddler. Pink, with blue bears.

When I’d finally given it up, the fabric was frayed and the stuffing spilled out.

But it was my blanket.

I get now why Linus never wanted to give his up. When things get bad, all you had to do was throw it over your head, and you became invisible. Nothing bad could get to you.

That’s what duvets are, I guess. Adult security blankets. I know, when I pull it over me, I feel safe. Warm.

Granted, I’m desperate to throw it off in the middle of the night. (My body is a furnace.)

I could use that comfort right now.

I’m blocked. I don’t know why, but I suspect it to be self-sabotage. Even the mundane seems pedantic.

My temper drew the short straw today.

No trigger. Things just get under my skin more easily.

I’m seriously not trying to lash out at the world beyond, but it’s difficult. My computer was having a memory issue (I’m gonna pimp my ride with an additional 24 gig of RAM, but it has yet to come from the supplier, thank you supply chain issues) and I had an Instacart shopper who couldn’t find prepared shepherd’s pie from Loblaws. Plus, I couldn’t find the base file (yet I had the jpeg) that I’d created two months ago, to use for a new request from a client. Couldn’t find it in my sent folder, and I hadn’t backed up my files in two months.

And I’m juggling laundry, too.

Yeah, it’s fun living in my brain. It’s like a bag of skittles. Each handful is different.

Was tossing a rinsed cup into recycling when I had the realization.

I haven’t had a single anxiety attack all day.

No perceptible slips into depression.

Sure, physically I feel like shit. I can handle that.

Not to jinx it.

But I’m riding this fucker for as long as it’ll let me.