I hate when the sun rises and illuminates my bedroom, indicating that it’s time for me to get out of bed.
My phone no longer rings at 8 am. My mom is gone and she called me every morning to help me with the difficult transition from sleeping to being awake. How I miss that daily call. I know that I’ve mentioned this before, but I can’t seem to shake the need to repeat myself.
I get this really icky feeling that I can’t seem to find words to explain, which started during the summer of 2015 and has recently made a comeback. It’s dread, fear and panic rolled into one nasty emotion.
Is it a form of existential dread, wonky brain chemicals or what, I haven’t the slightest clue.
Some mornings are better than others. I come downstairs and take care of my dogs first, food and water for them, then I let them outside to do their thing. I make my solo cup of coffee and then use the restroom myself. I take my morning medications and when my coffee is ready, I go sit in front of my laptop and turn it on.
Just do the next thing, the grief group book advises.
My boyfriend sends me a good morning text and I’ll respond, as soon as I can think straight enough to form words. He’s the main person that’s keeping me going right now, my lantern in the darkness.
Today would have been my 10th wedding anniversary. How things can change in just one decade. This date means absolutely nothing to me now, yet it brings back memories of how happy my mom was to finally marry me off to someone she trusted, that promised to love and care for me.
Well, we didn’t know.
There’s no way to guess how many years I have left. Only God knows the exact date, time and circumstances. He even knows if I’ll lose my battle with my own self and jump off of a cliff when I’m 51.
Fuck, I am morbid. Steven hates it when I think like that, but I’ve never hid it from him. It comes with the package.
Yes, I still often wish that I could pop off sooner than later, but this is a thought that I’m so accustomed to having, I barely take notice of it anymore. Just like the tide, it comes and goes.
I read something interesting the other day, on how to deal with anxiety and other unwelcome thoughts…face, accept, float, let time pass.
This book is on my reading list, but I’ve watched a few videos and read some of Dr. Weekes advice. She even recommended that suicidal ideation be treated with that same mantra, unless there’s an active plan being put into place.
These are all thoughts of a tired mind.
Well, then I suppose that my mind is pretty damned fucking tired, doc.
I think that I might start sleeping on the couch at night. Maybe a change of scenery will help keep that icky doom thing from laying its ice fingers on me.
I could use a break from it.
I don’t get to see my new therapist until December 5th. The woman who did my intake interview told me that there’s so many people who need psychiatric help and only so many providers to offer that assistance.
I’ve been going to my grief support group at the church every Monday evening, although there’s only two other woman, besides the two lovely ladies who are in charge of it. But they are all extremely nice people and I’m glad to have met them.
It helps somewhat to know that I’m not the only one who feels the need to share my grief instead of keeping it all to myself.