In the Year of our Lord of COVID Issue #9: holiday ho ho ho
Days in lockdown: 282
Mental status: Fine. (more or less)
No one can ever use my bathroom.
Ever.
See, I hate cleaning our shower. It’s a fuck-me shower with glass partition and door. The height is about 6’ and length is about 6’6”. The glass door and wall are absolutely filthy. I can tell you they have not been cleaned since at least before COVID. They are my greatest enemy and I rue the day I moved in here because of those two pieces of glass.
Now the toilet and sink are spotless, the mirror is smudge free, the floor is swept and mopped on a regular basis, and I just washed the floor rugs.
But.
If you ever come over to my house, and you need to use the bathroom, I may direct you to the one in the common area or have you keep the lights off and shy away from looking at the glass shower wall.
Thank you.
I spiked a manic episode early last week that was troublesome enough to warrant calling in for a mental health day on Monday. I have a piece started about that day I’ll probably send out in the next few days to give you an idea of what my brain does.
I spoke to my APRN on Wednesday and Latuda is now upped to 60mg starting that night with the hope that it would stable me out. Thus, the current crazy meds are:
400mg of Lamictal
50mg of Zoloft
60mg of Latuda
10mg of Buspar as needed
50mg of Hydroxyzine as needed
1mg of Klonopin as needed
(The last two are really iffy with my heart meds in that I can take them, but I need to be very, very selective when I do and only take them if Buspar is not cutting the mustard.)
The come down from the mania, chemically induced or not, has a cost which is exhaustion as I constantly adjust to the fluidity of my new reality. Today I had my monthly video date with my Canadian family, and I was to meet up with The Great Kate later to sort through the pile of stuff I have to give to her when I next see her in 29483209 years. I bailed because while I love her and she’s my sister from another set of parents, but I just could not summon the strength to hang out with her, even on video after already spending a few hours with the fam.
With video you have to be “on.” When talking to the Canadian family, I was super "on." Kate is also crazy so I know I wouldn’t have to be “on” with her but it’s still a lot of work to at least present as a regular human being. It’s stressful, overwhelming, exhausting, and a lot of work.
My shrink and I talked about my new bout of mania on Wednesday (APRN and shrink were on the same day) and they asked me to find some kind of self-care to help me that evening. I found myself completely stymied on what that word even means. I am always puzzled what that means. My therapist has also asked me to keep a journal for those moments when I need to get something out to help with my authentic self. Again, what does that even mean? They also want me to try meditation again which I know I should do but I find it difficult to start up the apps (I use Headspace and Calm).
Meditation. Writing. Reading. Walking or exercise. Movement. Music. Puzzles. Coloring. Showers. Video games. Tools. Tools. Tools.
But.
I do not know why I’m so reluctant on using these tools to help myself. I am stubborn and angry, and I want to solve this myself even though there is nothing to solve and I’m only hurting myself.
My APRN and shrink regularly comment on my self-awareness of my crazy. Well, I have to be. I went years without therapy or drugs, and I needed somehow to figure out a way to cope. Then I used cigarettes and wonton sex with my partner at the time. I read a lot. Listened to music. Shopped for frivolous things. I can still do all those things, except smoking of course 95% smoke free for a decade, but the will to do these things is low.
But being self-aware does not mean I follow what I should be doing. Often, I cheat: eat a sweet, spend some money I don’t have, harass people on the internet. These tend to be short lasting but very self-soothing things I do. Who gives a fuck about the long term? Clearly, I do not.
Everything feels so heavy in my head that even going about my daily business of showering, walking the dog, etc. etc. is overwhelming. How can I summon the strength to do self-care?
In a way, I think my self-care is letting myself relax about my brain. Even at my worst, I was still doing something to function and go forward. Now I’m afforded the luxury, or I’m finally allowing myself to afford the opportunity, to just be. I don’t have to hustle, my needs are taking care of, and I have a partner who is incredibly supportive.
It’s the guilt, however, that keeps me on edge. Guilt I have these things when I know others who are in similar situations do not. Guilt that I should not allow myself to take time for myself because it is lazy and serves no purpose.
Guilt because I am still living when while I continue to be amazed, I made it this long.
(I am not suicidal. It’s just a statement of fact.)
I finished The Flight Attendant this week and Kaley Cuoco as Cassie was outstanding. A modern and inventive spin on the whodunit, there was a lot of twists and turns as stories evolved and combined. Zosia Mamet as Cassie’s best friend is equally amazing.
The writers are Pitchfork are a bunch of pretentious twats, NME is 100% brain fodder, Rolling Stone has lost its edge, and Q has shuttered its doors. Someone steered me to The Big Takeover for my music news and wow, it’s fucking glorious. While only two issues a year, the articles are insightful, the reviews are well written, and so many new to me bands are showing up, I’m scribbling like a maniac to keep up. A++
TEH and I are keeping an incredibly low profile for Xmas this week. Dinner is salad, bread, and lasagna with German cake for dessert. We’re swapping a small amount of presents. I haven’t even decorated the condo yet and I’ve been lulled by not doing my holiday postcards this year. I WILL get them done. I didn’t do them last year but this year I will!
Thus, it is not too late to sign up for my holiday card exchange! My address is on the Thank You page if you like to send me one back.
Happy holidays and see you next week.
And as always, don't be an ass. Wear a damned mask.
lisa x
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Image depicting the black death in a book by French chronicler
and poet, Gilles Li Muisis (1272 - 1352). Artist unknown.