the work ahead
“This is the work to do. Let’s do it,” B replied today in therapy when I outlined all the parts that are overbearing right now. When I wished that my managers could relax for a few days until I need them again. When I pined for an evening not monopolized by my wine-drinking-in-order-to-numb part. When a younger part cried at the mere mention of how upset it makes me to see the boxes and chaos associated with a move.
There is so much to write – a week’s worth of thoughts and then some. Disjointed and lengthy, this post will hopefully feel like a therapeutic release in my writing.
I hate moving. This move will be #18 excluding the moves between each year of college (technically not a relocation as it was still on campus and I didn’t own furniture). The first 11 were during my childhood, the first 6 were before I turned 9. Most were a symptom of my dad’s mania and my parents’ unhappy marriage. I teared up today when I said that the boxes for me symbolize being dragged along with no choice in the matter. Chaos. Uncertainty. Helplessness.
So as my clinic winds down operations, out come the boxes. Down come the pictures on the walls. Away go the books on bookshelves. Welcome in the trashbags cluttering the hallways, the piles of things sorted into “sell” or “donate”. I come home at the end of the day and feel too overwhelmed by it to even begin packing my own belongings. Which for now is fine as I do not officially have a move date other than “sometime before May 1″. But it hit me today how much it impacts me, churns me up, upsets me to see all of it. I’m angry. I’m frustrated. Things are feeling unfair and disorganized at work and no one seems to be leading anymore. I have this hope that THIS time, I’ll allow myself to feel some emotions around transitions and endings, the culmination of all this therapy. I expected to feel sad and sappy but what I feel is pissed off and bitter. “Great. That’s what’s there!” Bree exclaimed. Oh, right, angry is an emotion too.
Last week was too stressful to even express. I had 7 job interviews in 4 days and in between each was busy calling people about apartments, viewing properties and returning missed phone calls related to either jobs or apartments. Yack. My only reward was that I stayed with friends and when the sun went down I had copious amounts of wine in good company. No yoga. No walks. No reading. No mediation. No journaling. No blogging. Just wine wine and more wine. Certain parts (namely managers and winos) wouldn’t step aside and let any Self-nurturing parts come to surface. Oh well. Can’t say I blame my system. I think I overstressed it.
I know I overstressed it. I have consumed my weight in alcohol in the past week and just tonight I fantasized about purging. I didn’t do it. I just had the slightest twinge of an urge. Just my system giving me a little “fuck you” for putting to much on my plate and not exactly taking good care of me over the past week.
So much more to write. The more I write, the more wine I pour. Better slow down. More to come…
Technology restriction
Today I’d like to do a little experiment in technology restriction. I have about 3 things that I absolutely HAVE to get done today, the not-doing of which will bring out some serious self-loathing that will keep me up tonight. So, seeing as how my computer has consumed about 83% of my waking hours lately, I’m going to restrict a bit. After this post, I will actually power down my laptop – that’s right – not just put it to sleep with it’s little head down. I don’t have any new DVD’s from Netflix so that’s out of the question. That leaves me with reading, sewing, playing banjo, walking the dog and actually doing what I need to get done today (oh how I loathe laundry). Wish me luck!
In other news I leave Tuesday at the crack of dawn (4:30 am) for my travels to NC for job interviews and househunting. I’m anxious but also really excited. It will be a high energy week of zooming here to there with my googlemaps directions and my snack bars in the rental car. Lots of cell phone calls and chaos. I’ve looked up the schedule at a reputable yoga studio and added it to the Microsoft Word document containing all the pertinent details of my trip (current document is currently 5 pages long). I’ll download some good podcasts to encourage me to take walks between interviews. And I’ll bring a journal. I’m basically trying to prepare for the stress and anxiety that will wind me up TIGHT all week and the pressure of decision-making on my own with no boyfriend-sounding-board to rely on. I’m going to try not to call my family either. I don’t want to be influenced on these decisions – I want them to be my own. I’m bringing my computer so perhaps I’ll blog about it to keep me a bit grounded. That’s the plan anyway…we’ll see how it goes.
I think I finally did some un-burdening in my IFS work the session before last. I’m not even sure I understand what happened but it seemed to help. The parts we were working with were ones that protected me ferociously from feeling intense emotions because of the ongoing threat from an early age (both spoken and implied) of impending bad things that happen as a result of feeling too much. The most obvious one being that my dad would kill himself if anyone let him see how much he hurt others. But there was a much more subtle insinuation that if you allow yourself to get really sad, your life will permanently fall apart. Even now my mom will say things like, “What does your therapist want you to do..lay in bed crying all day and not go to work and lose your job and have to be institutionalized?!” (okay so maybe the insinuations weren’t so subtle afterall…) The implication being that taking one day off (or even 3) to cry when you call of your engagement will lead your life into a rapid downward spiral to homelessness and straightjackets. There it is…the idea that even the smallest bit of sadness, anger, depression, hopelessness will suck you into a vortex of unending yuck. Others in my family are black-and-white thinkers, too, but mom I think was my greatest pedagogical influence in the ways of emotional restriction and detachment. And on the cusp of my big move and all the changes, I realize that she also has sent the message that if something is change for the better, then there’s no reason to feel sad about it. Relationships ending are a perfect example – I’m not sure she even grieved over her 16 year marriage to my father ending. Granted, it was on some levels a huge relief and I can imagine parts of her wanted to do a touchdown dance of freedom. But certainly some parts were really sad. So I haven’t really grieved my losses of the recent months. I’m leaving a place that holds many complicated and wonderful memories. I’m leaving a really awesome group of co-workers. The clinic that I worked for and invested so much of my heart in, is closing. I’m leaving behind a bunch of kids who I spend hours working with each week – some of whom I’ve grown to adore. I’m leaving the chance of bumping into J at the grocery store and I’m introducing the distinct possibility that I’ll never see him again. So much is there and I think it’s time to let it out. Most recently I’m grieving the few friendships I have here that are still young but could have potentially grown into something great. And certainly I’m grieving the loss of the most influential and amazing therapist I’ve had and my wonderful group. This is hard. This part doesn’t feel like it’s for the better. I am scared to move on.
So much is going on for so many of my parts right now. My managers are working diligently around the clock to coordinate the logistics of my move and all the transitions (enter “Things to Do Before I move” word document including such highlights as “oil change” and “sell used snow tires”). I need to take some time for the grief to swell. So power-down, dear computer. Take the day off, I’ve got some other plans.
reason #421 why being alone sucks
I am sick. Up and down all night to get tea, another throat lozenge, another blanket, my iPod, and on and on. All the while a hedgehog as lodged itself somehow in my throat. Prickly little bastard makes my voice faint and my eyes teary. Slight fever and absolutely no desire to leave the house. But the lack of television makes things around here, well, Bo-RING! It’s times like these that make me miss J. He’d swing into full nurse mode – getting up with me in the night, running to the store to get Nyquil, renting movies. At least for one day, he’d be attentive. Then he’d go back to sleeping and moping. His empathy, it seemed, far outlasted his energy.
Operation find a new job is in full force. And since the great state of Vermont has about 3 positions available (one of which is at my current job – which is going out of business any minute, one of which is at the SNF that made me cry on Friday, and one of which is at the hospital over an hour away which seems quite impractical), I swung into gear looking for a position in NC. My manager parts are efficient little fuckers – I emailed a cover letter and resume to 9 – yes NINE – different places yesterday. Mainly in a similar job to what I do now. It’s not what I want to do for the next ten years but it sure as hell beats the old folks’ home! I already heard from one place that they’ll be needing a new OT for April 1 – that’s a distinct possibility time-wise.
Moving and starting a new job, despite the anxiety of it all, feels pretty exciting. I just really, really, really don’t want to leave my therapist. My group. All the things that are making me feel so much better. The things that I attribute to keeping me safe and healthy right now. Maybe I should give myself a bit more credit for it, but I don’t. Ugh. I do not want to tell B. on Thursday about the latest developments in this whole work saga. Some of my parts feel like it’s a failure on my part – like I’m quitting something by relocating. Other parts feel like leaving B. will feel devastating and grief-filled. Those ones feel young. They had really started to trust me and emerge a bit in the safety of therapy. And now I’m going to bury them once again? Am I ready to let them emerge on my own? Would therapy 2x/week until I leave help?
questions. sore throat and a lot of questions. chills. bedtime.
Lessons learned this week:
1 – If you “call out sick” from work because you’re an emotional wreck – it’s not truly a lie because physiological sickness is likely soon to follow. Burning sinuses, flushed cheeks, prickly eyes and subtle body aches through my neck and shoulders tell me that this body is fighting off some germs after being beat up mentally at the start of the week.
2- My “Self” (with a big ’s’) doesn’t just have to be an innocent bystander. It can calmly assert itself and ask other parts to tone things down a bit (“I know you’re feeling really hopeless right now but I need you to step back for a moment so that I can think clearly about my next step.”). It can negotiate with parts (“I know that you really feel like dissociating because you’re exhausted from this week, but if you can just step aside so that I can be present for group tonight, I will allow you to totally ‘check out’ all afternoon tomorrow.” – impeccable timing for the Netflix delivery of season 3 finale disk of Grey’s Anatomy for just this purpose). It can ultimately play the role of a compassionate parent – listening to each parts needs but also asserting some of its own for the benefit of the whole system.
3 – I miss lifting weights. I felt so strong and powerful Wednesday night after lifting a bit and then slept like a baby for 8+ hours. This is one gym activity that has never really had to do with my appearance as much as just feeling active and strong. Yes, please.
4 – I have no idea what to do about my job. Maybe that’s okay. The options around here are quite shockingly limited and I interviewed today at a skilled-nursing facility. Blech. I’ve been arguing with myself all day about it. Parts of me wanted to cry and run away just upon entering the building – warm and smelly, lines of wheelchairbound slumping elderly with food on their shirts, mumbling to themselves. I just don’t do well with old people like that – never have. Sure I like the 90 year old in the back pew at church but she’s, well, still functioning pretty well and coherent. She doesn’t make me sad and squirmy and in search for a sink to wash my hands. And most importantly, her bodily fluids are contained. I have parts that want to prove to myself that I can do this job as a sign of achievement and strength. But deep down I know I’d be miserable. I’ve done a 12 week clinical rotation in a comperable setting and hated every day of it. I never relaxed or got over the awkwardness of naked grown-ups who can’t remember how to put a shirt on. At least with kids it feels developmentally close-to-appropriate to poop in your pants or be naked or snot or drool. Maybe I am just a kid person afterall. I inquired about one other position at a hospital but it’s an hour away and probably wouldn’t allow me to get to my therapy appointments – the whole reason I’m not relocating out of VT right now. So maybe I’ll just stick it out where I am. It works for my therapy schedule. Who knows, maybe our financially dysmal little non-profit can hold on for 6 months until I’m ready to move??! Maybe that’s a wishful thinking part? hmmm.
5 – I have finally accepted my mom for who she is and what she can offer me in terms of support. On Tuesday night, I was devastated and panicky, overcome by the yuck bubbling up, overtaking all sense of self-control. I sobbed and heaved and thought my chest would implode. I hyperventilated and paced and clung to my Aunt Julie blanket and hoped I wouldn’t die from the sadness. And the whole time I had the phone nearby, ready to call mom to rescue me. But I waited – for longer than I ever have before. I tested the waters a bit – afterall, all this time, energy and money on therapy is supposed to be allowing those exiled parts and their feelings to unburden and be heard. So I let it go until it was unbearable and then called, knowing full well that my mom’s tone would be directive and cold. That she would attempt to talk sense into me and would quickly shift me into the intellectual and analytical mindest that protects me from the yuck. I didn’t call expecting warm and fuzzy or even empathy. Just a rescue.
6 – There are many, many websites, blogs and support groups for the adult children of parents with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I thought my dad was so crazy and unique and hard to describe or understand. Turns out – he’s in a very special club of crazies who are astonishingly similar.
7 – Mentally rehearsing a plan of what to do if I come home to find my dad on my back porch makes me feel a little bit better.
8 – Sometimes my granddad knows just what to say, “[your mom] told us that your engagement is off. From here I can’t tell if that’s good news or bad news, but whatever its much, much better to break up before getting married. Finding the right mate is a very dicey deal and surviving a few “loves” is good experience!”
9 – Body dysmorphia seems to peak just before my period. My brain is having a field day checking body parts in the mirror, running my hands over them, trying on various pants to see how snug they are, pulling, pinching, squishing, etc. Hormonally exacerbated craziness.
Check, please!
The universe was listening today and gave me a sign. Morning individual therapy was spent exploring my parts’ feelings about making decisions in my life. Central to the conversation were my upcoming plans to relocate. I just don’t feel ready to leave therapy or group – they’re working…something is finally WORKING! But a part of me wishes I didn’t feel so dependent on therapy, that I didn’t feel so scared that I’ll fall apart without it, that I could see myself as more resilient than that. The biggest motivation to stay is therapy. The biggest reason to leave is that I’m tired of my job and relocation feels like the only “valid” excuse to leave my current position. But I generated some ideas of other options – take a different local job short-term until I feel like I’m ready to leave therapy and then relocate. I left my session feeling like it’s at least an option but feeling really sensitive to how that would “look” to my employer, co-workers and the parents of my clients and extreme anticipatory guilt about what it would do to the business for the only full-time therapist to leave.
Another part we worked with today was the one that is terrified of making my own decisions because I’m scared of choosing “wrong” or making uncorrectable mistakes (i.e. choose the wrong job, the wrong place to live, etc.). A firefighter part wants to jump in and make me attached to someone else in a relationship – so that the other person factored into the decision – someone else for my blaming parts to scold if I don’t make the best choice. Something to explain away my bad choice. So when and how did this part form that thinks there’s always a right answer and a wrong one? That there is some predetermined path in my life that if I don’t make the right guesses, I’ll stray from and be doomed to be miserable and stupid forever. I’m working towards realizing what my brother always says – “there is nothing you can do that cannot be undone in 5 years”. You can go from broke to having money, you can go from wealthy to broke, single to married, married to divorced, you can move, change careers, sell a house, make new friends – I guess he may have a point. But this black/white thinking part that thinks that decisions are either right or wrong – it’s just trying to protect me and keep me feeling safe and insulated.
I get to work and the first conversation I have is one in which our director informs us that she will not be taking her salary for the forseeable future because we cannot afford payroll. CHECK, PLEASE!! There’s my valid reason. I’ve said for a long time that the writing was on the wall with the financial situation of our clinic – but not making payroll is the END in my book. Me leaving doesn’t put a nail in the coffin – the coffin is already nailed shut, but nobody seems to want to face that fact. So the universe has sent its sign and I listened – I’m going to get in touch with two local places that I know are hiring. It would be the same type of work and setting as what I’d be doing when I travel – so it’s a good training experience. Not sitting around waiting to be laid off seems like a good enough reason for a decision to be made!
Group therapy was amazing tonight although yoga was shitty. My wrists are sore again – my right in particular. I went through 6 months of really bad right wrist pain beginning this same time last year – was in a cast, a brace, a splint, had an MRI with injected dye into my wrist joint – NOTHING uncovered the source of my pain or made it better. So, needless to say, I’m pretty frustrated that it appears to have returned.
I’ll talk more about group at a later date – pretty exhausted and have to get some rest before my big trip tomorrow. Uncertain as to the availability of private internet time – I’ll try to post if I can but if not, I’ll be back Monday night.
PS – If another job doesn’t materialize, I’ll sell all my wordly possessions except my dog and my banjo and we’ll hitchike around following the Avett Brothers…..mmm.
Everything is moving so fast
It feels like the world sped up. I know I said I was busy but this feels like some sort of cosmic conspiracy. It was four o’clock today and I would have sworn it was only noon.
In therapy tomorrow I’m planning to at least mention the relocation plan to B. I’ve really decided to go for it and am starting to feel a little worried. I’m considering letting work know of my plans in the next few weeks. Despite the fact that I don’t have my “next job” lined up, I feel like committing to taking travelling positions means that there WILL be a next job – even if it’s not exactly in the place I want to be. I’m willing to be flexible in order to make a change happen in my life. And the fact that I am the only full-time therapist in a non-profit whose financials are abysmal with one other part-time therapist going out on maternity leave in July – I feel like I need to give them as much heads up as I can so that I don’t cause the doors to close. Also, I keep getting thrown these new clients or longer-term commitment tasks that I don’t feel it’s fair to take on knowing that I’m about 90% sure I’m leaving in May or June and positive I’ll be gone by September. I think the faster February flies by (wait, did I MISS January?!) the more I realize how soon May and June really are. I have a few once a month clients that I’m realizing I may only see 3 or 4 more times. So there’s a lot to chew over. The only reason I’m not up and out of here now is my therapy. My group. My individual treatment. I don’t even feel like May/June is long enough for it but I’m ready to move on in every other area and I feel like the work ahead could take years.
As an aside, I started feeling yucko about Valentine’s Day. I realized I have NEVER been single for V-day. Like EVER. So rather than wallowing, I sent a bunch of pretty cards with a handwritten message to my 5 closest girlfriends and my mom. Makes me feel warm and fuzzy about V-day now. And I’ll be with a good friend – who happens to be a guy – so it’s almost like I have a date. Except that it is in no way shape or form a date. An almost date is enough for me not to go nosediving off any high bridges.
Anyways, this whole time warp I’m in has made getting to bed at a reasonable hour very difficult so I’m headed that direction now.
Impulsivity and Regret
Mental note: must research the difference between impulsivity and compulsivity.
I remember my Aunt Julie used to have these fabulous easter toys – all Chinese imports with poisonous paint, I’m sure. Among them were these suction cup bunnies with springs. You’d stick them to the table (only after licking them for added suction – and added saliva hickeys on the coffeetable) and wait and wait until the suction gave out and they went boinging skyward. That tension, the palpable anticipatory stress intended to bring joy and excitement was painful for me. Excruciating. It made me want to squirm and squeeze the nearest hand until metacarpals fractured. It made me feel teary-eyed and an urgent need to pee.
And now, that feeling is back. So all this pressure building up, is it self-inflicted? Am I anxious because I’m lonely and bored or because I fill that void with endless possibilities? I could move. I could stay and buy a condo. I could take a job at the hospital (where I have an appointment to shadow the therapist there tomorrow). I could take a travel position and live anywhere. I could stay put. I could downsize to a cheaper apartment. I could stay here and pinch pennies. But all THAT uncertainty is self-generated. I don’t really have any decisions to make, why do I create them?
So I’ve made some imulsive decisions lately, none with grave consequences but I’m feeling regretful and a bit embarrassed by them or at least ashamed of them despite no one else really knowing. Here are several of these impulsive actions: I emailed about a job opening at a pediatric clinic in Charlotte, NC (haven’t heard any response in the 24 hours since I sent it but I’m check check checking until I do). I posted an ad on Craigslist for my apartment. I’ve emailed other people about their available apartments. I set up this appointment to shadow at the hospital (well, technically that was set up a few weeks ago). I’m embarrassed because these decisions, while reflecting my thoughts at that moment, were not well-thought out and put me in awkward positions. A couple looked at my apartment tonight despite the fact that I haven’t commited to move. Why didn’t I just tell them it’s not available when they called? Why can’t I have the nerve to undo a minor impulsive mistake. Why do I feel so ashamed of the situations I get myself into when I’m spinning my wheels so quickly like I am now. What drives me to act so quickly and without taking the time to think things through? Is this the same tendency that gets me into trouble in relationships? I am so fucking uncomfortable just thinking about something – sitting with it – pondering it – letting it simmer in my brain. I just want to commit. Just so it’ll stop rattling around in this noggin of mine. I want an answer. Because the situation is no longer black, I want to paint it stark white right now, even if it takes eleven coats of paint (which it wouldn’t if I’d taken the time to purchase and apply a primer but that feels like it delays the gratification so I skipped that step). I am swimming in a sea of gray right now and it feels like shark-infested waters. I want out out out. But the only way out is to stay here and relax, stop fighting, and realize that the shark fins are a figment of my anxious, uncomfortable imagination.
Contract, Relax, Contract, Relax
All I wanted to do was eat my dinner in peace. In a little refuge far far away from the voices that whisper about how excessive and wholly unnecessary my evening meal is. Respite from the inner argument about whether or not I had “earned” a quarter of a dollop of sour cream on my baked potato. Let this meal move passively through the digestive system uninterrupted. Take a bath after and feel warm and content on this snowy day. Admittedly a lofty goal, seemingly unacheivable, but I was quite proud of my aspirations.
Then J had to go talking about how he felt light-headed and sick because he didn’t eat all day (restrict/binge is his normal eating pattern – he’ll head off to work with a towering travel mug of diesel fuel coffee and a pack of smokes and coast through his day on adrenaline, come home and devour an entire pizza in just under 29 seconds, pat his bloated belly and smile easily). But sometimes this plan backfires, leaving him sluggish and dizzy. I’m sure that in some way this conversation was viewed in his head as a way to connect, to relate. But of course it was, instead, triggering. As my fork delivered that quarter-dollop of sour cream topped potato to my mouth he rambled, “Eating is different for me than it is for you. It’s an annoyance and a bother. I wish I could just take a pill and never eat again.” Somehow in the two feet of airspace between his mouth and my ear it got twisted into “I don’t like to eat and have such restraint. You, on the other hand, LOVE eating. I mean, really relish it and indulge in it far too frequently. You might as well bathe in a tub of sour cream and eat your way out – you love eating so much.”
All I said was, “Honey, can we change the subject?”
Thus began a prolonged discussion (mainly him talking, calmly venting) about my eating disorder and its effect on our relationship. Among the predictable topics (recurring themes) that arose: to medicate or not to medicate, how it’s unfair, how he doesn’t know how not to enable while at the same time not policing, that he felt like he has to walk on eggshells, that it seems to sudden a change, that he doesn’t understand. Let’s just say he’s got very valid points and there wasn’t much argument or response from me. I just listened. I’ve heard it all before – whether from a past boyfriend, a family member, a friend.
It was a somewhat productive conversation – even if the only functional outcome was that he felt like he’d gotten some things off his chest and been heard. I’m not sure what I got out of it, other than the very loud part of me (whose voice sounds startlingly like my mother’s) scoffing, “See, this is why I always tell you not to try to speak up and protect yourself.” I know that’s just a part with its agenda making all sorts of unhelpful noise in my head. But it speaks to the truth that all I was trying to do was advocate for myself – try to impose some sanctity around my one meal of the day. Trying to protect myself from triggers during a vulnerable hour of my day. Not sure I feel encouraged to attempt that stunt again any time soon.
In other news, the hospital called me yesterday about the second job I had applied for there (ahem, only three weeks after I submitted the application). I spoke with the woman a bit about the position and agreed that the best way to learn more is to speak to the OT and observe. I feel curious yet unpressured about it – something bordering on apathetic. But somehow that feels like a much healthier place to come from when it comes to a job. I worked myself up into a frenzy of nerves and imagined pressure about the other positions and the whole process over the last month. I was mapping out driving routes for the daily commute to jobs I hadn’t even interviewed for. Laying awake at night wondering what my desk would look like for positions I knew nothing about. And it was detrimental to my sleep, health and well-being.
At least in my experience, things in my life crop up at odd times for a reason. So I’m playing along with this one. I’ll investigate – not dive-in head first – but cautiously learn more about this position and feel some time and space to think about it, me , the timing of it all. We’ll wait and see. And as cliche’ed as that sounds (and boy, does it!), it feels like a bit of progress to be able to have that outlook.
Being my own physician
I had a wash of insight the other night about a new way to view my eating disorder. It came after some wallowing in the mud of hopelessness that I’ll never get over this blasted disease. Therapy this week (2x since we missed last week) was enlightening, progress was made, perspective gained, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. So why, I wallowed, have I been restricting, purging and exercising like I’m training for a marathon? Shouldn’t my “behaviors” (one in a long list of lovely euphemisms for “treating myself like shit and taking sick pleasure in it”) be dissipating? Sigh. Harumph. I’m doomed. Give up the fight, now, it’s a hopeless battle. Return to the cold, predictable solitude of sickness.
But then came a new way of viewing what was previously declared defeat. What if my eating disorder was like Multiple Sclerosis (which I studied in school so have more knowledge of than perhaps the average person so I’ll explain…). My eating disorder has exacerbations and remissions. It cycles. Often predictably and sometimes for no apparent reason. One of the biggest messages that those in my profession give patients with MS is that even in times of remission, the self-care is necessary. You cannot pretend that you are well and abandon the effort, let your guard down and overdo it. This is one of the predictable precursers to an exacerbation. Let’s just call the entire month of October a predictable precurser to an exacerbation for me.
The other concept we teach people with MS is a little gem called “Energy Conservation”. It’s actually quite simple in theory, execution much more of a complex and demanding constant awareness and monitoring. The premise is that you identify times of day when you have the most energy and plan the daily tasks that are most energy-demanding then. You schedule resting, stretching or medication times to balance these bursts of exertion (the beauty of the MS analogy is that during exacerbation, exertion can mean…getting out of bed and taking a shower, grocery shopping, making a meal. We’re not talking power-lifting or 12 hour nursing shifts.). Now I know that typically this model is used in reference to more of a metabolic veiw of energy. But my love of yoga and yogic philosophy leads me to view energy as “prana” or life force (oh, lord, she’s gone new age now!). I feel that all of us have natural body rhythms and energy cycles that unfortunately we just ignore because it doesn’t fit in with work, school, or whatever else feels important. But, goddamnit, I’m sick. It’s about time I started using that excuse and that sick role as part of my recovery and not my demise.
After diagnosing myself with a chronic, cycling condition I talked to Bree about it. She was amazed and loved the analogy. She added that it’s interesting because MS is an autoimmune disorder. It’s the body attacking itself under stress. Hmmm. Sounds familiar, huh? I’ve decided to divide my “to do” list down the middle – energy out and energy in. Not only to make sure that I’m balancing and renewing my prana but also that I’m alternating the two. It’s simply ridiculous for me to think that I can have an outpouring of energy for a ten-hour workday and then somehow make up for it in a few hours in the evening. It doesn’t add up. That logic is akin to writing checks for two weeks straight and then depositing a little into your bank account (which I’ve tried – the bank doesn’t so much appreciate this strategy). I have to begin to bring in and put out my energy in a delicate dance that requires conscious attention to myself, my body, my thought processes and the ability to say “no”, change plans and take some time for me. As much as I’d like to pretend that there is a clearly defined “finish line” (complete with medals awarded, adoring fans and gatorade) to this battle, I know that it’s a mirage. Even if I go 40 years without restricting or purging, decades at a healthy weight there is a great likelihood that given the perfect storm of stress, anxiety, impulsivity and loss of coping strategies that I’ll have my craggy, arthritic old lady finger down my throat.
In other news updates, I had an interview yesterday at a rehab place that just opened a pediatric component. No job was posted but it seemed like a place that might be interested in a pediatric OT like myself so (per mom’s haranguing) I emailed to see if we could meet to talk about the role of OT in their setting. Fast forward through an immediate email response, an hour and a half interview and a part-time job offer with the goal of moving to full-time as I can build a caseload. Basically they have the space, the equipment (all new and clean and shiny, unlike my duct-taped, germ-ridden mess of a clinic) and the financial resources, but not the staff. Enter me. I’ve proposed starting at 2 days a week and hopefully my current employer won’t see this as a huge betrayal as there is the potential to view this new clinic as “competition”. I don’t plan to market it that way (as marketing to build my caseload would be part of the job) and really have such burnout with my current job that the last thing I want is more of the same.
It’s a new challenge with some inherent stress. It will demand more energy in the start-up phases. I am ensuring that my schedule(s), both current and future, allow for the ED group, earlier days (I’ve proposed that my days end at 4:30 – hold your breath, folks), my dog (the new place is pet-friendly and Sam is invited). If and when I move to this new position, I plan on being up front with my employer that I have a chronic illness that requires me to really take care of myself and balance the demands of work with my energy level (let them wonder what that specific diagnosis is, I’m not prepared to disclose).
