Asking

Do not make me ask for things.

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Any time I hear "If you need help, just let me know" or "do you need help with that?" you can be absolutely certain that I will not respond with "yes, I need help please" or "yes please". I cannot ask. Why? Because I can do 99.9% of all the things by myself. Will I be uncomfortable or annoyed or have difficulty doing the things by myself? Possibly. Maybe even probably. But technically, I can do things without assistance. So I do. I will not ask for help. 

Would I like help? Why, yes. Yes, I would. Very much. But will I ask? No. For life has taught me that asking comes with a Price, and that Price is not one that I am willing to pay. 

The same goes for questions or comments punctuated by, "if you want" or "whatever you want".  While at first blush these may seem like generous statements -- allowing me to have exactly what I choose -- they are, in fact, hidden requirements that I ask for things. It is not just picking between A and B (which is a palatable option, because it implies that the other person finds both A and B to be acceptable and I am just weighing in), but instead, these questions necessitate providing my complete input on the field of whatever, which requires the weighing of all of the choices and selecting one that will somehow magically be OK for everyone involved. No thank you. That's too much risk. And there will be a Price.

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I am a fully fledged Adult, with a great many Responsibilities. I am so very tired. 

Imagine my relief when someone else steps up and doesn't require me to put myself in the vulnerable position of asking for Help; when they make choices so that I do not have to do so; when they take action that makes me feel as if they notice and care enough to Do Things that tend to my wellbeing. What a comfort, to be loved in that way. 

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Ironically, to me, it doesn't seem like a lot to ask. It does require a certain kind of communication, though, and differently-chosen words. 

Perhaps I am hindered by semantics. It is hard for me to look beyond the spoken word into intent. Certain words mean certain things to me, and may mean different things to different people. I cannot read minds. Then again, other people cannot read my mind, either. 

Despite all my efforts to harness the precision of the English language, I still cannot get to what I need. 

And this is why I have given up Asking, and just Do by myself. 

Lizard Brain

The superego, mature, responsible part of my brain is doing its best to go about its business, get work done, fulfill its responsibilities, think lofty meaningful thoughts. 

The id, primitive, most basic part of my brain has its face pressed to the windows of its enclosure, steaming up the glass with its breath, waiting for someone to pick it up and hold it. It wants love, and security. 

Poor baby. I'm doing my best to build it a safe habitat. I wish I could fulfill all its needs by myself. 

Poster Girl

 Herself speaks.

It's the most ordinary of things that make us overthink sometimes.

I went in for a routine dental cleaning earlier this week. We always begin with the briefest of health updates: the hygienist takes my blood pressure (which was good -- pop quiz passed!), and asks, "any surgeries since the last visit? Any new medications?"

No surgeries, thank goodness. New medications: eight hundred thousand thoughts, in a millisecond, before responding. 

Yes, antidepressant is a new medication since my last visit. BUT, the hygienist is related to someone I work with, who does not know that I take antidepressants. I would tell my coworker about the antidepressants if it came up in conversation, but I do not want them to find out through the grapevine. The hygienist is bound by HIPAA, so technically she should not discuss it outside of the dental office, but you never know. Also, the dental office is open enough that the people in the cubicles next door will be able to listen, so other patients may hear what I say and I don't particularly want strangers to know. Because Stigma. How relevant is antidepressant use to dental health? I know some people in the depths of depression have trouble maintaining oral health, but that particular issue doesn't apply to me. So, is it irrelevant in this situation? Do I want to be the Poster Girl for being upfront about mental health issues and just mention it casually, as if it were no different from thyroid meds or other routine meds? No. No, I do not. Not today. 

"No new meds," I said.

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I feel a little bit as if I am doing a disservice to the mental health community by not being forward about my own personal struggle.  At the same time, it is my own personal struggle.  I don't want to talk about it a lot of the time. Nor should I feel obligated to do so, if it does not affect my health care. I have good days. I have bad days. A lot of times, I have days where there are good moments and bad moments. I am doing better. But not so much better that I can be an open representative of Better Mental Health Through Pharmaceuticals. 

I do want to help other people who might be struggling similarly. But right now, I'm putting my own oxygen mask on first. And that means that I might not say anything publicly.

That's OK.

King of Poop

Mr. Mustache refuses to poop properly, so we visited the vet again. He is doing OK, but even stricter diet and continued medication is in order. 

He was very well behaved. And so cute. Good boy. And for the love of lettuce, poop better.

Twenty-Six

Herself speaks.

I spent yesterday afternoon tidying up Offspring the Third's abode: cleaning out the fridge and freezer, running the dishwasher, mopping the floor, gathering all the laundry (which I brought back to my house, since my washing machine is bigger).  I put up the Christmas tree, put the wreath on the mantel. I'll pick up some fresh food and drop it off before he gets there, freshen the litter boxes for the kitties and drop them off, too. 

He's been away for work but will be home soon. His job has been horrifically difficult, and I want him to be able to just come home and relax and not think about things for a few days. His own familiar space, comfort foods, peace and quiet. 

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Offspring the Third turns twenty-six today. He is a lovely human being: so kind-hearted, so thoughtful. He works extremely hard and tries his very best, every day. Life is not always easy or kind to him, but he gets up and tries again, every time. I am immeasurably proud of him. 

Happy birthday, Offspring the Third. We love you so much. We wish good things for you, always. 

Chronic Chronicles

 Herself speaks.

I had an appointment yesterday to follow up with the neurologist. At this point, I'm paying more than $50/minute copay to speak with the doctor in order to have my prescriptions refilled; this time, I did get the added benefit of having a particular assistant in the office assigned the task of helping me to navigate the rejection of the pre-authorization of the one and only medication that has been effective in stopping an incipient migraine from turning into a full-blown horror show for me. Let's hope she and I together are successful in convincing the insurance company that no, I'm not just overusing over-the-counter NSAIDs, but I do in fact have chronic and fairly terrible migraine that needs this particular medication. 

The neurologist seems to regularly have freshly minted doctors doing a rotation through her office -- this was the second or third time in the past couple of years that I've had a wet-behind-the-ears MD doing my intake information. It's always an interesting exercise because they ask more questions than the neurologist does at this point: how many days of headache? How many hours per day? On a scale of 1-10, how severe is the pain? How many days of migraine?  

As I responded to the questions, I realized that my point of view on what level of pain constitutes an acceptable level, is forever skewed: three days of headache a week, not even bothering to take an NSAID unless the pain was a 4 or more, pain lasting for a few hours on each occasion, and about 3 migraines a month -- that, in  my eyes, is a VAST IMPROVEMENT over where I started. I'm willing to live like this. It's better. It's tolerable.  Let's keep the current medication regimen and not try anything new, because I don't want to rock the boat and risk making things worse from where they are now.

That's pretty horrifying, looking at it from the outside. But it's the life I live. I don't even mention the headache/migraine unless it's interfering with something that I need to do for someone else. I just power through.

It's taking a lot of readjusting of my mindset as to what I can realistically do. Some days, the best I can do is... nothing. Lie on the couch. Do a little bit of DuoLingo. Surf through TikTok. Feed the pets. Order pet supply pickup. Order grocery delivery.  Contemplate what days I can move my pending household tasks to. Do whatever I can do to minimize wear and tear on myself. 

The task at hand is to Get Through. Tending to the pain is enough. 

(And, perhaps, I would do well to remember that some days, tending to existential pain is also enough, too.) 

It's frustrating. In this world of Multitasking and Monetize Your Hobbies and Constant Social Media Input, it's hard not to feel self-critical about not doing all the time. 

But: managing pain IS doing. Surviving IS doing. 

There will be better days. (And worse days.) We take one day at a time. And we do our best not to criticize ourselves for the days when even boiling water seems like a lot. Because some days, it IS a lot. 

On we go. 

Crush

Once more, the memes have it.