1:28 p.m. Better?

I haven't written here in days. I have no desire to and feel as if I have nothing to say. I've been med compliant, and despite a lack of motivation, I feel as if I'm better. And with that comes this sense of "I can't imagine what all that fuss was about." There's a part of me that can't even comprehend how I ended up in such a state as to need a hospitalization. The days of being unable to get out of bed, the panic attacks, the throwing up and nausea, the IBS flare-ups due to anxiety, the inability to sleep, or sleeping too much, the constant worry and thinking, the slow fall of that thinking as I fumbled for darker places, away from the constant stress, anxiety, and depression--these are all gone. Given, I had a bad year or three: separated from my husband, moved in with a new boyfriend, supported that boyfriend through three different periods of unemployment, found out my father had a tumor that was possibly cancerous (but was able to be removed, thankfully), and had my cat of seven years, who I loved dearly, die a week after my father's diagnosis. On top of this, I'd moved positions at work to a very tedious new position that did not have any of the interest I thought it would. The perks didn't outweigh the boredom.

This combined with all the other stress and anxiety in my life, and surely, I can see why depression and sickness might have crawled up on me. It looks rational now. There were things I needed to grieve, too much change, and I wasn't able to keep up with the constant transitions. This is a pattern I've followed in the past. But this time, I went so much deeper. My body refused to cooperate with my constant efforts to hold onto my job until, finally, I was literally unable to. And that's when I went into the hospital. And as selfish as this might be, I think I needed it. I think I needed that safe environment where all I was responsible for was myself: showering, eating, meds. group, group, eating, napping, group, eating, me time, visiting, meds, snacking, then sleeping. No bills. No other person to take care of. No nothing. There was freedom in being caged in the ward, strangely enough. I didn't have to be polite, or happy, or productive, or friendly, or rational, or well. I could be just who I was as I was.

Now, more and more, I feel like it's coming time for me to get back out into life. To do something, bring in some money, be productive, help Jb since he's been helping me this whole time. Even as I write that, though, I can feel my stomach clenching, the anxiety rising. My stomach is starting to hurt, so is my gut. There's fear there. Fear I'll have to do and be what I don't want to do or be anymore, simply for a paycheck. Jb was able to find a job he truly enjoys. I'm afraid I'll be forced to take a job simply to have a job, and I'll be right back in the position that put me in the hospital. I didn't like my job, but I had to keep it because I had to support myself and Jb. It was a necessity, an evil one, and it made me sick. I don't want to do that to myself again, but I don't know how to get around the fact that we need money. It's an awful Catch-22. And there are questions of insurance, and how to keep receiving the treatment I need. I start thinking about it and it all becomes overwhelming.

* * *

Jb just called to ask me about my day. I tell him what I've been writing and thinking on, and I'm starting to actually tear up on the phone. Clearly, I'm not completely better yet. I had thought I was past such things. Granted, there was no hysterical breakdown, no sobbing--just the start of tears, a little mistiness. And the IBS has been in flare-up since yesterday. There are obvious things here that need to be dealt with, anxieties that I'm not seeing, or don't want to see. Perhaps that's why I haven't written. Perhaps I felt as if I was feeling better, so I didn't want to examine that feeling too closely. I wanted to be better. I wanted to be done with all of this. I wanted to be able to move on, but I can't. I'm not quite there just yet. And it's hard to be in this limbo, this half-life, where I'm not horribly sick and I'm not overly well. It's the med-compliant purgatory of those getting well, where we sit and wait, probing old fears and anxieties tentatively and with great reservation, less we break the seal of some emotional dam.