90 days to change your life

If you're looking for a self help blog, dear friends, this isn't it.  Self help seems strong, wise, brave, and stoic, but that's not what this is about.  Instead, it's about all the ways I've been needing, asking for, and accepting help; it's been in all manner of ways, for the last several months.  And the help has been excessive -  emotional, physical, medical.  It's not especially dignified or refined, but neither is hitting rock bottom.

Which, by the way, I did - and it was shortly after my 30th birthday came and then went.

I was trucking along, minding my business, and then a remarkable thing happened to me.  My family, my sweet, crazy family came together to celebrate my 30 years in the most fabulous way possible.  Surrounded by almost everyone I love dearly (sadly my Oldest Friend was unable to make it), I managed to sit back and allow the night to be about me.  And, you know I didn't hate it.  Perhaps that was a first time for me.  Even my graduation party from college was more about TxB than it was about me.

So then I met someone that night, Pepper, an outrageously handsome server who bought me a shot to celebrate my birthday.  Little did I know, four days later, he'd sweep me off my feet at a little Italian bistro on Main Street; I didn't quite realize, even then, that 90 days later, I'd find myself dazzled and delighted by him.  Folks, I adore that man.  I do.

A few days later, I realized something huge in my life had to happen; I needed to claim my own space.  It took a lot longer than it should have, but after a short exchange with my old "room mate", I finally had a future date to look forward to - July 1 - and my own place.  And to answer his audacious and inappropriate response when I told him I needed him to move out - yes, that week really *was* that good without him.

Three or so weeks went by, and all was right in my world, but then everything sort of crumbled around me.  I realized, in a heaving mess on the kitchen floor, that I'm just not that strong.  I can't go to school full time, work full time, be an exceeds performer, go places with all my friends whenever they ask.  I can't work out for 4 hours a week, meet with a trainer, get 8 solid hours of sleep, and wake up ready to face the day.  And I can't transition from 11.5 years with TxB acting like none of it ever mattered.  Of course it mattered.  It was 11.5 years, the 11.5 years that are arguably the most dramatic and defining ones of my entire life.  Actually, I think it's rather shocking it took me until June to find myself in a heap on the kitchen floor one random Thursday afternoon, isn't it?

Luckily, I found myself facing my therapist a little over 12 hours later, staring her in the face, squinting my exhausted eyes at her and admitting, in one miserable mess of words, "I need your help."  As a therapist, it seems help is her speciality.  A wise one, she is.

The details are rather boring.  We've managed doses and prescriptions.  I'm doing as much as I can to let things work - I do things like put the laptop away early at night, listen to white noise when I sleep, and I've cut out most alcohol.  I'm trying to take care of my body, work out, eat well, though on the list of things I have energy to do, those are not among the top.  It's a work in progress.

Emotionally, it's a little harder.  I excel at communicating.  I can talk my way out of a paper bag.  I can reason with the professors, children, and professionals  I even say things that seem deep and meaningful; if it's about your life, then it probably is. I know, however, that almost none of you know very much about me.  Hey it's not because you didn't ask; it's because I never tell you.  

Maybe some of you are confused or shocked to read that.  Maybe it seems like I tell everyone everything.  Sometimes people tell me I'm transparent in a good way.  I bet those of you who are close to me though, I mean really close to me, are nodding your heads. I finally admitted it to you.  I finally see.  I don't really talk about things that matter to me.  I spent a pretty good chunk of my life with reinforcement that what I think or say, feel or believe probably doesn't matter anyway.  I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me.  That was just my reality, and mostly, I didn't know any better.  It was just the way things were.  This blog, as you have all smartly assumed, is just one way for me to take back that power.  And I hope that maybe one or two of you are glad that I'm willing to actually share a little piece of what goes on in this brain of mine.

I'm finding myself terribly scared to admit I need help, to ask for what I need, or to talk about things that matter to me.  But I'm getting better.  I'm pretty sure my Unlikely Friend, my Oldest Friend, my Work Wife, and Pepper would agree.  Or maybe Pepper wouldn't, because he only knows the broken down me.  I'm lucky for him, because little by little, he's helping me see that people who care about me want me to be safe.  He's been nothing but affirmative and supportive.  I'm finding myself much less scared to open up to him.  I can tell him things I'd never, in a million years, have ever said out loud after 11.5 years, much less 90 days.

And hey Pepper, if you're reading this, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.  Thank you.

The meds, well you know, they make me less moody, less variable, and little more even.  The side effects were pretty terrible for a few weeks, but they've evened out, and almost everything is resolved.  Some stuff isn't ideal, but livable, at least, it is for the short term.  The even moods feel a little bit disingenuous though, if I'm being honest.   I've been a lot of things in my life, but even probably isn't one of them.  I live my life in record high highs, with momentary lapses of lows.  At least I usually did.  Unfortunately the lapses of lows were longer and deeper than ever before.  The meds take care of that, for sure, but I don't feel the same level or range of emotion I felt before.  That's the point, and it's a welcomed change from that crumpled mess on the floor, but it's changed me.  I'm a little more sullen, and little more in my head, and a lot less energetic.  I hit a wall around 6pm.  I can fake it for a few hours, but ask my sisters or sisters in law what the bachelorette party was like for me last weekend; I can only fake it for so long.

I'd like to think that a lot of people who know me can see the real me is still in here someplace.  "Real."  Heh.  As if anyone knows who that would be.  But truly, I'm still here.  I'm just even.  If I seem disinterested or unenthusiastic about whatever we're doing, it's probably not the case.  Out of what is love and concern, I've had numerous people ask me "what's wrong; you're not yourself."  Well, friends, this is what's wrong.  It's been a a crazy emotional 3 months.  It's been a crazy emotion 30 years.  It's taken a toll.  I'm climbing out of the crumpled mess.  You have to, and I beg you to please, just give me more time.

But I digress.  The point?  90 days from May 5th, that 30th birthday party that surrounded me with love, laughter, family, old friends, Unlikely Friends, and one very special new friend, I've found myself a totally new person.  I have my own space to do what I want.  I manage the mess that I make, or sometimes, I don't manage it at all.  But it's mine.  I cook when I want, I clean when I want, I sleep when I want.  I don't have to think about anyone else when I go to the store, buy new decor for the house, or fall asleep with the light on.  I'm becoming fairly selfish; I don't really consider the needs or feelings of anyone else - not unless I want to.  And, while I struggle pretty seriously with it still, I ask for help when I need it.  Big help, little help - I ask.  Well, this entry, and even this blog, I hope, provides the proof that I'm working on it.  I am.

For now, I leave you with one last thought.  You don't have to take this path.  In fact, I urge you not to.  But if you see yourself in drowning, cowering, and you don't know how you'll ever get out of it - I promise there's a way.  If 90 days turned me from the co-dependent, emotionally void kid into the work in progress, the woman who I think I'm becoming, I promise you friends, 90 days can certainly begin the change.