In the Process

Jesus, my mind is buzzing. I have ideas on what I want to do around the house, what I want to write about, what I want to do when I go back to work on Monday, food I want to cook for the BBQ next weekend, what I'm going to wear when I finally change out of my Star Wars pajamas.

I'm literally twitching. I want to run and walk and swim and do all kinds of exercise I usually try my best to avoid. I swear to god I could paint the entire house today, build a gazebo, pull the sneaky blackberry bushes out by their invisible roots and then run around the block.

In January, I went to the doctor. I told her I wasn't myself. I told her I was quiet and distant and cold on the inside. I told her I didn't think my medication was working. She told me to go to a psychiatrist. I tried.
A little.
I looked online at a few shrinks in the area and then when no one looked like someone I would want to talk to I gave up. It's not easy to take that step when you are feeling like you'll never walk again.

I guess I had a follow up appointment with my doc to see how things were going with the psych I was supposed to find, but I forgot about it. It's not easy to remember commitments and follow through on them when you can't seem to care about anything.

In April, I was put in charge of a project at work that changed me. Because of my role, I was able to look at my career path differently and finally admit to myself that I was headed the right way. I immersed myself in the project, desperate for success. And things happened, as they do, to delay a feeling of accomplishment. Halfway through the project, I injured my back. Or rather, the disks in my low back finally made it known they needed attention. My body got delayed too.

In early May I started physical therapy (physical torture).

Now, on the last day of June, I feel better. I feel the energy described above just itching to get out.

But I can't expel it. I need to rest my back and take it slow. I know this because I've tested it.

On Monday of this week, I moved some tables. They were very light, round tables that slid across a carpeted floor with ease. I felt fine. I did not strain or push too hard. When I finally felt (too soon) the slightest hint of pain, I stopped. I iced my back. I hobbled slowly around the office, dodging looks of sympathy and 'are you ok' glances. And I knew, I wasn't healed. Wasn't even close.

On Tuesday, I went back to my doctor. I told her I'd been in pain for 3 months. Pain that has limited me to do anything and has allowed all the weight I'd lost come back to disfigure the confidence I'd begun to build. I told her I felt that I was always taking 1 step forward, 2 steps back....in my mind's health, my body's health...I told her I wasn't healed.

We talked about the psychiatrist I was supposed to see and why I didn't. We talked about the weight I'd gained and why I wish I hadn't. We talked about the energy soaking pain that my back and mind took turns gathering and how to make it stop.

She suggested a new medication. I ignored the 'fuck, another pill?' feeling and started taking it the next day. My fog lifted. I was singing along to the radio again (sad songs but something at least) and was writing some great stuff at work. I felt good (almost) the rest of the week. I stayed up late and watched my shows, slept (sort of) and got up with no responsibilities waiting.

This morning, right now, my fingers are flying across the keys, writing about how I can't stop or go.  My mind is still thinking about what I'm going to do next but my body won't let me. I'm limited.
I'm not entirely healed.