It’s been awhile and I suppose I should write something.
Still here in exile in Dixie for 40 more days. I’m thoroughly tired of Confederate flags, ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ license plates and a general feeling that people here are not as nice as they may seem at first. Just don’t talk about the war, or race, or Trump, or . . . hell, if you’re a Yankee, just keep it to yourself.
I went to do some grocery shopping this morning. My car is covered in pollen. Thankfully I do not have allergies.
The hotel disgorged its usual large groups of youth sports teams this morning and now all is very quiet. I like quiet but then I am getting up there in years and I have an aversion to noise anyway.
I have been avoiding as best I can, TV news. I still read WaPo and NYT which is bad enough, but I pay for them, so I feel obligated to depress myself daily. To give up caring would be the smart thing, but I still find it hard to do. Until I’m dead, I’m unfortunately a part of this world and this country for better or worse. And I still hate getting blindsided by bad news.
I don’t know how I’m going to successfully wean off Ativan. Right now, I really depend on the little white pills to keep the baying hounds of desperation from my door. I suppose it will get better when I get home. I can’t say for sure – nothing in this life with this illness is predictable.
Boy have I put on weight since I’ve been down here! I remember what I said I was going to do – exercise, eat right, etc. But I ran into reality and that all fell apart quickly. Vince Lombardi once said fatigue makes cowards of us all. But Lombardi never had Borderline, anxiety and PTSD.
But something will have to be done about the weight. For the last six months I’ve become very aware of my knees cracking every time I get up from the couch. Now I’m starting to notice occasional pain. Do I face the choice of bariatric surgery or knee replacement surgery? I’ve seen both and I think the former is better in the long run. But not by much.
Food is a drug. Our cravings develop in childhood. My mother was a lousy cook, my parents spent what they had left on food, and sweets and treats were very rare while boiled broccoli, burned roasts and emergency chop suey dinners were plentiful. When you grow up like that, the lack of food you like seems like neglect and the force feeding of food you hate seems like abuse. So, when I got out of the house on my own and I could ‘but whatever the Hell I wanted’ in the words of both parents I did. And promptly gained 10 pounds in three months. Kids get set up in America with bad diets. We’re bombarded with ads for sugary cereals and other junk as kids and when we go to school, the popular kids have Hostess and I was lucky if I had an occasional Little Debbie. My how the tables have turned with those two brands, eh?
But once cravings are set, they are almost impossible to control, I don’t care what anyone says. And genetics determine a lot about how big or small your body will want to be. Diets almost always fail. And the society that shoves all this crap at us through advertising then shames us for getting fat after eating it. I’m through with shame but my knees cry out for relief. So, something will have to be done.
When I came back from shopping the anxiety had hit so bad, so fast, that my lower lip was literally trembling. I took 1 mg of Ativan and sat down to write. 30 minutes later, I’m better. I seriously don’t know what I’m going to do about Ativan. I know what my shrink wants. My shrink does not know how it feels. I’m tapering off booze to more special occasions. I don’t need it, my liver doesn’t need it, and it does nothing for the feels. But when we bought the house it came with a nifty bar which encouraged me to fancy myself a suave keeper of spirits. I don’t need liquor to smoke a cigar.
I think the silence of my lonely room would be easier to take if my ears didn’t ring so furiously. Some days it’s like hearing a gale force wind. Other days, like today, it’s more like whistling radio static. And I hear it – night and day.