Lately I have found myself in such a depression that I "no longer want to do things that once interested me." (Isn't that one of the signs?) Like blogging. I don't mean to neglect my readers and I have had all sorts of ideas for posts, but I just can't get the words down. I've not physically been feeling well at all and it has taken a toll on my mental health. My stomach continually hurts, though the cat seems to find my belly the best place to mush her 3 ton feet. I push her off me at least four times a day. Stupid cat. I'm having much more painful diarrhea and nausea as well. I really feel that my pancreas is to blame again and I'm beginning a pancreatic attack. Though I am too tired and lethargic to go to the hospital. I just don't want to do anything. Nothing. I seriously would stay in my bed and allow myself to die if I didn't have a daughter to get to school in the morning.
There was a time when I accepted my Crohn's disease and all that came along with it to destroy my insides, but that has since passed. I forgot how I did that and now I feel like I am newly diagnosed again with no answers and no days of feeling good and no hope. My quality of life is shit - literally. I sleep, but only with bad dreams about my dead father. Reliving his illness and what he went through as he died slowly over six years from complications due to Multiple Sclerosis doesn't make for restful sleep. I was fifteen when he passed, but apparently never dealt with it and my brain insists on doing that now. Watching him suffer and die the first time was hard enough. Now I do it nightly. Only now I can talk to him in my dreams. He tells me how horrible it was for him to lay there and die. The pain he felt. The depression he endured. The abandonment from his family when we had no other choice but to put him in a nursing home. The loneliness. I don't want to know these things, yet every night it is some version of the same sad story, over and over again. Maybe that is why I feel the exact same way. I feel like I am him, very slowly dying.
It's still a waiting game with the disability. Filling out forms, answering the same questions over and over. I know it's a long process and I really don't expect an answer for a very long time. I'm prepared for that. It doesn't help though.
My family is being torn apart because of me, my illness. I can't work and we have barely enough money to cover the bills. I know that every doctor visit, every prescription, every trip to the hospital and every test only means more bills. Maybe that's why I haven't gone to the hospital for my pain, nausea and increasingly violent diarrhea. All I can see is the dollar signs and I know in the back of my mind they won't be able to help me anyway. They never do. No one can.
My daughter is 14 and pretty much just floating around out there on her own. She stays in her room most of the time and barely says anything to anyone. Maybe that's typical teenage behavior but I think it's my fault. Everything going to hell in our lives is my fault. I'm sick and I did this. This is my life. Should I have to adapt to this new normal? I can't. I don't know how to adapt anymore. I've forgotten everything about coping.
So that's it. That's what's going on, that's where I've been. A complete and total mess. I put on a good front but I won't here. Not to my readers. Maybe this will help someone, maybe not. Maybe it will help me. We'll see.
There was a time when I accepted my Crohn's disease and all that came along with it to destroy my insides, but that has since passed. I forgot how I did that and now I feel like I am newly diagnosed again with no answers and no days of feeling good and no hope. My quality of life is shit - literally. I sleep, but only with bad dreams about my dead father. Reliving his illness and what he went through as he died slowly over six years from complications due to Multiple Sclerosis doesn't make for restful sleep. I was fifteen when he passed, but apparently never dealt with it and my brain insists on doing that now. Watching him suffer and die the first time was hard enough. Now I do it nightly. Only now I can talk to him in my dreams. He tells me how horrible it was for him to lay there and die. The pain he felt. The depression he endured. The abandonment from his family when we had no other choice but to put him in a nursing home. The loneliness. I don't want to know these things, yet every night it is some version of the same sad story, over and over again. Maybe that is why I feel the exact same way. I feel like I am him, very slowly dying.
It's still a waiting game with the disability. Filling out forms, answering the same questions over and over. I know it's a long process and I really don't expect an answer for a very long time. I'm prepared for that. It doesn't help though.
My family is being torn apart because of me, my illness. I can't work and we have barely enough money to cover the bills. I know that every doctor visit, every prescription, every trip to the hospital and every test only means more bills. Maybe that's why I haven't gone to the hospital for my pain, nausea and increasingly violent diarrhea. All I can see is the dollar signs and I know in the back of my mind they won't be able to help me anyway. They never do. No one can.
My daughter is 14 and pretty much just floating around out there on her own. She stays in her room most of the time and barely says anything to anyone. Maybe that's typical teenage behavior but I think it's my fault. Everything going to hell in our lives is my fault. I'm sick and I did this. This is my life. Should I have to adapt to this new normal? I can't. I don't know how to adapt anymore. I've forgotten everything about coping.
So that's it. That's what's going on, that's where I've been. A complete and total mess. I put on a good front but I won't here. Not to my readers. Maybe this will help someone, maybe not. Maybe it will help me. We'll see.
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