Five days until my mom gets one of her knees replaced.  Let me say this before I begin: these surgeries (she is getting the other one replaced after Christmas) will change her life. Everyone I talk to about their knee replacement surgeries tell me after it heals, their pain levels disappear. This is a good thing for my family. She will get her life back.

Right now, I’m daunted as fuck. I can’t show it, but I’m afraid that I won’t be up to taking care of both of my parents.

My father works very hard. He works far harder than any man his age should. When he gets off work, we wait on him. The man never so much as gets up to get his own drink. He leaves his paper plate on the TV tray by his chair. We also all stop whatever we are doing to make sure nothing interrupts his television watching.

Saturday, I had planned on get some work done to prepare the house for Mom’s surgery, but he woke up and announced I was taking him to Wal-Mart. It is a big adventure for him. This time he nearly got in a fight in the parking lot with an old lady over one of those electronic carts, then he spent two and a half hours bitching to anyone who could hear about how closely packed the aisles were. He couldn’t understand why I was less than thrilled. “Girl, are you still all PMS grumpy?”

I love my dad. I just thinks he forgets that I’m a person with things of my own.

I haven’t been to water aerobics in far too long. I got sick. I’m still not at 100%, but I don’t have a choice but to get over it. It is really bothering me. I feel like a failure. I was going to go yesterday. I spent the day working really hard getting the living room rearranged (with my mom’s lovely “tips” from the arm chair), and when time rolled around I was hurting so bad I couldn’t imagine tugging on my suit. My mom’s knee went out which lead to some screaming and wailing during the time I would have been in the water if I had went, so I had to make Dad a quick dinner while taking care of her. Dad ate 5 bites of his dinner and told me he was full.

After I got everyone settled, I still had to get gas in the truck for taking Dad to work this morning and a quick store shop. When I pulled back in our drive way, I sat there silently for a few minutes and started to cry. I was not entirely sure I could handle it all. I got myself pulled together, wiped my eyes, and brought the groceries inside. My dad stopped me in the middle of the living room with the grocery bags still in my hands to ask me to make him peanut butter and toast. I offered him the rest of his salad that had filled him up earlier. Nope, he wanted peanut butter and toast.  All while I still had groceries in my hand.

This is after poor diet choices sent him to the hospital last week… Yeah.

Completely unrelated: these flowers are from the Viking’s back yard. They smell amazing. Or did, until my dog ate them.

This morning I woke up ungodly early to drive him the 45 minutes to work, drive home, take mom to get a ton of tests done, buy a bed, set up said bed, and then drive the 45 minutes back up to pick him up from work. Oh, and this driving is done when I should be in the water.

Tomorrow, I desperately want to make it to water aerobics. I can’t even tell myself I plan on doing it.

I don’t know if I can handle these next few weeks. People are telling me to take care of myself first in order to be able to take care of others. I’m trying to learn that trick. Right now, I’ll settle for high doses of caffeine and grossly swollen feet.

Ugh, sorry for the whine fest. I can’t promise there won’t be more.

I haven’t really written a true blog in a bit. Things have just been… interesting.

Last week I went to the psychiatrist who works with the facility I’m getting my therapy from. I decided to try something new for my depression and anxiety. Medicine changes are ALWAYS full of fun, and I’m still kind of scared.

A little voice in my head says the Prozac worked fine, and I’m stupid to try other things. Truth leaks in, reads my blog, and says “Sister, you are full of shit.” The Prozac did well enough, but I think there is a chance I could do a lot better. I get annoyed at people accepting “good enough” when they good have better. If nothing works better than the Prozac then I will adapt, but I feel like I need to try.

The fun part is the adjustment period. Mental health medicines take awhile to work. So, I stopped taking Prozac, and now I’m in the awesome duration it takes for the new medicines to take full effect. I started Friday. Starting Saturday I’ve woken up in debilitating pain, and I was afraid if I didn’t clench my jaw hard enough I would just start screaming or crying or both unless I was talking to the Viking. He is the stone I can put my hand on to reassure myself I’m safe. My bravery is much easier to find when I know I can reach back and he will tell me that I can handle anything.

Yesterday was really bad. He called me before water aerobics, and that made it easier, but most of the day I chanted to myself, “if I can make it to the water, I’ll be okay.” My father has always told me Navy SEALs instinctively know where the nearest body of water is because water meant safety. Part of that leaked into me. Just sitting by a fountain makes me happier and more calm. Everyday since I’ve started the classes, I step into the water and calm seeps in. The ladies (and two gentlemen) are wonderful. They accepted me without question or reserve, and I feel safe.

I love Minions, and I love inappropriate humor. This picture is perfect.

Last night, though, I was in a bad place, so I stayed after and just swam some laps. I love being underwater. Sounds that are loud and sharp above the water are soft and indistinct underwater. They feel like they mix with the water to be part of the warm diffusion. Because that is what being under water is, a diffusion of everything, thoughts, feelings, sound, light. It all softens and mixes and surrounds you and holds you up. It feels safe and calm.

I felt more like I could breathe when I came out.

Later that night, the Viking and his Tina took care of me. We talked and played video games. They were there for me. They helped me unclench my jaw.

Today, I’m better. I have hope. I’m still in a lot of pain. I have no idea why. I’m still a little edgy, but I’m not angry. I’m not afraid if I open my mouth at the wrong time screaming and crying will come out instead of words. I’ll count it as a win.

As of last Thursday, I had lost 8 pounds. I weigh again next Thursday. If the number is even lower I’ll be happy, but right now, I’m working hard to take care of myself. If the number isn’t any lower, I’ll still count it as a win.

I’m exhausted. I found out today I’ve lost 8 pounds in 3 weeks. After that I went to water aerobics and busted my ass. It is like all exercise, you get out what you put in. I put in a lot energy and I got out a lot of sore. I’mma play video games.

I’ve been trying to decide how much of this wacky world of attempting to get my shit together I wanted to share with y’all. People around me freak out a little when I mention writing about something too private. There are some legitimate concerns like what future employers might find. Other concerns make me giggle a bit. “People will know if you write about it.” Seriously? Because I’m pretty sure people can tell I’m a crazy fat woman without having to read this.

Anyway, today, I had a long interview session thingy with a case manager at the facility that I’m getting therapy from. The first interview was to determine if I was crazy enough for them. I passed that one. Today was all about finding out what flavor of crazy I am.

Snozberry crazy, I’m snozberry flavored crazy.

Okay, so, the session was like being twisted up and poked for the sore spots. Honestly, though, it wasn’t that bad. I think it might be because I have the most fucked up sense of humor ever. The people at this facility are kind and share bits of themselves with you while you tell them things, so you don’t feel judged. That is a big deal.

The session starts out with questions about the past 30 days. The past 30 days have been a big ball of fucking cluster fuck fabulous in some ways. I had plenty of batshit crazy to hand him with that. Then we talked about current relationships. Turns out having a stable, loving, relationship with a kind, stable man who treats me well and is like SUPER functional even if he is the weirdest man I have ever man I have ever met feels like I’ve made major strides in my own mental health.

Then we talked about past relationships. Yeah, we don’t need to go there again. I told him about my blog and how blogging about the last douche bag helped me so much, and how I feel like it means something that I’m open here. He seemed oddly impressed.

Okay, now here comes some of the things I find hilarious that probably only I would find funny.

I told him about the time I went to a crisis unit in 2000 because I was self harming. I referred to that period of my life as my super batshit insane period. He laughed at that. Then I told him I was sent to my college counselor, and I immediately realized it was a terrible idea because that woman was not prepared to handle a highly intelligent, self harming, eighteen year-old with a bad attitude and authority issues. It wasn’t really her fault.

Then the fun question happened: past traumas. We discussed the relationship things again and my weirdness with male sexual attention. We discussed how rough this year has been. Then we tried to discuss any traumas further back. I had to sit there and blink at him for a few minutes. I’m pretty sure being the weird, socially inept, fat girl during school is trauma enough. I can’t remember any traumas. This how it went:

Me: I sort of coped by thinking nothing that happened to me was that big of a deal, but still, it’s just weird. (Laugh)

Him: I know. I don’t know what to think.

Let me explain. I have all of the classic symptoms (depression, anxiety, self harming, eating disorders, and strange reactions to sexual situations) of someone who had childhood abuse, more specifically childhood sexual abuse. There was NONE.

Me: Right, I mean no one is as fucked up as I was without something.

Him: Seriously, nine out of ten people who come in presenting with the problems you had had sexual abuse. (Understand I’m laughing because this is how shit happens to me. I can’t be a normal kind of batshit, so he is looking perplexed and laughing at the same time.)

Me: I know, right? No one is that depressed and cuts themselves without something.

Him: I guess you are that one person in ten.

Me: I get that more than you would think.

Later, he asked me what my six month goal was.

Me: I used to be this super kick ass woman. I’ve been losing her. I want to find her again. I don’t know how to put that in shrinky speak.

Him: *Blink then laughs* I’m typing that. I like that. My six month goal is that I want to be the kick ass woman I used to be.

We take our wins where we can

Finally, he was talking to himself while typing up my diagnosis. I have major depression something without psychosis and general anxiety disorder.

Me: So I’m not psychotic?

Him: No.

Me: Shit, I’ll take that as a win. That’s a gold star moment for the day.

He laughs for like 4 minutes and looks at me and said “I completely forgot what I was typing.”

Me: That happens to people around me more than you would think.

He typed for a few minutes then told me when I was 18 I had Borderline Personality Disorder.

Me: That’s a special flavor of batshit insane, isn’t it?

Him: Yes, yes it is.

Me: So, I improved?

Him: Yes

Me: Holy hell, not only am I not psychotic, but I’m also normal crazy instead of a special kind of crazy now.

The reason why these people will be able to help me is because he laughed as hard as I did.

I finished my second week of water aerobics, and I love it. I now have a nickname from the regulars. There are days when I tell myself if I can make it to the water everything will be okay.

The fantastic truth is everything will be okay.

Also, I will be that kickass woman I used to be.