brain fight

My brain and I are fighting, and I think I’m losing.

Today was one of those hard days with my brain where the twitchiness would not stop.

I tried smelling my lotions, eating Chewy Sprees, drinking herbal tea … to no avail.

The despair and anxiety just perseveres against my efforts.

Finally, I took a shower, and still no change.

I’m arguing with my brain again, my brain that thinks I’m unworthy.

We’re at a stalemate, me and my brain.

and it all came to a head …

I do a good job of convincing myself that it’s not evident to others that I am struggling, that I’ve hidden it well from the world. I learned today that I was woefully wrong about that perception. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

My director asked to speak with me this morning. She conveyed that she was worried about me, as I didn’t seem like myself. I was stunned, not because I disagreed, but because I thought I had squirreled it away from others. I was so wrong about that.

The dissociative sleeping has been a huge problem, along with transitioning from my therapist to a psychiatrist. My ability to deal with stress has been compromised. I certainly feel it.

I was then trying to figure out a solution for myself when the psychiatrist called me out of the blue today at lunch. I’ve had to wait to start my treatment with him because he did not want to see me while I was seeing another clinician. He called me because he wondered how I was doing, and said he was willing to start Neurofeedback therapy with me while I transitioned from my previous therapist. He even admitted that he may have been too rigid with me.

It’s like the universe came together with this phone call at the opportune time. I even had an offer of moving my start time at work back an hour so that I have more time in the morning. Still feeling anxious and teary, but more hopeful than I have been feeling all week.

a cheese sandwich

Muenster!

I met with my therapist today, and we mutually agreed that I would not immediately transition to the psychiatrist. I was a freaky mess even just talking about it, crying and shaking. Her theory is that I have a lot of transition going on right now, and right now is not a good time to abruptly go from seeing her to the psychiatrist in the span of one week. I’ve been seeing her for 6 years, and I’ve accomplished a great deal with her in that time. There were many times when I felt she was the only one in the world who cared about me, and there were times that the only thing in the crevices of my mind that kept me from going too far in my suicidal ideation was the fact that I did not want to leave her with the burden of my suicide, especially with all the help she had given me.

So, I’ll transition in a few weeks to the psychiatrist. It feels like the right way to do this.

In other news, the new office space at work feels like a scene from Hoarders. There are boxes and loose papers everywhere around us. The previous owner of my desk must have had a fondness for jam sandwiches, or something with jam. I went to open a desk drawer today and found the handles sticky with old jam. I nearly retched. I cleaned the outside of one drawer before the heebies set in again. I stayed far away from that nasty desk today.

So, I knew I needed to try to be good to myself after my session given the way I was feeling. I went grocery store shopping for dinner, and I found myself being drawn to Muenster cheese and sandwich bread. I decided I would have a cheese sandwich for dinner, and it oddly put a smile on my face.

Muenster cheese reminds me of my grandma, Mama Titi. She was called Titi because my cousin Steve pronounced her first name, Beatriz, as Titi. Mama Titi would get a big block of Muenster cheese on a regular basis as a government commodity. She would make me quesadillas with that cheese, and, sometimes, it was the best food I’d had all week. The gooey quesadillas on fresh soft tortillas were a great big hearty hug for a sad and hungry girl.

This past winter I went to the residential center at McLean Hospital for three weeks. For lunch they provided a stocked pantry and refrigerator from which you could make your own lunch. I was so freaked out being around so many strange people that I did not want to linger in that kitchen. So, my lunch was a cheese sandwich because it was the quickest and easiest thing to make. After the third day at McLean, I was no longer too scared to linger in the kitchen. But by then the cheese sandwich had become a source of comfort for me. It remained a regular part of my lunch rotation the entire time I was there.

At McLean I started to feel hopeful again. With my grandmother I felt hope and comfort, and so it goes for the cheese sandwiches that remind me of both of them.