THE CATHARSIS OF CRYING

Sometimes the pain of talking is too overwhelming and the pressure in my chest just bursting to come forth, and I let it out.

I silently weep.

There are times when talking doesn’t help. When fear just is and finding a friend to rationalise a solution to an unsolvable problem simply generates more angst than staying silent. Talking about the impossible solution creates a sense of shame for feeling anything at all. Ignoring what cannot be solved somehow diminishes a painful experience.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating for wallowing in misery – which is one of my special superpowers. But nor do I advocate ignoring problems just because they can’t be solved. It seems to me that shoving a problem into a metaphorical filing cabinet doesn’t solve the problem – it’s simply shelved for another day. And my access to metaphorical filing cabinets is pretty spasmodic.

I confess to being cowardly in conflict. I don’t do it well. I don’t do it at all. I shroud myself in a suit of patched up armour and hope there’s enough structural integrity left to weather the rain of emotional onslaught, then I stuff that armour into its sturdy little bag and trot home. Away from the intensity of interpersonal conflict where I feel no sense of safety in myself. I need to be alone.

Then I weep.

There is nobody to judge my silent tears. There is no limit to the outpouring of grief and fear – gathering up every unbridled thought and shining a big shiny light on it. Then let it all out, as the saying goes. Ironic as it may seem to others, weeping in my wardrobe is an important coping mechanism for me. It’s the place where I validate my fears, shed my tears, then gather up the strength and determination to move on and practice acceptance.

Acceptance is – apparently – a willingness to tolerate a difficult situation. Sometimes the head is willing long before the heart. Is that biological? I have absolutely no idea. I know people who find that when life slaps them in the face with the biggest, slimiest fish, they just take a small moment to stare at the fish then move on. I envy these people. When I’m slapped in the face by a fish I spend a lot of time wondering if the fish is okay. But still – in my own steady way, I work towards accepting the lot that life has for me.

For me, acceptance comes after the tear-shedding. Not before. My speedy little brain does flips and spins and slides and turns the impossible into the implausible. A catastrophic catalogue of all the possible outcomes for all the improbable scenarios. And quite honestly – in my personal experience – nobody wants to hear that. I don’t particularly want to hear it myself, but when it’s stuffed in my head it just keeps ballooning until my brain is just oozing chaos and then it’s time to close down and close off.

It’s time to weep.

I’m very bad at letting go and very good at bottling up. Some things just are. This is one of those things.

I’m very bad at letting go of the emotional stuff, but I’m pretty good at the practical stuff. I don’t berate the traffic lights for turning red or curse the traffic for building up. I don’t yell at the sky to wish the rain away or glare at the tide for inconveniencing me. I don’t let financial sparsity spoil the appreciation for how much I do have. There is so much in the day-to-day world that I spectacularly accept. But so much in the emotional world that takes me time and tears to come to terms with. My loss of identity. Fears for my children. The health of the people I love. Stresses in my relationships. Finding purpose in my life. The worries of complete strangers. All these things send me to my weeping wardrobe where I need to cathartically cry out every impossible scenario, beg God for forgiveness and fortitude, and slowly – over time – work towards tolerating the seemingly intolerable.

I sense that my way of coping doesn’t make sense to other people. I hear a lot of people telling me to just get over it and don’t worry about things I can’t control. Unfortunately telling someone not to worry does nothing to reduce worry. It simply pushes it down so nobody else can see it. Crying is my catharsis. Silently sobbing where nobody can see is my happy place for being sad. It’s my safe space. When the overwhelm becomes more than I can bear I find a place just for me.

I SILENTLY weep.

HOW HYPERAROUSAL IMPACTS MY INSOMNIA

I’m aroused all the time. And not in a way that excites my husband.

In November 2018, I took myself off for a sleep study – I was about 30 years overdue. I knew I had restless legs syndrome (RLS) but wanted to know if anything else was happening. I’d been taking two RLS medications and participating in every cure I could discover on Dr. Google, but still – I was treading the boards night in, night out.

If I got two hours sleep in 24 hours it was a great night. I’d like to say, I wonder how I functioned, but I know for a fact, I wasn’t functioning. Not only was I utterly fatigued but my mental health was plummeting at dizzying speeds.

To continue reading please visit:

https://insomnia.sleep-disorders.net/living/hyperarousal/

Image and links courtesy of Health Union and https://insomnia.sleep-disorders.net/

WHICH IS IT? RESTLESS LEGS OR ANXIETY?

I have severe restless legs syndrome (RLS).

• Fatigue
• Trouble sleeping
• Muscle tension or muscle aches
• Trembling, feeling twitchy
• Nervousness or being easily startled
• Sweating
• Nausea, diarrhea or irritable bowel syndrome
• Irritability

These are the physical symptoms of generalised anxiety disorder (GAD). Sound familiar?

To continue reading please visit:

https://restlesslegssyndrome.sleep-disorders.net/living/anxiety/

Image and links courtesy of Health Union and restlegssyndrome.sleep-disorders.net

ONCE UPON A TIME: THE NIGHT I FORGOT MY MEDICATIONS

Once upon a time, I forgot to take my medication. I will never forget that night.

I have lived with restless legs syndrome (RLS) since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. And like grasshoppers, my knees like to jump around. Spontaneously. A lot.

Here’s some interesting information about grasshoppers:

The grasshopper can jump as far as it does because its hind legs act like miniature catapults. It bends its legs at the knee, mechanism within the knee works like a spring, storing up energy. When the grasshopper is ready to jump, it relaxes the leg muscles, allowing the spring to release flinging it into the air.

How cool is that?! My legs also feel like they have miniature catapults, just waiting for release by being flung into the air. And usually, this flinging is really well controlled with two prescription medications, a hefty dose of magnesium, and careful attention to lifestyle.

To continue reading please visit:

https://restlesslegssyndrome.sleep-disorders.net/living/night-without-medication/

Image and links courtesy of Health Union and https://restlesslegssyndrome.sleep-disorders.net/

THE SOUND OF SILENCE

Sometimes I stop talking

This irritates other people because it happens right at the moment when I am most expected to talk. It happens during a crisis, when I’m distressed, when I’m overwhelmed and teary. It happens right at the very worst possible moment because I lose the ability to communicate what’s wrong.

I have no control over this

No doubt that sounds illogical. It’s my head, my brain, my tongue, my feelings. But the innate reaction of, “Shut up and ship out” is so ingrained I cannot (at this point in time) override the learned response.

I am asthmatic. It’s not a big deal most of the time, because I don’t have asthma most of the time. But on the odd occasion, I do become short of breath and asking me to engage in a hearty conversation about the pros and cons of the cable car on Mt Wellington is a taxing task and will soon become impossible.

That’s what emotional crises feel like to me

Impossible.

When a conflict arises – and I think I can state quite confidently, I have no capacity whatsoever to deal with conflict – my body goes into instant panic attack mode. Panic attacks are well documented and fairly well known about in the general populace. These are the most common symptoms according to the Mayo Clinic.

• Sense of impending doom or danger
• Fear of loss of control or death
• Rapid, pounding heart rate
• Sweating
• Trembling or shaking
• Shortness of breath or tightness in your throat
• Chills
• Hot flashes
• Nausea
• Abdominal cramping
• Chest pain
• Headache
• Dizziness, lightheadedness or faintness
• Numbness or tingling sensation
• Feeling of unreality or detachment

I think I score 15/15 on that. Some symptoms are more immediate – like pounding heart and the feeling of unreality. Some are more subtle or may not be there – like headache and chills. If you’ve ever had panic attacks you probably know the severity can alter. I’ve been attended by paramedics because of a panic attack (how humiliating…) but other times I’ve calmed myself and talked myself down. So it’s not always the end of the world. But it’s not possible to talk.

If I’ve been subjected to a barrage of criticism, if I’ve ended up in a personal attack, if I’ve become consumed with catastrophising, if my depression or anxiety has flared out of control, if I’m afraid of the response to something I’ve said or done, if a million other scenarios appear – then I shut down and can’t talk.

I want to talk

I want to tell you I’m upset, ashamed, hurt, humiliated, shocked, confused, afraid, disappointed. I want to say I disagree with you, it’s not my fault, I’m sorry I did that, this is my point of view, I didn’t do that, can you please stop, let’s work this out. I want to ask for forgiveness, understanding, compassion, an apology, acceptance, for a hug. But my tongue is firmly attached to the roof of my mouth and my sense of the here and now has fled. Every part of my body is tensed and trying to fight for a way out.

There’s no talking – just walking.

This is why I shut down. It’s not anybody’s fault and I’m not trying to cast blame. This is my responsibility and something I work on with my ever-patient psychologist. It’s the key reason I do DBT: emotion regulation, distress tolerance and interpersonal skills. Unbelievable as it may sound, I’m actually making progress. I’m getting better at it. But in the meantime, I want you to know that when I shut down and shut up, it’s not your fault. I don’t disvalue you as a friend. I don’t want anything. I can’t discuss it. I need to be alone. And when my brain has had time to process and my heart has had time to stop thumping, I’ll be able to talk it through.

Right in the heat of the moment, it’s impossible

I’m sorry – really, truly I am – that this is an unusual and unnatural response to normal human interactions. But sometimes the things we were taught as children hang around liked a fused fart and all the willing it away makes no difference. One day, I’ll find my tongue and fight back. Right now, I need to huddle on my own and make sense of it alone. Please understand it’s not you, it’s me.

UPSIZING

Clothes hold memories. A lot of memories.

The green velvet dress I wore the last time I ever played the flute.

The spotty skirt I wore for a glamour photography shoot with my closest friends.

The dress I wore in Rome while standing on my tippy toes pointing up to a street sign with my name on it.

The red checked dress I used to wear to work. Back in the days when I had a job.

The dress I wore on our 25th wedding anniversary for a Gatsby party on a cruise – a party my husband refused to attend.

Today I packed up all those memories. Two bulging suitcases full of all the people and places I loved. I packed up those suitcases and left a big pile of empty wooden hangers. And in my wardrobe now are a dozen or so hangers with clothes on them. Skirts, shirts, dresses and jackets. That’s my entire wardrobe. The things that are left that still fit.

It’s a bittersweet state of affairs. With no sweetness in it.

The trouble with rapid weight gain is there’s no time to let your wardrobe adjust – one day everything fits and the next day nothing fits. Well – there’s perhaps a three-month passage of time but still, slowly morphing your wardrobe into something three sizes bigger should take time. It didn’t. Due to medication, I ballooned fast and today I had to finally accept I couldn’t squeeze my sorry ass into any of my clothes anymore.

If you have never experienced the indignity of stripping your wardrobe of all your favourite things, then you have absolutely no idea what it feels like. And I don’t mean just shoving your favourite pair of jeans to the back of the wardrobe because you’ve gained a measly 5kg. I mean going through your wardrobe and realising it belongs to somebody else. Somebody you used to be.

If you have experienced large weight gain in a short period of time then you know exactly what I’m talking about and I feel your pain too. It’s not pretty. It is in fact, downright depressing.

I cried.

I tried playing jolly music as I neatly folded and packed, so I’d be nice and distracted, but it didn’t help. I focused on the organised and orderly state my wardrobe is in now. That just made me cry more. I went out this afternoon with a good friend to buy new clothes that do fit – two pairs of pants and two tops. The only things I now own that fit properly. I will admit it does feel good to slide into a pair of pants that don’t hurt – this is true. It doesn’t feel good to look at the label and see it’s three sizes bigger than my other pants.

I feel like I’ve given up, that I’ve been beaten down by the inevitable. 54 years of dieting and trying to change every inch of my body and today I just thought, fuck it. I can’t be assed. I’ll just sit in this sorry looking body and sulk on the inside, but I’m going to do it in comfortable pants.

I’ve tried really hard to get good at the body acceptance thing. I really have. I don’t know what it feels like but I have put myself out there and tried talking the talk as well as walking the walk. It hasn’t sunk in but I’ve tried. Perhaps one day I’ll wander around like the lady in the purple hat and feel comfortable in my skin. For now, I just want to feel comfortable in my clothes.

I’m tired. I’m so tired of fighting this war with myself and today was a very big battle that I lost. Or perhaps some might see it as a win because really I cannot be bothered thinking about what I do or don’t eat anymore. I can eat a shit ton of chocolate for dinner if I feel like it and I just don’t care. I actually had an omelette so that’s probably a more intelligent option but honestly – I couldn’t care less right now.

I miss my clothes. They’ve been very carefully and lovingly packed into our only two large suitcases – which are of no use to us now that COVID-19 means we’re trapped on the island and can’t leave. Perhaps by the time we can use those suitcases again, I will have the opportunity to rummage around and try some of the contents on.

But then again, perhaps not.

Who knows? I may not be comfortable in this body but I’m going to try practising to accept it. I don’t have to like it to accept it. There’s a lot of unlikeable things we have to accept in life – dirty nappies, flat tyres, doof doof music, chipped fingernails, menstruation. They call it radical acceptance in DBT – just accept something all the way through, even if you don’t like it. Losing my wardrobe feels like losing a friend – I feel a sense of grief. It’s not just the items of clothing but what they stood for. All the happy times, the sad times, the good times, the bad times. All the times. Every time I’ve done something I was wearing something (almost every time…) and packing all that away isn’t easy. Maybe one day they’ll be unpacked again but today – today I have to put on comfy pants and be grateful I have clothes.