Before I left for therapy, I put on my new fancy coat Paul bought me for Christmas and contemplated wearing one of Grams' felt hats she gave me that she used to wear when she was my age. Of course I chickened out. I had a weird Grey Gardens flash in my head with my huge cardigan sticking out of the bottom of my flower patterened coat with a wide faux fur collar and my faded black jeans tucked into brown boots TOPPED with a beautiful maroon felt hat with a matching maroon feather and ribbon. Whoa. Paul was too sick with the flu to tell me otherwise, and I didn't want to scare my therapist into committing me.......this is what happens when you attempt to adjust to sea level on your own. I'm having a hard time transitioning from stay-cation to earth. 2 more days.
This break has been unbelievable. I have had the worst anxiety and the best breakthroughs in years. I've near-panick-attacked thrice, spent a jillion lazy hours with Paul and Oatmeal and learned how to crochet with my very best friend. And during another therapy appointment, I came to a frightening conclusion: I want to write again. And no I don't want to write copy for a packaging company as coming up with snappy tag lines about bubble wrap sounds suicide-inducing. I don't want to be the next great American fiction writer or pen a tell-all about how to be a good friend to a guinea pig (actually that sounds awesome). But I do want to make writing a part of my life again. (I'm not sure why we broke up in the first place.)
Feeling fulfilled and excited and allowing myself to listen to Rod Stewart, I went to the nursing home to see Grams and tell her about it and give her the two skeins of yarn she requested on Christmas. She was sleeping in her chair and looked very tired. I let her sleep. She had her hands curled up by her stomach and I smiled. I inherited her beautiful long bony fingers that always remind me of my mom. Three generations of Jane middle names, long fingers and bossy women. Grams woke up and smiled to see me there. I showed her the yarn and we talked about dinner. She told me a story about dessert last week. "You have to be bossy sometimes to get what you want," meaning you have to ask for pudding at dinner instead of Jell-O.
In my case, it's giving myself permission to do anything that I want. To do what makes me feel fantastic. Why is that so hard?
I'm going to go back to work on Monday and its going to be hard. But to get up the mountain of paperwork, morning work, IEPs, meltdowns and emotionally draining weeks, I'm going to write all about it and take pictures of Oatmeal and drink too much coffee. And possibly boss myself into doing something that scares me. What about you?
This break has been unbelievable. I have had the worst anxiety and the best breakthroughs in years. I've near-panick-attacked thrice, spent a jillion lazy hours with Paul and Oatmeal and learned how to crochet with my very best friend. And during another therapy appointment, I came to a frightening conclusion: I want to write again. And no I don't want to write copy for a packaging company as coming up with snappy tag lines about bubble wrap sounds suicide-inducing. I don't want to be the next great American fiction writer or pen a tell-all about how to be a good friend to a guinea pig (actually that sounds awesome). But I do want to make writing a part of my life again. (I'm not sure why we broke up in the first place.)
Feeling fulfilled and excited and allowing myself to listen to Rod Stewart, I went to the nursing home to see Grams and tell her about it and give her the two skeins of yarn she requested on Christmas. She was sleeping in her chair and looked very tired. I let her sleep. She had her hands curled up by her stomach and I smiled. I inherited her beautiful long bony fingers that always remind me of my mom. Three generations of Jane middle names, long fingers and bossy women. Grams woke up and smiled to see me there. I showed her the yarn and we talked about dinner. She told me a story about dessert last week. "You have to be bossy sometimes to get what you want," meaning you have to ask for pudding at dinner instead of Jell-O.
In my case, it's giving myself permission to do anything that I want. To do what makes me feel fantastic. Why is that so hard?
I'm going to go back to work on Monday and its going to be hard. But to get up the mountain of paperwork, morning work, IEPs, meltdowns and emotionally draining weeks, I'm going to write all about it and take pictures of Oatmeal and drink too much coffee. And possibly boss myself into doing something that scares me. What about you?