Readers, I wasn’t. This time. I just couldn’t remember the lyrics, and it bugged me.
I also caught hella side-eye from Dan for absentmindedly singing the J. G. Wentworth jingle yesterday, but clapped back immediately, “I’m not the one who watches TV all day. Why do I have to pay the price?”
Dan kept on walking. His silence a clear indicator that I had won a round.
I’m back, bitches!
I don’t know how long less-anxious me is going to stick around between episodes, but it feels good to have my mind free from anxiety’s death grip right now. It’s been a minute.
Speaking of death grips. I’ve been trying very intentionally to grip my Rollator less tightly. Now that I’m aware—thanks to my lung function testing—I’m noticing when I white knuckle the handles so hard my hands don’t register a pulse. It’s pretty much every time I stand up.
No wonder walking makes me see stars! I’ve been anxious about falling for too long.
It’s easiest for me to relax my hands, arms, and shoulders first thing in the morning, and it gets worse as my body comes online and remembers to be freaked out. It seems to be a combo of cortisol and muscle memory that trigger fight or flight once I’m coherent.
I imagine it’ll take some time to relax and exercise my way out of this paper bag. That’s okay. I can deal with hard shit when I understand it, and I am starting to understand how my anxiety works.
I had a small breakthrough while listening to a talk on addiction by Tara Brach. At first I wasn’t going to even listen to this week’s podcast because I was thinking alcohol, sex, shopping, and drugs weren’t really my problem.
But I am addicted to answers, and when I started thinking of my diagnostic side quests here lately, well, I wasn’t exactly making space for my anxiety. The first part of the talk is broad anyway. I found it very helpful.
We’ve had a couple of pleasant days here, but they were deceptively pleasant. I’m paying for having the windows open with non-stop sneezing and a raging sinus headache so intense my teeth hurt. It’s hard to be positive when the things you want to celebrate hurt you.
Nevertheless.
Hold up. Dan just brought me an ice pack to put on my face.
Ahhh.
Oliver has a new nickname in addition to Oliver Wendell Homeslice. It’s Coach. Because he busts through the bathroom door when I’m on the toilet and screams at me. I appreciate the pep talk, but so far it hasn’t helped my IBS-C flares.
Gratuitous photos of the cute, but ineffective, little jerk.
I’m currently struggling with not worrying about Dan and had to have the “I need to know you’ll be okay,” talk. Not because I feel the end is near, but because my superpower is obsessing over what ifs. I have been feeling like a ginormous burden lately, no doubt fueled by the US system of “heath care” in all its overpriced glory.
Something in me thinks things would feel manageable again if I could keep the anxiety down to a dull roar, but every time I think I have something sorted, a new thing surfaces. Today it’s a cyst on the skin near my sternum. This has appeared before, but the difference is I could deal with the weird post-chemo skin stuff back then. Now I can’t tuck my chin far enough to see it.
Skin lesions are Dan’s specialty though, so at least I don’t feel like I have to worry about another trip to the doctor.
Oh, also I bought some stuff for swimmer’s ear, and I just want to say there’s a special place in hell for manufacturers who don’t put tabs on foil seals and then have the nerve to put a paper layer on top that tears away leaving absolutely nothing to grip.
While I’m complaining: I got this remote holder from Amazon. The picture shows it holding three remotes but it only holds two of mine. Naturally I need it to hold a TV remote, a Roku remote, and my adjustable bed remote.
“But Emily,” I hear you saying, “didn’t you test how many remotes it would hold before you stuck it to the nightstand?”
