The Self-Blame Game
I’m feeling better today, pain-wise. So much better, in fact, that I have had my bra on for eight whole hours. Usually the bolts of pain in my neck and shoulders have me feeling like I can’t go a minute longer in discomfort, but today has been good enough that, if I could work, the bra would’ve stayed on until I was driving home down the highway.
Just pictured myself driving I-465 in Indianapolis on my way home from one of my crappier jobs holding a bra out the sunroof as it flapped like a checkered flag and chuckled. That might really fix me. If I could drive.
It’s been a beautiful day. In fact, we’ve had a couple in a row. I’ve been using the Merlin app to track the birds migrating the last couple of weeks, but those good ol’ Song Sparrows are a gosh dang delight. Other birds are more colorful and more exciting to ID, but the Song Sparrows are consistent comfort. I dig that about them.
Next week is my last scheduled week of in-home PT. Am I ready for outpatient therapy? Probably. I mean, they know better than I do, and I suppose it’ll be good for me to move on. But I can’t take my PT with me, and that has me feeling ways. I know it’s a job for most healthcare workers, but sometimes as a patient one just hits different. The anxious me is on the inside like a toddler having a meltdown, “I don’t want a different PT! I like this one!”
Change is hard. I’m trying to strike a deal with myself that I can have an ice cream if I’m brave.
The anxiety compounds the problem and I’m forgoing cognitive therapy until the dentist stuff is paid off. I’ve come a long way, especially where panic attacks are concerned, but I don’t want to stall out yet worry that I will.
What if I don’t trust the next PT?
Now I’m thinking about those ridiculous trust fall exercises that were so popular and seemed so harmless. The best way I can sum up my GAD for those not in the know, is that I’m a literal fall risk and I don’t trust me to catch me and I’m convinced I’ll take out every one in my path on the way down.
“Don’t worry, you’ll fall on me if you go down!” Everyone says that. Inside I’m like, “OK, but that’s also what I’m afraid of!”
When I buckled in my primary doctor’s office parking lot the other week, Dan asked what my doctor said about them scraping me up off the asphalt.
“They told me to stop apologizing.”
“See,” he said.
I need to come to terms with self-blame, but I haven’t figured out how yet.