When I woke up this morning the weather was in the mid-fifties. For the first time in months I reached for a hoody. I didn’t feel the need to turn on the A/C, my sheets weren’t damp with sweat, I felt a light breeze through an open window, and my skin wasn’t sticky.
Fall is coming.
I have mixed feelings.
This morning’s run didn’t take me as far as I wanted it to. In other words, I had to walk part of it. At first this was a huge disappointment, but I soon realized it was better to walk than run through the agony.
When I started out I had a respectable pace, but a clumsy, achy, tired gait. I couldn’t get my groove after a busy weekend full of highs. It didn’t help that I was running along a road less traveled.
Last night before I went to bed I toyed with the idea of making myself an ice cream sundae. I didn’t really need it, but it sounded good. I asked my husband if he wanted to have one with me. He said no. Not that that’s deterred me before, but I just had this feeling that it wasn’t the ice I was craving — it was something else.
Part of my daydreams and thought-processes involve scripts in my head. Movie-type scripts. I am always the central character, though I often mold and change into different personas, usually desirable ones. People in my life are the characters that I converse with and are part of the action. These made-up scripts revolve around me saying all the right things and having the upper-hand and proving a point. These scripts are also do-overs after conversations and social situations that didn’t go well.
The further along I progress on my path to healing and recovery, I wonder — is it normal to cast roles and scripts and have scenarios play out in your brain that always work in your favor? I’ve never really dissected the scripts in my head because “writing” them was commonplace. I guess it’s some sort of coping mechanism. Now that I am aware of it, I decided to write one of the scripts down and tinker with it.
On Friday I had three mom’s over and a total of nine kids combined between the four of us. The sun was shining, and we were all in good spirits. Little did I know I would end up sharing an outline of my past struggles with mental illness. Right there at the patio table and chairs with all the kids running around.
This post is in response to The Daily Post’s one-word prompt: Survival
I have a bipolar disorder.
This week, I met with my psychiatrist, aka my drug dealer, for a med check. The last time I saw her was seven weeks ago. I haven’t missed her because at some point after my last visit it was clear to me that the dosage we settled on was working. The renewal of spring not long after that appointment lifted my spirits, which lent itself to even more wellness. On top of all that, I have had four appointments with my therapist, who has been invaluable in my recovery. I feel happy and stable.
I am coming off a long weekend stay in my hometown.
Here are a few bits and pieces from my time at “home.”