Day three #powerrehab: Psychiatry and roses

April 2, 2015 § Leave a comment

The third day of #powerrehab was was productive and confusing.

I had a med check scheduled with my psychiatrist, which meant I had a babysitter scheduled for my kids.  And since med checks are so short, and it’s ridiculous to schedule a sitter for less than an hour, I had no choice but to book her for two, so I was free to tackle #powerrehab on my own.

My goals for the day three were simple:  pare down my gear for a morning out to one small, crossbody bag (wallet, keys, one notebook, one planner, one pen case), and see what happens when I wear it for a ten minute walk.  I succeeded at both AND was able to wear it comfortably while dominating the resale shop, buying the girls’ Easter dresses and shoes(!) in eight minutes flat.  I don’t even think it counts as shopping anymore when you do things without children.

So yes, I took my crossbodied walk, I stopped to smell roses, because that seemed like something people being gentle with their bodies do.  I noted the way the pain whined at me, not unlike a four year old reminding me endlessly that she is exhausted and cannot possibly go another step, and told it yes, yes it certainly can.  Look!  More roses!

I’ll post this picture, but the gold stars and this silly hashtag still feel like mockery.  #powerrehab doesn’t feel particularly motivating when it’s walking around a block taking pictures of roses.  I am not motivated by roses.  I am not motivated by gentleness.  I am not motivated by ease.  I am not motivated by middle of the road.

Is this a bipolar thing?  Or is this just a me thing?  I’m not even talking about excellence, though that is certainly a motivator.  I am talking about extremity.  I will be absolutely honest here.  While I am immensely grateful for being in the green, and recognize the absolute necessity of living in it for my children, my family, my friends, I am far more impressed by my ability to survive in those extremities.  I am taking my medicine, my medicine is working, clearly.  So why, in heaven’s name, would I look fondly on the hell of the last month of my life?

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