This is the part where I begin to think, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I feel myself digging deep, looking for the responsible post, the the one that glimmers just enough to say, “Everyone! Everyone it’s all going to be alright! I see the silver lining! I am a bright shining, hopeful human being! Be encouraged!”
But it is still hidden somewhere in the rocks of this cave.
#powerrehab is still lacking in the power department. I am doing the work, and the work is working. I can walk farther, my core is already stronger, and I discovered that I can alleviate my calf pain temporarily throughout the day with frequent extension exercises if I’m somewhere I can lay face down on the floor. You know, all those places. But the rest of me hurts more often and worse and at the ripe old age of 34, I have become that woman who needs to bring her own chair to church.
I have decided that God is just fulfilling my dreams of being the eccentric old prophetess a few years earlier than I had anticipated. Maybe my hair will turn silver by the time I’m 40? When do I get a cane? At what point is it appropriate to begin wearing a cape?
As eccentric prophetesses do, I have maintained my kooky diet, and am now a solid week into ketosis. My migraines have started to let up, but my mood isn’t budging. I am not plummeting into despair, but the Hallelujah chorus and golden rays of brain sunshine I was expecting haven’t come flooding in. This genuinely surprises and disappoints me. I wonder if my medications are preventing that kind of fluctuation? How wonderfully ironic.
I have two weeks before my next appointment with my psychiatrist. Initially I thought I would be a good scientist and let the medication experiment run it’s course, push all the way through to that date before I say I’ve had too much. Today that feels forever away. If my brain doesn’t clear in the next two days, I will call her and ask to change course. I dread that conversation. For those of you who have never had it, know that when you are compliant with medication, your doctor is your partner, she smiles at you and asks about your kids, makes fun jokes about what you gave up for Lent, “Your sanity? Ha ha!”. But when you mention discontinuing medication, you are a dangerous psychiatric patient, and she is an efficient clinical psychiatrist and you are steps away from a padded room. At least, that’s how it feels. As far as I know the only thing padded in her office is the leather couch she has to pry me out of when our sessions are over.
So this week I keep doing the work and let the decisions keep growing into being made, trusting that courage will come with them when I need it. Also, capes.