Writing through a bad patch
Jun. 29th, 2024 05:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
digitalemurI'm still very mentally ill. Right now, anyway. This post is gonna be about that and it's going to talk about my disabilities, mental health, some intrusive thoughts, stuff like that.
I had a brilliant few days, earlier this week. Could chug through things I needed to do, things I wanted to do, and things that I was ambivalent about but that were going to help. I get anxious about flying and uprooting myself to spend 2 weeks with family in Austin, but I had a plan for doing the thing. With some lovingly written to-do lists and a steady stream of rewards for each little chunk of work I did, I was in this rhythm where even with lower energy I could do stuff I wanted to do. Still needed anxiety meds every day or two, still broke and too disabled to work, but I finished a practice index and did other little freelance preparation tasks this month. We replaced two kitchen appliances in the last month so my credit card debt is upsetting, but it all felt pretty okay.
Had a couple minor "I made a mistake that a loved one found stressful and upsetting" things happen while I was anxious about travel, one of them while I was poorly rested the morning after I arrived, and BAM, PTSD flare-up. Hit just when I would have been establishing a groove down here in TX. Upended the healthy patterns I was able to manage the week before. Hurt like hell.
Flare-ups vary but this one involved a day 0 of lengthy bouts of weeping and large waves of distress. Then came disrupted sleep, constant mental replaying of my mistakes and little unfair things, intrusive thoughts about what if this flare doesn't ease, and just general distress and difficulty sitting with that emotional pain. It was intense enough that anxiety meds were slow to help. Sleep helped. My sweeties helped. The dog helped. The cats did not help per se but were very sweet. Let's be honest, pizza and wonton noodle soup helped.
Every flare, I worry that it won't actually start to get better. I often feel frozen until I can actually voice that fear, voice things like how angry I am that this has gone on so long, how hard shame flattens me sometimes, voice the stuff at the root of the distress. And I had to keep doing it; hell, that's why I'm writing this. An hour ago I said to myself, "what if, because I basically 'played while injured' for years of ignoring my trauma and increasing burnout, it takes me years to be able to support myself again?" We'd talked about that this week in therapy. It was one of those moments where my therapist had to take a breath and calm down, thinking about how many years I'd spent able to do complex and intense work while living with my anxiety and trauma and burnout. We also see me getting better by leaps and bounds, but this still concerned both of us. What if it takes that long for me to get better?
So I cried a little, asked myself what I could do instead of sitting still and letting the intrusive thoughts of self-harm sound that warning bell that I needed comfort for my distress, and not like later, right now, got up and took a shower. Started writing this in my head as I showered. Workshopped this sucker as I massaged yesterday's sunscreen out of my skin. Got out and took anxiety meds and morning meds, moisturized, etc. Sat down, opened Dreamwidth. Started writing my way out, which is a known technique for handling a trauma flare. Writing his way out was probably Alexander Hamilton's healthiest coping method, I'm just saying.
Writing has been comforting me for days already. Fanfiction. Breaking story in DMs with my coauthor on the fanfiction. Social media posts about doing the boring organizing work and finding a thing you can put regular hours into, as antidote to fear about the state of the world and the threat of fascism in the USA. Dreaming about the kinds of work communication, marketing my freelancing, networking, etc, I can do once my brain is ready. My ability to write through bad times helped me to survive, so many times already, in my life. During uni. When I lost people. When I was betrayed by someone. With online friends who helped me through the firestorm of trauma of 2022-2023. I just hadn't done this kind of confessional documenting of a flare, yet.
It's not the highest quality writing; that's not the point, though damn, this flowed better in my head while I was in the shower. Now, I could choose not to put it out there because of this, but in this case, I think it's a good exemplar. And I don't think I'm going to get to writing some of the fucking amazing essay ideas I've had lately, if I don't also put some examples like this out there. Writing cements me in the now, and plants a marker: I was here. I am not going to be here after this. Let's see what happens next.
So fuck yeah, I'm writing my way out. And I think I can sleep, now.
I had a brilliant few days, earlier this week. Could chug through things I needed to do, things I wanted to do, and things that I was ambivalent about but that were going to help. I get anxious about flying and uprooting myself to spend 2 weeks with family in Austin, but I had a plan for doing the thing. With some lovingly written to-do lists and a steady stream of rewards for each little chunk of work I did, I was in this rhythm where even with lower energy I could do stuff I wanted to do. Still needed anxiety meds every day or two, still broke and too disabled to work, but I finished a practice index and did other little freelance preparation tasks this month. We replaced two kitchen appliances in the last month so my credit card debt is upsetting, but it all felt pretty okay.
Had a couple minor "I made a mistake that a loved one found stressful and upsetting" things happen while I was anxious about travel, one of them while I was poorly rested the morning after I arrived, and BAM, PTSD flare-up. Hit just when I would have been establishing a groove down here in TX. Upended the healthy patterns I was able to manage the week before. Hurt like hell.
Flare-ups vary but this one involved a day 0 of lengthy bouts of weeping and large waves of distress. Then came disrupted sleep, constant mental replaying of my mistakes and little unfair things, intrusive thoughts about what if this flare doesn't ease, and just general distress and difficulty sitting with that emotional pain. It was intense enough that anxiety meds were slow to help. Sleep helped. My sweeties helped. The dog helped. The cats did not help per se but were very sweet. Let's be honest, pizza and wonton noodle soup helped.
Every flare, I worry that it won't actually start to get better. I often feel frozen until I can actually voice that fear, voice things like how angry I am that this has gone on so long, how hard shame flattens me sometimes, voice the stuff at the root of the distress. And I had to keep doing it; hell, that's why I'm writing this. An hour ago I said to myself, "what if, because I basically 'played while injured' for years of ignoring my trauma and increasing burnout, it takes me years to be able to support myself again?" We'd talked about that this week in therapy. It was one of those moments where my therapist had to take a breath and calm down, thinking about how many years I'd spent able to do complex and intense work while living with my anxiety and trauma and burnout. We also see me getting better by leaps and bounds, but this still concerned both of us. What if it takes that long for me to get better?
So I cried a little, asked myself what I could do instead of sitting still and letting the intrusive thoughts of self-harm sound that warning bell that I needed comfort for my distress, and not like later, right now, got up and took a shower. Started writing this in my head as I showered. Workshopped this sucker as I massaged yesterday's sunscreen out of my skin. Got out and took anxiety meds and morning meds, moisturized, etc. Sat down, opened Dreamwidth. Started writing my way out, which is a known technique for handling a trauma flare. Writing his way out was probably Alexander Hamilton's healthiest coping method, I'm just saying.
Writing has been comforting me for days already. Fanfiction. Breaking story in DMs with my coauthor on the fanfiction. Social media posts about doing the boring organizing work and finding a thing you can put regular hours into, as antidote to fear about the state of the world and the threat of fascism in the USA. Dreaming about the kinds of work communication, marketing my freelancing, networking, etc, I can do once my brain is ready. My ability to write through bad times helped me to survive, so many times already, in my life. During uni. When I lost people. When I was betrayed by someone. With online friends who helped me through the firestorm of trauma of 2022-2023. I just hadn't done this kind of confessional documenting of a flare, yet.
It's not the highest quality writing; that's not the point, though damn, this flowed better in my head while I was in the shower. Now, I could choose not to put it out there because of this, but in this case, I think it's a good exemplar. And I don't think I'm going to get to writing some of the fucking amazing essay ideas I've had lately, if I don't also put some examples like this out there. Writing cements me in the now, and plants a marker: I was here. I am not going to be here after this. Let's see what happens next.
So fuck yeah, I'm writing my way out. And I think I can sleep, now.