Today, I suffered silently (shocking, I know).  I had a (nearly) full-blown panic attack and I felt like I was going to faint on and off for about half an hour.  I say (nearly) because I didn’t have to go to the hospital and I didn’t break down sobbing and I didn’t feel have to leave the place I was at (thank goodness).  I was at the local Children’s Museum with two friends and their kids.  To say that I am sick of being that emotional basket-case in public, would be a pretty huge understatement.  People can be supportive and really, really kind.  However, people also don’t handle drama or sick people well (not that I fully blame them- especially if they are hanging on by a thread themselves).  So I sat on this bench next to these women I have known for at least a year (1 and the other nearly 3) and I bit my cheek.  I talked to myself in my head and then I asked one of them to watch GG while I went to go buy juice.

I am still just figuring things out.  It has been sixish months since I had half of my pancreas removed and it has been a long recovery process.  I have a chance now to get ahead of all the crashing and rising but I am still weird and I am learning that I have to take care of myself and do things “normal” people don’t need to do.  And it sucks.  And I stamp my Barbie-pink glittered feet.  Like any good alcoholic, I deal with the behaviors now and not the actual substances.  I can become a hamster on a wheel with lightning speed repeating the same actions over and over and expecting different results.  Note to dumbass: they are never different.

I have had to transition from how I was living before: a crazy-ass recluse in her bedroom all day, imbibing sugar and still having wild mood swings, and feeling like fainting and being hotter than anyone ought to ever feel.  Oh, and the puking.  Did I mention the puking?  So. Much. Puking.  Now, I am basically “normal” with the caveat of I have to eat regularly (like every two hours regularly….sometimes more) and listen to my body.  When I start to feel like a worthless piece of junk, I need to eat.  It isn’t the depression I’ve had my whole life, it is my mind and blood sugar playing a super-fun game I call what-the-fuck-please-stop-this-ride-i-want-to-get-off-now-pretty-please.  It feels exactly like the depression and anxiety I have dealt with my whole life, but it isn’t.

I have to learn what to eat.  Since my gestational diabetes with GG, I have been researching glycemic index, complex and simple carbs, and quantities recommended for diabetics/pre-diabetics.  Nothing before would help me.  No amount of less carb, more carb, or right carb would settle my blood sugar because my pancreas was happily dumping insulin all the live, long day.  So now after years of living like this, I have to tell my brain to “shut-up” it is lying to me and now I can control it.  I am “fixed”  My Endocrinologist doesn’t want me testing blood sugar because it is not medically necessary (at least a few months ago) and it will drive me insane (her exact words).

So, here I am floating amorphously in a galaxy of trying to figure shit out and in charge of a toddler, while Hubband is doing this crazy thing called “earning a living.”  I know fo sho that I cannot eat at night.  But, when I am the only one up in the house the food is like my secret cigarette or glass of wine.  It lulls me to sleep.  It calms me.  It makes me happy.  The next day?  Like a hangover from hell.  Everything feels slightly off and sugar seems harder to control. So, duh.  Stop eating before bed.  I’ve been saying this for months and I probably make it maybe 25% of the time.

When my MIL (I call her Mom and really like her) was here, I had coffee because it’s what we do together and that went horribly as well.  I wasn’t paying attention to what I was eating and I ended up internally freaking out at a swimming lesson and externally freaking-out and sobbing in a restaurant.  These times are super not fun for others, they are also no joy-bath for me.  I have changed from my life experiences, and I have become much more introverted.  Plus, after years of having little to no control of my body and my mind at certain times, I relish being in control and stable.

However, I digress, I was sitting on this bench and doing everything I could to stop being my own mind-fuck, which sounds super-easy in theory; just like depression sounds easy to get past in theory.  In reality?  Arrrrgh, I’m gonna die.  Text Hubband or Bestie sobbing.  Talk to someone.  Except, I can’t.  I have to put on my big-girl panties (did you wonder when that was coming).  If I indulge in these past behaviors, it makes things worse.  I cry harder and longer and I’m trying to put those days of being a victim behind me.  I am told to be a survivor.  A warrior.

So, in my own small way, I try.  I focus really hard on making it upstairs and getting juice which I drink.  I come back and focus on my daughter and making small talk with my friends.  I focus on making it through this moment telling myself all these “lies” I don’t believe, about how it will pass and things will get better.  And they do.  Not because I am magically fixed, but because I have to work at it every damn day.  Because I have to choose over and over to create new patterns in my brain to replace the chaos and despair that was my life for a long time.  It is slow hard work and some days I really fucking suck at it.  I need this reminder.  I need to know on the days I give up and it is harder that this is possible.  That it is like climbing Mount Everest and might take years.

The coping skills we have used to get through trauma and abuse are a bunch of assholes.  You feel like you need them to keep you safe but in reality, they do more harm than good.  img_0664

A lot of the time, I don’t feel worthy still.  And some moments (and some days) the only thing that gets me through is Garnett or Hubband.   I know it isn’t healthy to live for someone else, but I figure it will be fine, until I am strong enough to live for myself more, and for everyone else, less.