Let’s Get Physical

Was I getting sick?

My throat hurt. Earlier, I coughed and was overwhelmed by vertigo. My body ached.

“Maybe my blood pressure is high. Did I feel like this when I had preeclampsia? Great. I’m probably dying.”

Or. Maybe it’s just a combination of grief and poor self-care. Too much beer. Too many dead fathers.

I’ve heard people mention the physical side of grief, but was wholly unprepared for the truck that has crashed into me, repeatedly, for the last 2.5 weeks.

I have experienced severe sleep deprivation for extended periods of time. The months after Rowan’s birth were legitimate torture. But this, this is different in the way it consumes me.

Knowing the right things to do – the exercise and sober spinach – makes no difference because I don’t care.

I’m all electric limbic immediate self-gratification. I know I’m making less than ideal choices, but that’s for later Rhiannon to deal with.

Later Rhiannon, who can’t sleep. Time passes and dreaming happens, and yet part of my brain is awake- and not in a fun lucid dreaming look at me I’m flying sort of way.

Benadryl? Ativan? Melatonin?

It’s almost pleasant, this sleep devoid of REM. Radio free Rhiannon. And then I finally fall more deeply asleep, only for Rowan to appear.

“I want snuggle!”

By which he means he wants to stick his hand down my shirt and toss and turn and kick and headbutt me while I beg him to please just let me sleep.

Then the alarm goes off.

I think I’ll have some brownies for breakfast.

 

Lunch has avocados. Hell Yeah for vegetables.

Then some m&ms.

He’s in a better place.

I bet that place has lots of beer and chocolate, too.

I feel the panic rising. Growing and branching and I wonder if it will bloom or recede? Half an Ativan is my emotional Round-Up.

But I show up. I go to work and attend to my basic responsibilities. I stop after two beers (ok, maybe 2.5 on the weekend). I don’t mix alcohol and benzos. I parent my kids and pay the bills and go to Home Depot and buy flowers to surprise Lorelei.

The smell of Home Depot reminds me of my dad. I start crying.

I turn on the sprinkler and then turn it off again when Rowan decides he’d rather play without actual water. I order food, I change a diaper.

And yes, I turn on the TV.

Super wings. To the rescue!

So who can know what is grief and what is bad choices? The line between self-care and self-destruction is murky, at best.

Probably, if I poured my limited energy into running and Kumbacha-kale smoothies, I’d feel better.

And someday, I’ll get there. I mean, without the running or smoothies. But I’ll get there.

For now, my body and mind have come to an argreement to languish a bit.

So, thank you. Thank you to each of you who have picked up my slack and then some. Those of you who have helped keep the scales tipped towards self-care, whenever possible.

The playdates and dinner and future plans. The listening. All of it.

The absolute most I could muster was one weak plea for help. To ask for some gift cards to make it so I don’t have to cook dinner for a week or two.

And y’all, I may never have to cook dinner again.

You showed up.

You don’t seem to have the same measuring stick for what is “worthy” suffering and what is “you should know better than to eat an entire chocolate bar, Rhiannon – you did this to yourself.”

It’s so easy for me to fall down into the pit of assuming my sadness is less than other people’s sadness, and therefore I should just suck it up, rub some dirt on it (as my dad would say), and go on with my life.

Thanks for doing more than letting me take this pause. Thank you for encouraging it. Forcing it. For knowing what I need and deserve better than I do, sometimes.