#stillfakingit

Christmas cookie baking time with the minis #StillFakingIt #WineForBreakfast #Cabernet 😊 https://www.instagram.com/p/Brxu4tpgxvtuFQ4jNp9HQr9aTRldNifSiRhZUE0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=13smsj5mf3jfj

I fell apart when my mother died. She had fought a long and hard battle. When she died it was quickly and peacefully (thank god) but the road to that tipping point was a decade and a half of varying degrees of hell. At the time, I was in a desperate state and my doctor decided that the best thing to do was to get me on antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds. Two months on this ride and I realized that it is not worth the horrible side effects. So, I am discontinuing the main culprit and decreasing the dosage incrementally for a week at a time till its out of my system. In the meantime, I have to have fun with the withdrawal symptoms in addition to the side effects. Tachycardia, night sweats, tremors, myalgia, gastrointestinal distress, nausea, dry mouth, insomnia, bizarre nightmares when I am lucky enough to doze off, the feeling of being numb, jaw clenching, migraines... Doesn't that sound like a blast? The reality is that she is dead, I am not and I need to function. This shit is not doing that for me. I am not myself. There have been times that I look in the mirror and literally don't recognize the face staring back at me. I need to grieve and heal. I do not need to take a pill that makes me ill and question my own sanity. So right now I am at war - with withdrawal, grief, and life in general. You had better believe that I am not going down without a fight.

Update: It's 7:31 CST. I've almost completed objective #2, began #3, am stuck on #4, and still ABSOLUTELY MUST get #1 done. It takes 5 clicks of a mouse. Seriously. Why haven't I done it? Procrastination, that's why. In the real, I'm stuck. Death in my 20s meant blocking it all out, numbing the pain, going on the most magnificent of benders. Death in my mid 30s, all while juggling real life responsibilities, means I can't drown myself in my own pain. In my own wanting not to feel the reality of the situation. It means putting on a happy face, showing up on time, and acting like a grown ass human being. I don't know what to do. I feel alone my head and can't find or even begin to muster up the courage to tell someone where I am. And maybe it's because I don't know where I am. I'm in the suburbs. I'm in a great relationship with husband. I have healthy children. I have potted plants, that despite all of my neglect, have managed to stay alive. The bills are paid. Everyone is taking care of. Yet somehow I failed to take care of myself and that's because I don't know where to even start. Yes, I'm talking to someone professionally. But how? How do I even begin to peel back the layers of this fucked up onion to let my "therapist" know that I am broken and so many ways and from so many years and so many different things? I don't know how to fix this because I don't know where the beginning of it is. Is it my true beginning? Is it another beginning? Is somewheres in the middle? What's really the matter with the ambitious Moxie project? And why is it that I would rather bear my soul for the entire world to see, behind some masquerade of anonymity, instead of letting the people who are nearest and dearest to me know that I have had enough and I am tired, I'm afraid, I'm sad, I'm happy and I'm grateful? Why is that?