Promises And Reality

Today I am finally sitting down to write. The last time I posted on my blog was on the 14th of February. That’s almost two months ago. This is in spite of all the promises I made to myself, on my birthday in November and again at the beginning of this year.

The thing is, I wanted to write. I longed to write. I knew what I wanted to write about. But I didn’t give myself the time or the permission to write. 

From the 20th of February to almost the end of March, I was involved in a fierce battle with the members of our society who wanted to kill one of the stray community dogs. I was running from pillar to post to save him. Finally, I managed to get him to a safe home where he is loved and also has the company of other dogs.

But this exhausted me; physically, emotionally and mentally. My body gave way; all my joints were inflamed and hurting, my BP rose so high that even my physician got scared. 

And because I was in such a mental fog that I forgot to take my meds half the time, my emotions took a nose dive. I was so drained that I didn’t want to see or hear or be around another human for the rest of my life. And for the first time in all the years that I have been seeing my therapist, I broke down and wept.

Yet, all through this, my thoughts kept returning to my word of the year, “Journey”. I kept wondering what part of my journey was this? At times I felt I was floating away in a fog of uncertainty and confusion. At others I felt as if I had wandered into a deep, dark cave and seemed to go deeper and deeper into the darkness.

I call myself a phoenix, because no matter how many times I figuratively die, I have always managed to rise again from the ashes. I have used my own tears to heal myself. But this time I was didn’t have the strength to climb back up. I needed help. More help than usual.

The first thing I did was to schedule an appointment with both my psychiatrist and my counsellor. A change of meds along with a plan to get back in survival mode before getting back to normal, helped a lot. 

I shut myself off from everyone and everything except my classes. I slept a lot. I did a lot of decluttering – actually the Swedish death cleaning, and I slept some more. I pampered myself, ordered my favourite food and just got back to feeling happy, or at least not so hopeless as before.

I wrote random stuff, morning pages where I found myself illustrating my feelings, poems, stories where the universe punished those whom I could not… And slept some more. Everytime I thought of all the work I was putting off, I ruthlessly shut off my mind. 

More sessions with my counsellor and long talks with my daughters, and the darkness started dissipating, slowly but surely. I still did only as much as I could in a day. Where earlier my task list was always overcrowded, now I had just one or two things that I aimed to accomplish in a day.

And it felt good to tell that inner critic to shut up and say, “I am doing this for your own good.”

And today I am back on the path I want to be. A little behind, no doubt, but at least I am not lost anymore. 

As I write this, I realise I am so blessed to have my daughters who understand and support me through the dark phases of my mental illness. And who cheer for me when I get out of the deep hole of depression.  My doctors and therapist are angels in disguise. And so are my friends who take the time to call and check in and listen without judgement. 

And because I am so blessed I know I owe it not just to myself, but also to these wonderful people to take care of myself and get back to being functional again.