Life as an Extreme Sport

Sally’s Song

I have a problem. I’m being treated for it – for at least the chemical symptoms, I’m on antidepressants, which is a good thing, since it addresses the problem with my arm, as well as that other problem. The one about not handling my mother dying at all well, or with anything approaching grace or dignity or serenity or any of the things I should be.

But I can’t motivate myself to do much of anything, other than lay in bed. I realize this is exacerbated by just finishing ASBH, and being tired from that, but I have spent the last two days alternating between sleeping and crying until I decide that’s enough and sedate myself to stop crying, which often leads to falling back asleep. I’m slipping further and further behind on schoolwork, and the fact that my stomach has once again refused to keep anything down the last 12-odd hours isn’t helping. (No pain control, no sedatives, no nothing but me, raw thoughts, raw pain.)

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to get around this. The prescribed antidepressants don’t appear to be doing anything – I haven’t seen a difference, anyhow, or felt one. I’m not sleeping more, if anything I’m sleeping less. The pain is ratcheting up and out of control, and I know that’s because it’s connected to dopamine and serotonin levels in my brain, which are obviously bottoming out.

I’ve mentioned this to the university adviser, who’s told me that maybe it’s time to just stop, step back, and take care of myself. I haven’t mentioned it to the other adviser, because I haven’t been able to get a meeting. I’m sure I could if I made it dramatic, if I said I think I’m starting to fall apart at my seams, but that feels disingenuous, even if it might be true.

It could be weeks, it could be months – hospice hasn’t told my family to start preparing, so there’s some time. But every morning I wake up thinking I don’t belong here right now, I belong there. Every day is a day wasted, a day I could be spending the precious little time left with my mother. My career is safe, my job can be done anywhere – as evidenced by the fact I do it from home more often than not. School will wait, but Mom won’t. Mom can’t.

I don’t even know where to begin. I’m so stuck, so behind, and the person I should be telling this to, who should be helping me figure this all out, just isn’t available. Not without some grand statements and gestures on my part, and that just makes it feel so false.

For whatever illogical, fuzzy reasons, right now I think I need truth more than anything else. I don’t need false pity or socially expected responses, I need truth. The truth of spending time, or listening, of caring. I need a truth that feels so fake when it is only given when demanded.

and i should edit this to note that so far, the last batch of meds have taken hold, so i will probably regret this when sober…