The Octopus That Stands in My Way Now

Source: © Mark J. Grenier | Dreamstime.com Red Tentacles

I’ve known for a while that it’s difficult to write when I’m not feeling well emotionally, as evidenced by my seven-month hiatus from this blog during the recurrence of my depression last year. What I didn’t realize was that it’s also difficult to write when I’m not feeling well physically which is what I’ve been experiencing since being hospitalized with a pulmonary embolism over Labor Day weekend of this year.

Doctors are trying to figure out why my body seems to have turned against itself this year. One physician I saw recently mentioned something in passing about an autoimmune disease; she said she would call me, but she hasn’t yet and I’ve stopped holding my breath,

Last Saturday I felt so exhausted that I couldn’t sit up in bed with my computer in my lap for more than twenty minutes at a time before I had to lay back down again and close my eyes. Toward the end of this week, I started to feel better, better than I have in weeks, with more energy and an improved appetite and I intend not to question this improvement but to take advantage of it, regardless of how long it lasts — or doesn’t.

Yesterday, I attended a writing conference at a library in Stamford, Ct. which sparked within me a renewed commitment in finishing my book in time for a more comprehensive writer’s conference scheduled for early 2017 where agents and editors are slotted to attend. I believe that’s a realistic goal.

In therapy with my psychiatrist Dr. Adena (not her real name), in preparation for termination, she and I are working on an issue we perceive as the one last obstacle standing in my way. This hurdle is complex with many tentacles flying about. At its center is an ingrained feeling of self-hatred; Dr. Adena and I are continuing to explore why and where that came from. The peak of that self-loathing emerged just prior to my suicide attempt in early 2014 when I was so disgusted by the mere sight of myself that I covered all the mirrors in my apartment with a spare set of sheets. One theory for this self-hatred is that it’s rooted in my childhood — or even before. I’ve often voiced the thought that I never should have been born.

One tentacle that wraps itself around my brain is my long-standing feeling or belief that I need to maintain a stance of superiority — which was the foundation that fed the anorexia and why the illness persisted for such a long time.

Dr. Adena and I believe that this desperate desire to feel superior also took its foundation in my childhood; that is one reason it’s so hard to get rid of. I can’t live with the thought of not being good enough which comes from never being able to please my father, even as an adult, and when he died the fantasy that someday I would be able to gain his approval died with him.

Another tentacle is that I felt as a child and as a young adult, which was when my psychiatric illness developed, that I received the most attention from my mother when I was ill. As a result I now (unconsciously in some respects) believe I need to remain ill — which has crossed the line from psychiatric to physical — in order for people to care about me. I’m fighting hard not to let my body and my symptoms take over and not to go running to the doctor’s office every time I feel pain or an asthma attack coming on.

I’m trying not to let all these obstacles destroy me and my hard-fought-for-life much like my father destroyed his life as he sank into his depression and rejected all assistance that was offered to him. As I’ve voiced before, one of my biggest fears is ending up like him — old and alone, the female version of him, the elderly cat lady. The police will break down my door one day to find my rotting corpse, alone and surrounded by a dozen howling felines, the apartment reeking of cat urine.

Obstacles remain before termination. That is why I allowed myself enough time. I wasn’t sure what would pop up. I’m confident that with Dr. Adena’s help and my persistence that I’ll be able to work through the octopus that threatens to strangle my progress.

I’ll be sure to let you know when I do.