Certain behaviors manifest themselves in my life and I do my best to ignore them. I am dishonest with my treaters, not bringing them up because it just doesn’t seem important. Sometimes I let something slip to my mom, and that is when the shit really seems to hit the fan.
There was the time when I didn’t tell my primary care about my issues with bulimia. Mom sat in on an appointment with me because I was really sick, and made sure that the doctor knew all about it. I hadn’t brought it up because I didn’t really think it was relevant, because it wasn’t a part of my daily existence. Because I had just accepted it as something I do now and again.
More recently, Mom has frequently been informing my doctors about my continued nightmares and problems with sleep. Yes, these things bother me. Do I want to do the work that it will take to make it better? No. I am afraid. And I don’t bring it up for those reasons. I shrug it off for those reasons. I don’t bring it up because I don’t believe it can change. In my head, it is part of who I am and can’t be touched.
I don’t know how many times I have shown up in therapy or for an appointment with Dr. Rx to be confronted with a truth that came from my mom that I didn’t really want to talk about. That I didn’t see as relevant, or perhaps that I COULDN’T see as relevant.
Because those behaviors are who I am. They are what I know. They are me. They are my everyday life and I ignore them. I suppress them. I deal with them, in my own not-dealing-with-it kind of way. I have come to, in a way, accept them, because they are such a deep-rooted part of me. At times, it doesn’t occur to me that things could be different, that I could live my life without these behaviors, these feelings. So I just don’t mention it.
I don’t mention it, because I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t mention it, because then I would have to try and figure out why I am doing these things. I don’t mention it, because there is always that possibility that I will be reminded of something, that I will remember something I don’t want to remember.
My most recent series of so-called “self-destructive behaviors” involves my meds. Within the past few months, I have ran out of certain medications for days on end. Sometimes it was because I didn’t have refills and I didn’t call Dr. Rx to get them. Sometimes it was because I just ran out and didn’t feel like going to Walgreens.
When I run out of a med, I do one of two things:
1) Compensate by taking more of a different med
2) Live life without it until I get it filled
In my head, I know that neither of these are good answers. I know this from experience…from taking too many meds to compensate and getting sick, to not taking a certain med for a few days and feeling sick.
But I still do it.
Somewhere in there, is a “why.” Perhaps this is my way of demonstrating how I feel — that I don’t want to take meds, that I am tired of it, that I feel like my body is a toxic waste dump. Perhaps I just don’t give a shit, because I don’t feel like it matters. Or maybe there is some other reason that I refuse to look at.
My head says that I am not depressed. My behaviors show otherwise. I am tired of the pills, the appointments, the tests, the opinions of experts. I am tired about worrying how I feel. I am tired of being asked how I feel. I am tired of analyzing my every move. Instead, I say, I’m fine. Because then they will be quiet.
Of course after reading this post, no one is going to be quiet. There will be the “why’s” and the “maybe we can try x” and the worry and the constant check-ins. I don’t need all of that.
I’m ready to just be.