I spent the weekend with my mom and grandma. I don’t mind spending time with my mom at all, she is my best friend, after all. Grandma, on the other hand, can be a bit much. She is negative ninety nine percent of the time. This doesn’t mean I don’t love her, simply that sometimes there isn’t a whole lot to love. She preys on my insecurities and unfortunately, I don’t even think she knows what she is doing. My weight which is a touchy subject matter she just flops around in like a piggy in mud splashing it all over me. Things that she does especially for me MUST be appreciated. I must always be feeling better. She doesn’t like for me to tell her I am not doing so good and tells me so. But this mental illness. I don’t get to choose how I feel all the time. I don’t get to decide how many good days versus bad days I have. She doesn’t understand that, and at nearly 83, I don’t think she is going to learn.
As usual, you are waiting for the point: Anxiety. It was a weekend that waned on anxiety. I tried hard to stay awake until eleven o’clock most nights while there when y normal bedtime is eight or nin o’clock. There were talks about my medications. There is always a fight between my mother and I about medication. First it was too much. Then it was the confusion. Now it is the time I take it. I can’t win that battle so I concede I am quiet when it is brought up because without my psychiatrist there to explain it to her, it will continue to make no sense.
By the time my mom and I leave my grandma’s I am exhausted. I nearly fall asleep in the car, but don’t because I am trying to be a good co-pilot. When we get to my parents’ house I do take an hour nap, not wanting to drive to my house tired. I pack up my things and off I go.
When I get home is when my mind started taking a break. I couldn’t turn my car off. ? . As usual, with any technical matter, I call my dad. He asks me if I have it in park. Sigh. Of course, I do! He heads to my house reaches in and turns off my car. I ask him how he did it and he tells me he just turned it off. I make him explain it to me. Then I try. No dice. I ask him to explain it while I try. It works. I ask him to watch twice more to make sure I’ve got the swing of things. Strange.
Thee following morning I get the notion to walk my newer dog Bailey in the neighborhood in a sheer nightgown which leaves nothing to the imagination. Somewhere in my broken mind I know that this is not the best idea. Too many bad scenarios.
I call my psychiatrists office because this just isn’t right. I feel like I am not thinking right, like I am unable to perform requisite actions. When you’ve been ill like I have for as long as I have you know when the dam is about to break.
At my appointment, which God bless him took most of his lunch hour, we talked about this and that and any psychosis. He decided to confer with another doctor. I went back on Wednesday and they have decided to reduce one of my anxiety medications in hopes that less sedation will lead to better functioning.
I will keep you posted on whether or not that is a solution for me and may be one for you to consider.