Inside My Head

I admittedly am not timely sometimes about reading my comments. 

I'm the actor who says he doesn't watch his own movies. I'm the musician who claims to never to go back and listen to their music. I don't often go back and read my own posts after I draft them. I probably should - I'm sure I'd catch a ton of typos. 

But I did read the comments yesterday about my mental health. 

I want to assure you, it's at the top of my mind. Probably 710's too.

Besides seeing my ortho-oncologist the other day, I also "saw" my shrink. 

That is in quotes because it was just an audio call. Due to my lack of mobility, driving a half hour to see him seemed impractical and he agreed to a video session, but he couldn't get his end of zoom to work, so we just talked. 

Correction: I just talked. 

Correction: Babbled. 

g-d love him, but he starts each session with "what's going on......?".  He opened the barn door, so this is kind of on him. 

Though I messaged him while still in the hospital, it was just a head's up that I would probably bottom out about not being able to run. That was the last he heard of me. He didn't know until two days ago about the panic attacks, the conversations I was having with no ones,  my inability to focus or anything. Trust be told, he didn't even quite know about why I was hospitalized. 

He didn't know about my inpatient psych consult. 

So it was a Blobby free-for-all. 

I acknowledged this, the babbling. The stream of consciousness. It was more about my current feeling of inadequacies than my inability to run. While I am contributing a bit to the household, it's not a lot. I found ways to make my grabber be able to feed the dog, so.....one less thing on 710's list. I can shower on my own, freeing him up a little.  If he brings me all the implements and ingredients, I can at least prep dinner. 

Some normal behaaviour is returning, so he (and I) thought this would help with things. He told me what almost every single person in the hospital told me:  breathe. 

During so many tests, procedures and moving me, I literally held my breath thinking it would help. They'd literally notice I wasn't breathing and have to talk me through it. He was telling me to do the same - literally and metaphorically. 

I thought the panic attacks had stopped as it had been a week or more after getting home. But I had three in quick succession a few days prior to the call. None since. 

While I have joked about this making me feel and look older, from my ramblings the other day, I think it unlocked some issues on aging with which I've just kind of buried. The joke is, it might not be a joke.  ....and no one is laughing. Least of all me. 

Don't get me wrong, I'll still joke about it, just know it's probably deep seeded fear about my mortality, or something like that. 

To be good, we are moving sessions closer together for the time being, which is fine. I think things will be better once I can do some work or get off the fucking sofa. 

As I told my doc, I still think the shoe about not running and possibly the inability to run will drop at some point. I think there are too many balls in the air with recovery to be at that place just yet, but I know it will happen. 

Hopefully we will both be ready for that thud.

Song by: Radiohead