It’s been awhile since I sat down to write in this blog. There are many reasons, I suppose:
Maybe I got tired of hearing the sound of my own voice.
Maybe I was truly out of bandwidth and just didn’t have what it takes to process all of the things that just didn’t stop happening only because I want them to.
Grief and loss certainly have been kicking my ass for a long time.
Maybe longer than I even knew, or understood. One of the interesting things about the pandemic is that I have finally begun to figure out when I get triggered. Not so much “what” but definitely that I am in the throes of a major.. moment.
For instance- I drove into Topeka recently to run to a work-related appointment, and I took what could be called a “back” way into that city. A back road that I have taken numerous times, but this day, I took a wrong turn and ended up on the freeway instead, heading back the way I had come, toward Lawrence and not downtown Topeka. I felt a horrendous rage well up from deep inside of me, physically felt it ripping up out of my stomach and just let loose a primal scream and pounded on my steering wheel while zipping down the road at 70 miles per hour. Then I burst into tears.
I eventually got myself turned around, and took some time to breathe and collect myself. I pulled into the parking lot at the exact moment my appointment was going to start, and everything was fine. However, I am never “on time” so to speak- I am always early, and I am always prepared and I am always in control and it hit me- the loss of control, or even the perceived loss of control I experienced in my car sent me into a fucking tailspin, a panic attack like nothing I have ever experienced before. At least not publicly.
I’m not sure why exactly it clicked into place for me that day. I do know I have been able to tell my therapist about my overwhelming need for control. In every way, to the detriment of my relationships.
This little bleep of time, on just one day cannot even begin to sum up all that is going on inside of me this year so far.
There was the death of my brother from COVID recently that I am still processing. On the bright side, I feel as if there is a glimmer of hope in my ruptured relationship with my adoptive mother, Sue. She has been through so much, and I have been the one person she chooses to talk about everything with. The inside stuff; the hurt and the trauma and the anxiety. We are two adults, and it is obvious she trusts me and respects my words and opinions, my guidance. I am finally able to see her as an imperfect person doing the best she can, the way I always demanded she see me the same way all these years. My heart is good with it, and I have found love for her in all of this.
I took a look around this morning and realized I am not in “love” with one person at the moment, besides myself. I have been eating clean for weeks, riding my bike hundreds of miles a month and investing in as much therapy as I can handle. A new bipolar diagnosis, a new regimen of meds with a mood stabilizer have me feeling better mentally than I have in a while. This isn’t to say I don’t have days when I want to crawl out of my skin because life can smother any of us on the best of days. People aren’t perfect, no matter how much I will them to be. Work is complicated for me right now, and I am struggling with finding where I fit post-COVID. But I’m not giving up on me, and I am not giving up on the people I love, and I have been a fucking amazing uncle this year, and my hair is growing long and I have everything I need in these moments.
So one day at a time, one week at a time, one heartbeat at a time.
Love, Always.
Originally posted on 06-12-2021
MISTER WILLIAM REILLY 