I know I’ve been a bit remiss in sharing my state of affairs in the grief department, and in most cases, things like this would bore people to tears. But in this case, it’s important for fellow bereaved to share experiences to know that there are parallels. No one is going crazy here. There is a sense of unity, of community and commonality. We’re all in it together.
I’m learning that it’s sometimes hard to distinguish grief and depression. My EMDR is going well and nearing its completion. I can truly say it’s perhaps the most powerful experience I have ever had. EVER. I leave each session with my jaw dropped looking like some sort of fool and not giving a rat’s ass about that.
In the last session, among other things, I asked my therapist why I couldn’t grieve in my home. However, one foot across the threshold of the shrink’s office and the tears flow. The moment I flounce onto the EMDR therapist’s couch and I feel that familiar lump in my throat. I want to cry at home; I really do. The moment I finish my frenetic busy work, I feel the pressure building in my head: that dark black cloud of grief mixed with the panic that says, “Get it out!” I try to kick start it with a fake cry, but it comes off as, well, fake. I try to scream and it comes off as hollow. With a chuckle, I ask her if I can just move in with my tent and sleeping bag, and she agrees that it’s not all that practical. Then she asks, “Elisa, what’s different about these two places and your home.” Sobbing, I say, ‘I don’t know.’ “Yes you do,” she replies. I answer, ‘It’s where Erik killed himself.’ “And why do you think it’s hard to let out the grief there, Elisa?” she asks. I shake my head, unable to respond. ” I’m only suggesting this as a possibility, but do you suppose it’s because there’s already so much pain for you there?” I nod my head yes, knowing that this is the case. Thrse is no room to let out anymore grief in that place where so much horror and pain still lingers like a houseguest from Hell. Next time we’ll work on how to release some of that pain.
My last visit to my psychiatrist also solved a major problem, this time with my computer which had been acting erratically. Ever since I’ve been on Abilify, my laptop has developed a third cursor. Unfortunately, that cursor is my belly fat: fourteen pounds of it lopped over on my MacBook Pro track pad. Too bad, because it worked so well for my depression, but having two sisters with diabetes, I’m not taking any chances. Plus, looking in the mirror is depressing enough without adding 14 extra pounds, so there is the law of diminishing returns to consider.
So that’s my update. It’s meant not to elicit pity but to let you know that you are not alone.(If there are any typos, it’s not my fault. Blame on my extra lap pad. I’ve nicknamed him asshole.)
