Just when I feel I have exhausted all my thoughts, and begin a process of doubting myself, I find more stashed thoughts–or maybe they’re repetitions. I believe that my words are just that, words—boring words. One of the discussion topics I had with my therapist yesterday, is having compassion for myself. I have tons for others, but I severely lack self-compassion.
This is part of my illness, and I recognize it. Most of us know we are our own worst critics, and I have expertly created a perfect inner critic. It’s a habit that is so ingrained in me that it takes a certain amount of resolve to change the behavior. I’m succeeding, little bits at a time.
So—I step over that little self-doubt, and even if my words won’t change the world, or entertain everyone, they are mine. Words that mean something to me.
There are things we say, or hear, that we wish could be erased. But they play over and over in our thoughts, sometimes crowding out other thoughts. At my lowest point, I said something to my husband. Words that I truly meant at that particular moment. Words, that if he had said them to me, I would have freaked out–because I recognize what defeat sounds, and looks like.
Giving up has been on my mind more than a few times. Anxiety was the weak link in my ability to fight off depression. I made the decision to resist the odd comfort I found in living the life of fear and depression, and did something about it. To me, it was a herculean effort because I couldn’t have cared less what happened to me.
I have said this before—as I look back, I find it rather comical that I was so fearful that I would get cancer again, but I didn’t care if I lived. How maroonic does that sound? 🙂
By the way, not that I feel I have to explain myself, but I know it’s moronic–I received a comment on one of my posts, in the the baby stage of my blog, calling me a maroon. I found it funny then, just as I do today. It’s actually the only comment I have ever trashed.
Also, being a maroon, is a belief I reserve for myself–alone. I have had trouble connecting the dots between anxiety and depression. They seem to contradict each other. I don’t believe that anxiety or depression are funny. Laughing at myself has simply helped me cope.
Anyway, my family wasn’t giving up on me, and I had to show myself some compassion, and seek the help I needed.
For those of you who may be on the fence, or doubt the benefits of cognitive behavior therapy for anxiety, it has seriously helped me. Not only have I learned to tone down most of my anxiety, it had some rub-off benefits for treating my depression–well, the medication, and personal effort are also factors, but I have come a long way from the crippling fear of 2 1/2 years ago. The anxiety over the diagnosis of cancer, and the possibility of it returning, was like a fungus. It spread until it had control of my entire being.
This week, we learned that my father-in-law has been told by his doctors they can no longer do anything to fight off the inevitable. He is dying of various cancers. He has put up a good fight, but is tired. My husband has been with him for almost a week, and is trying to help him make the necessary decisions. Dealing with the frustration of living so far from a stubborn parent is very difficult during times like these. Ha! My husband thinks I’m stubborn…his father has me beat, hands down.
While extremely sad, it is a “normal” sadness. I would give anything to take the pain from my father-in-law, and the heartache my husband is experiencing. I would wave my wand and we would all have sunshine and live forever. But that’s not realistic. There are events which we have no control over–and I have learned to recognize the difference.
I no longer feel myself enter a panic over the mention of the C word. I’m concerned, just not paralyzed. As of this moment, I am healthy until told different.
Tomorrow, I visit the blood sucker for a blood test, to be followed by my 3 year-mark-CT scan, followed by a visit to my oncologist, followed by a trip to my pulmonologist. Those stinkin’ ist doctors are monopolizing the rest of my month.
Other than a normal sense of trepidation, I’m okay.
Well, now, that ended up being more words than I had expected. Have a wonderful day!