I slept more than 9 hours Saturday night and then cuddled with Aron for about an hour. I managed to get outside again (15 days in a row) and walked to Fort Tryon Park again but the shin / ankle pain was back. I thought I’d sit on the bench outside the park when I got there, relax for a bit and then keep going, which is what I did on Friday, but I found that my phone wasn’t working, which caused some amount of panic and I decided I’d head home instead of going into the park itself. Part of that was pain I was feeling. Part of it was the stress of the phone not working. But another part was that the heat, in the upper 80s, had started to feel oppressive. I made home okay and Aaron handled the phone – although I hope his solution works out. He paid a bill we don’t owe (for a crazy amount of money), thinking they will pay him back which I’m not comfortable with – but it isn’t my money, and he’s usually right about these things.
I took a shower. Our water pressure has had problems lately and this was no different. But we also don’t have much hot water, which hasn’t been a problem for us in years. I don’t like this, but we’re having someone in to look at it.
Season 1 poster for “The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power” which was initially released September 1 – October 14, 2022.
Later, after a delay of about a month, I finally watched the final 2 episodes of Season 1 of The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power which were epic in scope, filled with the sweeping vistas, fantastic acting and production design, and all the other wonderful elements I’ve now come to expect from the series. And I cried a lot. It made Aaron happy that I’m enjoying the show (which he binged earlier this year) and that we can talk about this season in full now. He did spoil one thing accidentally, but I’m actually quite relieved rather than angered. That particular secret seemed far too dragged out for me so his reveal pleased me a great deal. And though I’m happy I get to watch at least 2 more seasons of the series, I love how this ending works. If the series had been cancelled after this season, it would still be wonderful, it would still feel like an excellent prequel to the films and although there are dangling plot threads, none of them seems so overwhelming that this ending could not have been satisfying on its own. I wish more series would do this.
We had a Zoom call with Aaron’s sister, which was lovely. I’d called her from the car on Saturday and she requested my presence in their weekly chat. It was all enjoyable but I left them for bed around 10.
I slept relatively well Sunday night. No cuddles in the morning as I woke up very hungry and thirsty. My stomach has not been as well behaved today as it has been the last few days, and so I began working on my website, which I’ve now done all day. I’ve not been outside yet, but I’d like to get out for a bit so that I don’t lose my record! But I don’t know if I’m up to going to Aaron’s pool game tonight, because I don’t know that I’m up for being out late. I have a doctor’s appointment that I have to travel for tomorrow and then Wednesday we travel, flying to Florida to check on our house there, which has apparently suffered some damage from the last occupants. I love our house in FL and I like going there, but I always find travel to be a bit stressful, so I’m not looking forward to that part.
Today’s song quote title is from Depeche Mode’s “Blasphemous Rumors”, from their excellent 1984 album, “Some Great Reward”.
I have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, which is mostly tied into food; how I think about food and how I react to food is far from normal. I find this humiliating and embarrassing. The trauma occurred when I was very young. I know most of what happened but some of that isn’t really my story to tell, which has left me in a conundrum. I talk about my history. I talk about my experiences. It’s one of the reasons I have such a high success rate with therapists. I’m introspective by nature and I have very few boundaries which I won’t cross in any given conversation if others are open to such things. And yet this piece of me that most people never actually see is something I can’t often discuss openly. I had to tell the judge who ruled on my case who almost immediately granted me disability, and I had to tell the eating disorder specialist who had to evaluate me to confirm that I wasn’t suffering from an eating disorder as part of a surgical prep. These interviews were very thorough and very painful. Yet I know that talking about these things often robs them of their power, even if they can make me feel worse in the short term. But I’m limited in what I can say here. I can’t tell you why I am this way, because, again, this isn’t only my story and the other half of this equation must never be rushed or confronted; that person was a victim too and it would be wrong for them to be treated poorly because I wanted or needed to share. So I’ll skip all of that. It’s enough that my partner and my care team knows.
Today there was a meal on the calendar; a meeting of friends at a local pub. I was invited but told I didn’t have to attend; they could meet me afterwards. I was grateful for the care of the invitation, and I tried to not let any of its implications trigger me.
Triggers. I’ve hated the concept of “trigger warnings” in media ever since I first encountered the term, yet I’m grateful for the trigger warnings that those in my life send to me. For those who don’t follow such things, triggers are simply situations which are likely to cause an episode of intense stress, which can cause negative outcomes for those that are triggered – the results and circumstances vary from person to person. In the last month or so my triggers have been far more intense, because I’m actively seeking to treat my PTSD, which means revisiting all sorts of things which happened in the past. I understand why people avoid such things, and I’ve done so myself, but I’ve never truly escaped my past; clearly it’s very near, if not dear to me. The last time I was this close to tapping into these issues I had a nervous breakdown. I stopped eating. I called my mom and I texted Aaron, telling them I couldn’t do it anymore. There were emergency therapy sessions; suicide prevention measures. I didn’t eat any solid food for over a month. I was removed from my job. That was in September 2014. Just over 4 years ago. But that time I was unprepared for this madness; I went in expecting something completely different and I hit a wall. The wall is still there but I hope to bring that wall down. I’m not picking at a scab; I’m fighting to heal myself from wounds that have been slowly killing me.
For the last 4 years I’ve struggled to learn skills which might help prevent this situation from happening again – the breakdown part I mean. These skills, these tools to help are clearly in effect, though they continue to evolve. Again, last time I was here, in this kind of internalized warzone, I couldn’t eat and often cut myself open, though usually to help ground me to reality rather than out of any attempt to kill or severely wound myself; my wounds were internal and decades old; I was just admitting that they were there. This time there’s been almost none of that. Eating is tricky; everything about food right now is a landmine. I can barely eat when others are near me. I freak out at the slightest smells, hints of food. But I’ve not done any cutting. I’ve been tempted a couple of times but I’ve found healthier alternatives so far. I write. I breathe. I ground. I fuck; sex can often ground me better than anything else. And I communicate with Aaron and with Anna (my therapist). Aaron and I light scented candles when there’s food around. There are foods or places with food that don’t trigger me at all and I keep a map of these places in my head at all times.
This complex reaction to food is something that’s been with me most of my life. I survived on snack foods through most of my upbringing. When my mother bought our groceries it was the norm for me to get only potato chips and sodapop. I remember avoiding any situation where this behavior would be recognized. I went to camp once and the nurse flagged me as having an eating disorder very quickly; she discovered that I liked apples and provided them to me every day that I was there and I never returned to that camp. Occasionally I’d have a babysitter; an older cousin or a family friend – and both fought to get me to eat. One got me to take a bite of a sandwich with the promise of candy. I didn’t have another sandwich until 1994, after a one night stand took me to Zingerman’s. The other sitter found out I liked peanut butter and would make sure there was a jar handy. In High School eating in the cafeteria was optional and so I never went there. I entered the cafeteria twice on a single day, in June 1996, before and after my graduation ceremony – and this was 4 years after the majority of my peers had graduated.
My PTSD has been complicated by a physical condition, which may or may not have been caused by my PTSD. It’s physical; it’s been proven scientifically, demonstrably, with various tests but there’s a school of thought that suggests that my PTSD might have caused this condition and I’m open to that – I’ve come at this problem from every angle – physical therapy, cognitive therapy, psychology, psychiatry, surgery, prayer, good vibes, meditation, oils…they don’t know what’s caused this. My stomach is partially paralyzed; it’s called gastroparesis. I’m physically ill almost every time that I eat. When I eat, my stomach doesn’t contract so the food that I consume doesn’t leave my stomach as quickly as it should. In fact, most of it comes back up – which is gross and off putting and humiliating. This often leaves me exhausted and / or dehydrated. Foods that are often recommended to people as healthy are foods that can harm or possibly kill me. This complicates everything. It also calls attention to something that I’d much rather not have to talk about. My condition is idiopathic, which just means they don’t know why I have it. Most people that have my condition are diabetic, but I’m not; I’ve been tested repeatedly. However, a working theory is that I’m genetically predisposed to the condition because diabetes does run in my family, and on some level, at some point my PTSD likely triggered that genetic switch…and here I am. Basically, I believe that I’m here because I didn’t face this stuff before. Not facing it now could lead to still more negative side effects. Which is why ignoring it isn’t really an option for me.
