Not last Saturday afternoon, but the one before, I sat for a few moments in the car. Having just backed it in to the driveway of the new house rather badly after a big sunny morning: a garage sale, meeting a neighbour rennovating a house I loved (he's ripped out all the beautifully maintained period features, sigh) but didn't bid on because it's on a main road, scoring (and helping load and unload) another casement laundry window for an idea I have, followed by rushed time at the house, then off in the car to a crowded local bakery where Grace, as is often the case at present, acted very badly just as I needed to complete the transaction (next time I will leave with no cake), then off to a mother's group reunion (very pleasant except that I kept loosing sight of Grace in the playground which makes me nervous) and finally to Nana's for lunch where Grace remained for her afternoon sleep while I returned to the house to do some paint stripping. Anyway, there I was sitting in the car feeling hot, hayfevery and discombulated. I opened the car door and the wind blew in with a certain edge of coolness. Instantly I was transported back to another September Saturday five years ago. The second day after returning from hospital. My family came over for lunch. To be there, with us. I remember it was sunny and almost warm, and I had the lounge room windows wide open and the wind blew through. Up and down the walls. I wanted everything to be bare and stripped back. We had no meat at lunch and I let Gerard be. Saturday before last, sitting in the car, I glanced at my watch for the date and all my emotions fell into place. Like G said, this year sad day crept up on us. Rest in peace Frankie.
Last Tuesday, I had a hilarious session at the community health centre having bloods taken for my epilum (ooh just look at the other medication possibilities, what fun I could have, not) levels and liver function. The nurse was asking me if the needle hurt and I kept laughing and saying, I don't care if it hurts. Nothing touches me. We had quite a chat and she agreed that I did seem quite well um, medicated. So that night, as I had planned before, I stopped taking the extra 200mcg. The impact was almost immediate. My feet are nearly back to normal, my brain is returning and maybe 8 hours sleep a night will be sufficient in the forseeable future. It hasn't exactly been plain sailing, the odd vice like headache, more patches of extreme tiredness, some yelling and some generally feeling rotten. But it feels like coming down not like going mad. And I'm starting to feel alot better, like myself again. Which has to be a good thing.
Although I keep having this dialogue with myself about whether I'm doing the right thing and about whether I just lack something, strength or courage maybe? The same old, same old. That I don't believe enough and that I could think myself right, even on these brain deadening drugs. Because they're supposed to help. But too much of this medication and any thought at all wears me out. The rational process of reframing of my thoughts that I've relied on since the 90s just stops working. Under the slightest pressure, I become anxious and frustrated, even the simplest thing is absurdly difficult. Then throw in a 3 year old in a cake shop and I'm mincemeat. Not pretty. How can I find the inner resources to work on the house, do my job, be a good parent if I can't remember what happened yesterday or an hour a ago? And I'd like to enjoy the process too. Today was not too bad, once the headache passed. Actually it was pretty good. So maybe I was right. I'm just going to have to figure out what to say to the doctor. Oh well, we'll see, the worst that can happen is that I'll have to increase the dose again. Right. Bed. Rennovation updates soon.