Let's add up all the diagnoses I've been handed over the years, or as I refer to it- my body hates me. First up was PCOS/amenorrhea, (don't forget my gallbladder shit the bed) followed by liver disease, then hypothyroidism which simultaneously came with a hypertrophic cardiomyopathy diagnosis and now we can add an official depression diagnosis to my list. My body? Totally winning.
Y'all, I have a pill box. Like the kind that is long and has the days of the week printed on top the divided slots, but it's ok because mine is pink and that makes me feel like maybe I'm not 90 years old. Anyway, thanks to the above reasons my body hates me, I've been seeing my family doctor once a month. After talking about how I've been since losing my Dad, he added a second anti-depressant to my pillbox and referred me to a therapist. My first appointment is next week. Which makes me anxious because I'm scared to death he'll listen to me and then decide to lock me in a looney bin. Just kidding, kinda.
I knew I was taking my Dad's death hard but I thought it was just normal grief. But the tears were so frequent, the rage so frightening and the hopelessness so scary that I guessed it might be something more. Guess it's not normal to wake up every day and feel like the joy has been sucked out of the world. I want to grieve but I don't want to feel so dark all the time, some laughter mixed in with the tears would be so nice. I want to be able to think about my Dad without all the images from his time on hospice clouding my mind. I want to not feel so responsible for his death and have some sense of peace about his decision to stop chemo. Which I know is a moot point because he wasn't responding to chemo anyway but it's how I feel.
But, I've been told by friends who have lost a parent that a lot of that never truly goes away. You never really stop processing and trying to understand what losing a parent really is or does to you. You never stop missing them or grieving, you just learn to live with the new normal that is your life. You learn to live with the parent sized hole in your heart and life. Guess I'll be keeping my therapist busy considering of the unique spin our infertility also casts on my grief.
Oh and to add insult to injury, a relative sent me a care package, which is sweet but included in it was several baby items with the Longhorn emblem on it. Nothing else screams sensitivity quite like that.