Well my happy little bubble of expectations was burst pretty early this morning. I was informed that work and my desire to go back to the gym were not options as of right now. At least not until next month. Bummer.
I realize it’s been just over 3 weeks. And I realize I still have a long way to go. But damn. I really wanted to do something, anything. Something other than sitting in this house feeling worthless. I felt myself slipping back into the depressive mood. A mood I’ve struggled to fight.
I cried a lot tonight. I cried because of that and because I’m fighting a stomach bug. And because I finally started to make sense of why I try to hide my struggle from my family. A comment in a support group made me realize something pretty major.
If my family knows that I’m still struggling with anything related to nerve pain, headaches, or surgical crap, I will feel like I have failed them. I will feel like all of their time they invested in me and my initial surgery (planning, time in the hospital, and time after) will somehow, in some way, be in vain. Or something like that. I don’t really know the best way to put it. But I feel like I have been way more of a burden than I should have been. We planned for one, not three. And I should be back to normal by now. But I’m not because of the complications. Not my fault. Not theirs. But I just feel like it is now my burden to bear. They did their part. They worried, prayed, cried, worried some more, and helped enough. It’s on me now.
I don’t know. I’m just super emotional tonight. I will likely go for mental health treatment soon. I know I need it. I shouldn’t be ashamed. Hell, I have a degree in psychology. I understand how important mental health is to overall well-being. But here I sit, fighting the inevitable. 🤦
Things will get brighter soon.