Cutting Up that Omelet

I regularly post updates about my health journey on Facebook. Most are centered around positive gains and encouraging news. And when I post photos from our travels I make a point of marking the new ones with hashtags that highlight my new status as disabled. The last time I did a batch of postings, I thought I should get away from those hashtags – that constantly drawing attention to it was counterproductive and off-putting. Just focus on the positives. That’s what we are told is more attractive, right?

But in truth, this ailment is pretty all consuming. I pretend it’s not online, but it’s presence in my life is always a factor in EVERYTHING I do from sleep, personal hygiene, and chores to shopping, socializing, and anything outside the house I’d like or need to do. How do I feel? How is my balance today? Do I absolutely have to go out? Is it too cold for me to move? Is the destination accessible? Is there parking? Just the planning alone can be exhausting. For this reason I tend to be a homebody.

I’m exercising. I’m stretching. I’m pushing myself to do more and take a few steps here or there unassisted. I try to put on a positive face in public and online (though if I’m concentrating on staying upright, my RBF along with grinding my teeth is probably the norm). I also do better if I don’t talk. The words sound right in my head, but when I utter them aloud and I can barely understand them myself, my confidence and my mood can take a real nosedive.

My family is usually who sees this side of me. The tears, the frustration, the depression, the reticence. Anger and jealousy also rear their ugly heads quite often. It can be so frustrating to go from super independent to having to ask for help from those around me. Before if I wanted something moved I’d just do it. Now I hesitate to ask people that have stepped up to do so much more than before (mainly my husband) to do even more.

This summer we’ve returned to our house in Eureka Springs. Our daughter lives here with her partner and has overseen some work and changes to the house. That meant that virtually everything on the first floor was taken out, furniture rearranged and pictures taken off the walls. She and her friends did a great job of rearranging and putting stuff away. Of course it’s not the way I’d display stuff. I didn’t expect it to be. But I had a bit of a reaction when I got home. I got overwhelmed by everything and I know I frustrated my husband.

My daughter, however, saw it for what it is. My OCD. It’s never been diagnosed. But I know it’s there. It’s the kind of search for perfection that will cause me to shut down and just not do anything if I can’t do it just right. She brought it up the other day, noting that it’s what caused my reaction, and that, I believe as a coping mechanism for what I can’t accomplish, I am counting to myself more. Oy vey! I hate to admit it but she’s right.

She also noted that for the last 20+ years in the foreign service, it’s been my job to unpack, put things away, and decorate our homes at each posting. This is MY job! I never liked help. I put things out, soak in the space, and let it speak to me and reveal where things belong. I wasn’t so great at delegating before. Now I really can’t communicate what I see and what I want. It always comes out too harshly and I end up stressing people out. Or they have no idea what I’m saying and I get stressed out. Either way trying to figure out what I want and trying to communicate that vision pushes me way close to my neural edge. There is no multitasking here.

So this week, with my husband in DC and my daughter at work, I’ve been able to do what I’ve done before. I observe the space. I let it speak to me. And slowly I’m seeing where things should go. I am unable to do a lot. I move a little bit each day and can see it coming together. There are things that I cannot move and I am making note of what to ask for when the opportunity arises. And I am starting to find peace in the slow unfolding of making the space mine again.

I apologize to my family for my initial reactions to overwhelm. It’s the “Ally Omelet” syndrome all over again. All I can ask is that they forgive my freak outs, knowing that soon I’ll stop seeing only the large plate in front of me, and will be able to start cutting it into smaller, more manageable bites. In the end I will be pleased with what is done, and peace achieved!

But ya, I should probably talk to someone about the OCD, lol!