I received a good email from my doctor after my last MRI. I’ve been sitting on this for a few weeks because I didn’t know how I felt about it, which is weird.
The message was simple enough, and I’ll paraphrase even further because science is boring — my inflammation has gone down since my last MRI in February. “This is very encouraging news,” the doctor says. “Countinue current meds and blah blah blah.”
The problem I seem to have is with identity. I had finally conquered some depression because I started identifying as a sick person. I’m a sick person. I wrote about it in a blog and told all of you fine folks because I’ve been sick for a year and never explained what was making me sick. And now, after finally accepting it and making a plan to live like a sick person for a long time, I’m… getting better?
I curled up with my emotional wellbeing and tried to hold it while it felt frustrated, irrationally so. I petted it’s poor head and told that emotional wellbeing of mine that I still loved it and it could be upset if it wanted to. We’d recover. We’d figure it out together.
And then we both decided the best thing to do was all the things my doctors have told me not to, which is namely to drink too much and pretend that it’s totally fine that I’m drinking and surely it won’t cause liver damage after one night and hey, it’s a celebration!
We have learned our lesson.
Remember how I said that last year held some questionable stories and regrettable decisions? This year is apparently no different. My medications don’t mix well with alcohol, outside of the liver part. I won’t go into disgusting detail, and I wil take ownership of all mistakes and missteps, but trust me when I say I know why and where things come from.
I have learned my lesson.
After taking almost a week to recover, to be ashamed of so many things (which I’m super good at and should get a gold star for. Seriously. Can you win awards at Being Hard On Yourself? I need one), I’ve come to terms with my encouraging news.
That is a such a strange thing to admit. You’d think I would have been over the moon as soon as I heard. I took a screenshot and texted it to the people I care about most (it was two people. Don’t feel left out), because I was so confused about my own feelings.
But those are feelings for you… They make no fucking sense.
Aside from the feelings, I was having a hard time with the identity part. But identity only gets you so far in life. Choosing only to be one thing at any given time is impossible. We are all a perfect mix of what makes us so amazing and beautiful and horrible and complex.
After this past week, I know that I am capable of being a nice person, a terrible person, an awkward person, and an A/V repair woman. But I am also still sick. I am still sick, even if I’m getting better. Choosing to put myself at risk because fuck it the doctor says I’m fine! was the worst possible decision. I should have been overjoyed about getting better, felt those feelings at the time, and moved on. That is the healthy way to process anything… But I didn’t take the time to process, to learn, to know that things were getting better and I should let them get better.
Self Sabotage is my best friend.
He’s all of our best friend.
(Why is Self Sabotage a dude?)
Anyway. I’m now choosing to be encouraged by my encouraging news. I’m choosing to heed my doctor’s warnings and not drink, as I should have all along. I’m choosing to be all the good things I know about myself, and choosing to forgive the bad things about me and the bad things I’ve done and can no longer control.
Sometimes you just have to take your doctors remarks as a good thing and stop courting Self Sabotage.
Sometimes you just have to be okay with change.
Lesson learned, universe.