Thursday, December 09, 2010

Wrath of an Angry...Everyone

I'm not feeling like my old self yet.

It's kind of like the very first day at a new job, except I've worked the same job for well over two years and I am, of course, beloved by all. Oh, and I feel this way whether I'm at home with my husband, on the phone with a bridesmaid (i.e. a GOOD friend), or at work. Part time. Where half the people didn't realize I was even gone.

But still, I'm nervous about how others perceive me now: my double chin (thanks, HCMC, for the enormous amounts of sodium you pumped into me) which is accompanied by a very significant weight gain, so none of my clothes fit, my very short (yet somehow already way outgrown) pixie cut, my stammering voice, my inability to remember certain words, an overall halting confidence in my ability to be funny, fun or fucktastic.

True, most of these insecurities existed before, but now they seem to be present in all social settings including between myself and close friends, family, and even here with you freaks.

I suppose any sorta-near-death experience makes a person re-evaluate certain aspects of her life - I, for example, have managed to cut ties with one friend, one family member, and completely alienate another (granted, easily-alienate-able) family member. JUST THIS YEAR. One of the best years of my life has also been one of the worst, for which I'm only partly to blame, but due to which I was already struggling to forgive myself and move on.

Now? It's like I have to come to terms with all of that shit all over again.

It's like waaaaay back when I first began this blog, I told you about my ex and his (much worse than mine) traumatic brain injury. I was his primary caregiver, although I'm pretty sure his family would argue with that statement. But we owned a home and a vehicle and dogs together, so fuck it. We may as well have been married at the time. You can ready about it here, if you're so inclined.

One of the very difficult parts of my ex's recovery was that he lost a LOT of short term memory, which meant that we literally had to rehash every single argument that we had ever had. EVER. Because he remembered part of the disagreement but not all, and part of his cognitive therapy was to work on remembering.

The original purpose of this blog, actually, was to let off some steam because caring for a loved one with TBI fucking sucks. SUCKS. It's terrifying and lonely and painful and disgusting and helpless and funny and not funny and exhausting.

And now I get to rehash my recent arguments, and while those were terrible, I now can add that I've put my existing friends and family through the same trauma. I've doubled my co-workers' responsibilities. I've been a bad patient who had to be sedated and tied to the bed. I yelled at my mother and my husband. I'VE FLASHED MY COOTER TO PEOPLE WHO DIDN'T WISH TO SEE IT. I was unconscious when it happened, of course, but still.

I've been a terrible, finicky, seriously un-funny person. Did I mention chubby?

And now my punishment has been dealt:

I think my dog marked his territory INSIDE MY BRA, but I can't smell to verify the validity of my theory.