I’m bouncing off of my first post-academic track exacerbation.
Bouncing seems like the wrong word. It seems too buoyant, too ebullient. As if the paired physical/mental crash that comes with a stress induced flareup is a trampoline and soon I’ll be up in the air doing flips and laughing giddily. Which I wouldn’t mind I guess.
Rebound doesn’t seem much better. Getting through is probably the most apt. Surviving, while true, is slightly too drastic in connotation. Barring the unforeseeable, not surviving is not on the table. The question is never literal survival. It’s: how much irrevocable damage do I do to my life, career, physical and mental health while I go through quasi-functionality for who knows how long?
This one was rough. Cognitive issues, which scare me more that the physical ones, came into play. It’s the first time I’ve really experienced memory problems that weren’t just a shade beyond absentmindedness. It’s more than a little frightening realizing you can’t trust your own brain, particularly after watching multiple family members go through the slow decline of end of life dementia.
I’m back to the point where I can imagine adapting if and where I need to, getting help with what I can, trying to hit reset and moving on. But for a while there, my life stretched into just sitting there, staring at the floor, static-filled head braced on weak hand, elbow digging into a tingling leg, a non-thinking facsimile of The Thinker.
I’m rethinking disclosure, because I’m tired of imagining that I’m perceived as a lazy, clumsy ditz. (I do get that what I imagine others perceive is probably just my own fears amplified back at me, so now I’ve got the image of The Thinker viewed through the reflection of a fun-house mirror entering my increasingly convoluted visual metaphor. I’ll throw in some sharks for the hell of it. It’s almost Halloween, so let’s get some jack-o-lanterns and half-caught ghosts in there too.)
There’s not really a point to writing this, except as an exercise in doing something that isn’t nothing.