Prosthetics & Orthotics

It is coming up on a year since I graduated from the University of Hartford’s MS program in prosthetics and orthotics. It’s amazing how much my life has changed and how different it looks today. Of course, many things are still the same or similar, but it’s been quite the year of growth, self-discovery, risk-taking and bravery, losses and gains, love and living, stumbles and achievements. I have had moments of true joy and peace as well if those of dark despair and pain, not much unlike any other year in my life thus far, but perhaps more self-aware and impactful. It has been a year that tested my resilience, courage, patience, forgiveness, strength, hope, and my relationships with others and myself. I feel like I’ve physically aged a lot in recent years: my health problems have accelerated, I’ve dealt with chronic stress, and my doctors and I have thrown a number of wrong “solutions” at my misdiagnosed problems. But this year in particular, I feel like I experienced the emotional growth catch-up that had been stunted from trauma, lack of self-awareness, and again, trying to slap an improper and inadequate solution on a gaping wound of a problem.

I had long been interested in prosthetics and providing mobility for those with disabilities. Now that I’ve learned about people on the spectrum’s tendency to cultivate “special interests,” I am fairly certain this was one of mine. In first grade, my best friend had cerebral palsy and I loved being the one who got to push his wheelchair or go to physical therapy with him and watch him practice walking. I thought about ways to design his chair to be more play-friendly so he could engage with me on the floor by lowering a special lever on the chair (this was sketched in markers in my notebook) without needing an adult to lift him and transport him into the beanbag. I wanted him to be able to do it himself. In second and third grade, I constantly drew pictures of a hospital scene that was simply a page chock-full of people on crutches, in wheelchairs, or pushing walkers. I’d draw various iterations of the same scene for weeks and staple them all into a book. I added so many pages that eventually I couldn’t staple it and had to punch holes and tie yarn through it to bind it together. There was a storyline: a central boy that was in a wheelchair and the various adventures he had (though everyone around him except his one friend who pushed his chair were also strangely in chairs or otherwise mobility-impaired. I think the world looks pretty different and somewhat isolating from such a position in reality). I also convinced my best friend to make stick crutches with me and practice going around my block in case we lost legs (the irony of this given my current injury-related mobility issues is not lost on me). I loved going to her house because she had a dollhouse with Playmobile figures, including a wheelchair and crutches that could clip on. I could play that for hours. I also purposely removed the arm from one of my little dolls, and would carry BJ lovingly in my pocket. I had a whole backstory for his struggle as well and would fashion ways for him to do things bimanually—my first prosthetic design.

This childhood fixation probably seems bizarre or disturbing, but hopefully these examples begin to demonstrate my early interest in prosthetics. I had carried a very real frustration with my educational and career choices. Although the root of my poor decisions cannot be entirely pinned to one problem, while an undergraduate, I opted to change my major from the premed track of biology to kinesiology (exercise science). To say I struggled with the transition to college is a gross understatement and, at the time, biology seemed like an insurmountable major that was not worth the fight.

Anyway, after years of schooling and working in fitness, even earning a Master’s degree in Exercise Science and Nutrition, I felt pretty locked into the path I had started down, yet the day-to-day job of being a full-time trainer was not only physically exhausting, it was somewhat unfulfilling for me because I was, in many cases, unable to effectuate the change I wanted to in my clients. All of this desire to do something different increased 100-fold after my attack. I needed to distance myself so far from training so as to lose the constant reminder of what happened and my fear that my vocation would perpetuate another trauma. My fears were eating me alive.

I applied to a host of programs and positions, hoping someone would take me and shake me out of my desperate situation, but I lacked confidence that anything would pan out. I didn’t even tell my husband or family that I was seeking a change, too convinced I’d receive only rejections and too emotionally fragile to deal with that outcome in any way more than in my own head.

It was essentially a dream come true to receive my acceptance into the University of Hartford’s graduate program. It felt like not only my chance to change my life, but actually my chance to “redo” and get back into what I had actually wanted to do, years before my lack of confidence and challenges became impossible obstacles. This was my opportunity to run from the trauma, to free myself from the chains of my current job, and to have a career I was proud of.

The program was fantastic. It was full-time for twenty-three months with some of the best faculty and curriculum I’ve ever had the privilege of experiencing. I learned all about many of the things I had always wondered about and I was busy in such a different and new way, my day taking on entirely fresh activities and people. It commanded significant mental energy and I threw myself into my studies, which distracted me from my trauma pain. It also got me off the couch, where I wallowed in paralyzing fear, disgust, and depression for six months. I met bright peers who distracted me from my reality and made me remember what it’s like to see the world as one of opportunity instead of one of violence and threat.

Most importantly, in the end, the program led me to hold up a metaphorical mirror to myself long enough to really face what was going on and seek the help, and eventual diagnosis, I needed. Unfortunately, it took 22.5 of the 23 months to get me there, but I choose to think that the challenges and experiences I encountered throughout the program were brewing in my brain and sorting themselves into discernible categories with sufficient evidence so that I could make necessary connections to seek the steps toward the help I needed. It is because of this program that I learned of my sensory processing disorder and autism.

Ultimately, not being able to pursue the path of prosthetics and orthotics and engage in this career is a painful pill to swallow, both for my pride and self-esteem but also for my heart, as it’s a job I’d love to do. I was ripe with shame when I had to tell the professors I so respected, the friends and acquaintances still in my life, my peers at school, and even my own family, that I wasn’t going to be able to embark on the next stage—the residency (which I will explain below)—despite my sustained and honorable efforts during the program. It was embarrassing as well because I had been accepted as a resident at several prestigious sites, thanks not only to my achievements in school but to the support and connections from our esteemed faculty. I felt like I was letting them down as I turned down amazing opportunities, like someone declining an admissions offer from Harvard outright, not even to attend a different program. I was saying no to the profession.

I think that was one of my greatest frustrations with the field is the inflexibility of the residency requirement; it was a deal breaker for me. The required hours mandated a schedule that I just can’t contend with, especially in such a sensory assaulting environment. In all honesty, the only aspect of school that I didn’t like was the internship placements each semester. We had to accrue a certain number of hours of direct supervised clinical experience each semester, which took the form of one full eight-hour workday per week and one six-week full-time placement and an affiliated site in the summer between the two school years. The clinicians were all wonderful people and I loved interacting with the patients, but invariably, I found that nearly every single Tuesday (my usual clinical day), I was stricken with nausea, migraines, unmanageable fatigue, throbbing joint pain, and low-grade fevers a mere hour or two into the morning. These symptoms were particularly apparent on days I had to work in the lab, surrounded by loud power tools and machines, giant ovens melting plastic, the offensive and strong odor of carbon fiber lamination and my most hated offended, Siegleharts, a tacky adhesive used to sure up test sockets that must be stirred and stirred to create the correct consistency, all while the toxic fumes are inhaled. It seems that every preceptor’s favorite ask to task me with was, “can you go mix up the Siegleharts?” It was a miracle that I made it through the graduate program’s internship requirement. I had to make up a lot of hours and days for each placement and it took an unfortunate toll on my health and wellness. It started to become so stressful and physically damaging to me that the symptoms would linger into Wednesday and then Thursday and I’d be tossing and turning Monday night in anticipation of the inevitable pain. Instead of being relieved when I’d finally be checked out and back into my car at the end of a full Tuesday, I’d begin immediately dreading the next Tuesday, disappointed that it was now less than a week away. The irony was, as sick as internship day made me feel each week, I was unable to really identify the pattern accurately enough to determine earlier in the program that there was a striking discordance with my health and happiness and the profession’s work environment. For a long time, I was convinced, it seemed to be just a coincidence to me that I was always sick on Tuesdays. In hindsight, I think overtime, part of me was aware, but did not want to admit the issue, lest it become more of tangible truth that it already was. It was safer and more agreeable to try and ignore the glaring issue, offering a wide array of excuses to myself and my questioning friends and family.

Anyway, it’s virtually unheard of for a facility to offer a part-time schedule and compensate by extending the duration of the residency. Even if this were offered, the governing body of the profession’s accrediting agency sets limits on this accommodation and it was barely a shorter day. After the mental and physical exhaustion of the school program, my doctors said it would be wise to take a break and they cautioned me to seriously consider abandoning the path of residency was the only option to certification, which it is. It’s a behemoth of a gatekeeper—an incompatibility with my physical and emotional health needs. The sensory processing problems and the autism fatigue are the greatest offenders that render this impossible.

Then there’s the problem of support. One of the enticing but also apparently unfortunate aspects of prosthetics is that it is a unique and niche profession. There aren’t prosthetists’ offices in every town and even fewer that are certified to accept and train hopeful residents. In fact, in New England, there are just a handful of possible residency sites, which is one of the reasons that landing a good placement is an honor and a highly competitive process. The residency for which I was selected was many states away from the family I so desperately need for emotional support, especially at the burgeoning awareness of my sensory problems. Instead of moving closer to home after graduation, which both my husband and I felt was an important and necessary decision, accepting the residency would have landed us a plane ride away, in Virginia, for a minimum of two to five years.

I initially accepted the offer without hesitation: it was a pretty unbeatable opportunity and the culmination of my work and dreams during my studies. I was certainly disappointed that it was so far away, but I understood this was a definite possibility when I signed up for school, knowing full well, through research, that the scarcity of sites would certainly increase the chance that I’d need to travel for residency. Sitting at home on a computer imagining my life post-degree, two years down the road was so far removed from reality that I couldn’t gauge my discomfort and repulsion to this idea. I was still living in fear of death from the trauma, and picturing a week or month into the future in any realistic sense was virtually unthinkable. I was still unsure if I’d wake up the next morning, and more seriously, if I’d even want to. Every little thing I did each day felt like a major achievement and a surprising accomplishment, and I thought in abstract ideas rather than concrete realistic plans. My whole self-concept and identity was entirely lost in my trauma; I felt like I not only occupied a foreign body, but had a new mind. What felt unknown, I feared. I hated the changes and I longed for my old self, but that’s the thing about some monumentally devastating traumas: to survive them, you have to change. The “old you” had a coveted innocence and peace that is forever lost; at the same time, I’ve learned that with overcoming such a horrific challenge, comes deep and unparalleled strength and courage: the “new me” is braver, tougher, and more appreciative of seemingly small victories and gifts because she needed to be. I used to hate her, but I’m starting to admire her and give her a chance.

As the “doomsday” of my residency start date drew nearer, I started to panic. Words that were initially filled with promise began to form a faint picture of what my residency life would actually look like, nearly one thousand miles from home. It even became clear that Ben would be unable to join me there for “several months,” while we determined if it was a good fit and he could find a job. Even in that less informed stage, we were building in contingency plans, as the track record for my health and robustness has been marred over the past several years, and my ability to successfully withstand the physical demands of a more-than-full-time job were called into question. The sheer utterance of the word “residency” became enough to send me into complete chaos, crumbling into an emotional wreck. I would have full-blown meltdowns when we tried to plan out or talk through the coming months. I have faced many uncomfortable or even dreaded transitions in my life; it’s one of my guaranteed struggles (which is not uncommon for those on the spectrum), but for many of them, despite the disproportionate and overwhelming anxiety that characterized their lead up, in my heart I was excited enough or sure enough that it was the right decision, that I was confident I’d be okay. Not with residency. The notion of it filled my body with a sweeping wave of stifling heat, suffocating not only my physical ease of breathing but my emotional outlook and mood. I’d become diabolically irritable, moody, and despondent. I’d cry so hard that I would choke on my breath or unintentionally throw up my last meal. My sleep, while undeniably restless and problematic since my attack, became punctuated with even more nightmares: a messy blend of flashbacks from my trauma with creepy fantasy scenes from a prosthetic lab in which I had never been. In this way, we discovered my insomnia and my post-attack PTSD were significantly exacerbated with the increased anxiety imposed by the impending residency. Deep in my heart, I kept asking myself: Am I just afraid of change or being away from Ben? Am I afraid to fail? It wasn’t difficult for me to know the answer with conviction. It was difficult to admit that that (failure) was the answer because I so wanted it to not be. I wasn’t afraid of failing in the sense that I thought anything bad would necessarily happen if I did, and it wasn’t a matter of “if” I did, because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would “fail.” And that’s the operant word here. Fail didn’t necessarily mean I wouldn’t do well at the residency; it meant my body and my mind would break, maybe not literally, but certainly by all measures of practicality. The happiness, improved sense of physical and emotional well-being, and semblance of progress that I had fought and clawed so hard for were still so fragile, yet intensely important for my survival. I didn’t want to risk shaking them off and I was positive that the challenges imposed by the residency would not catapult my growth to even greater heights but would be immensely counterproductive.

As soon as I was brave enough to admit this to Ben, I started feeling like I could breathe again. I was gripped with fear of letting him down; after all, we had moved to Connecticut for me to do the program, sacrificed income and quality of life, and I had been unemployed or otherwise a non-contributing member to our financial state since the attack. School represented the promise of a successful career and a life of less penny-pinching and more affluence. I felt indebted to him and responsible for completing the loop on our investment in a better future by pushing through the residency and beyond to a career as a clinician.

So, I tried to troubleshoot the problem and seek as many alternative arrangements as possible in typical Amber fashion. I’m almost always cooking up some kind of plan or seeking any number of opportunities. As I say, you never know what may work out so it’s good to cast a wide net.

As painful and embarrassing as it was to turn down the one residency, I was fueled with motivation to reconcile the situation. I figured arranging a placement closer to home would negate some of the challenges and make the situation more plausible: a workable battle. My good fortune and hard work landed me another opportunity closer to home, about a two-hour drive and within striking distance of a reasonable commute for Ben’s job, meaning that we could live together. This had all the makings of a more feasible solution, so I again agreed and was temporarily filled with such a gulp of relief that the remaining obvious problems were muted to me. It wasn’t in Virginia and it wasn’t to be tackled in complete isolation, so I was blindly hopeful. At least for a week or two.

The elimination of my paralyzing shame of telling Ben that I needed to amend the plan restored enough courage and self-esteem that I was able to confess to my professors that I had to withdraw my commitment to the one residency for another. I was still filled with guilt, driven by my desire to repay their servitude and legwork to facilitate my success during my tenure in the program, I was disappointing them by not jumping at the chance afforded by the first position. Apologetically, I assured them that I would still work hard and make them proud, bestowing as much honor as I could to the program that so well-equipped me for a bright future in the field. I was eager to progress through the remainder of the required steps to become a board-certified clinician and excited to have an impactful change on the lives of my future patients. The initial relief that my problem-solving plan afforded wore off as quickly as the days before graduating were passing. It was only a matter of weeks before I was to move and begin my exhausting residency. Once again, I was filled with panic at the thought of my impending life. It wasn’t what I wanted because it wasn’t what felt right for me.

I asked my therapist to help me evaluate and understand what was going on. She strongly encouraged me to see my physician and request medical accommodations at the site for some of my health issues. I figured she was right; I had long since tried to force myself to meet all requirements and expectations “normally,” but I had some real and serious hindrances. It was through that process of determining what accommodations would be beneficial yet not incompatible with the job requirements that the sensory processing issues and autism were diagnosed, after a trail of appointments, testing, and specialists were seen. That journey is best saved for another day, but the outcome is the same: I suddenly was given access to the more complete picture of what was going on with me, both at that time, and throughout my life. All of the challenges and confusions began to be met with more clarity. It was both a relief and a burden at the same time. It had taken me nearly 30 years to be properly diagnosed, and when I finally was, it felt like my self-concept was significantly altered overnight. Like the moments of rising after my attack, I suddenly felt like I needed to get to re-know myself, only this time, unlike the attack, I didn’t initially hate the “new” self that was emerging. I realized she needed more compassion and credit for her achievements despite the numerous and clearer barriers to her success. It was the first time since becoming a teenager that instead of berating myself and tearing myself down, I paused and granted myself just the slightest bit of grace with the incredibly stringent expectations that I normally hold myself to. That perfectionist attitude isn’t lost overnight, but it was at least relaxed just enough to give me permission to make the right decision for my psychological and physical needs, and abide by the boundaries I needed to set to respect these needs. I had battled long and hard enough, particularly after surviving the attack, and I just needed to let myself choose the less popular or esteemed route. I had to walk away from prosthetics, at least for some time. My journey of emotional healing from my trauma was only just beginning and my journey towards cultivating an environment and life that supported the needs imposed by my neurodiversity had not yet begun.

Much of this came to a head the Tuesday before graduation. In light of everything going on, my husband and I decided that indeed a residency was not the right thing for me at the time, and I politely and supremely apologetically declined the second offer. I had no alternative plan. The future was a completely blank canvas, save for the dozens of occupational therapy and social/behavioral therapy appointments that were scheduled to begin helping me work on various challenges of the new diagnoses. I desperately wanted to cancel my plans to attend the graduation ceremony. First and foremost, I knew it would be long and boring, crowded and over-stimulating, a recipe for a very Amber-unfriendly event. I also hate attention so I didn’t want to walk across the stage. Most importantly, I seriously questioned whether I deserved to march and receive my diploma, both because I felt ashamed that I wasn’t going to be doing residency any time soon, if at all, and because as much as the new diagnosis helped me see myself in a new light, it also made me feel “disabled” and undeserving of success. I am not entirely sure why; I know that people with all sorts of challenges and abilities can achieve great feats, but it’s different for me somehow. My own self-esteem is so low, and has been for years, that I don’t naturally grant forgiveness for my own weaknesses or mistakes; and that’s a gross understatement to how I viewed my participation in the prosthetics program: a mistake. I felt so stupid for “wasting” two years of my life fully dedicated to a career that was not viable for me. I felt even more stupid for not knowing how to identify and then articulate my challenges. It was Ben who helped me see how short-sighted this blame was. After an emotionally painful conversation in which I was completely vulnerable in how I felt regarding everything going on, Ben helped me see that the program was not at all for naught. In fact, it had saved me. Before receiving my acceptance letter from the program, I had no desire to live and I certainly wasn’t engaging in a life that could be considered living, beyond the basic biological definition. For all intents and purposes, I was so broken and hopeless after the attack, so traumatized and disenfranchised, that I was often mad at myself that I had pulled my body up from the floor after the attack and ultimately saved my own life. In many post-attack moments, I figured it would have been preferable and easier to die. The prosthetics program completely changed that. I not only enjoyed my day-to-day life much more again, but I saw reason and relief for my survival. It renewed the sense that every human should have: that life, even when impossibly challenging, is worth living. When that basic operating premise disappears, it is so far beyond scary that I lack the vocabulary to convey it.

During the program, I re-learned to trust people, particularly men. Despite my social challenges that come part and parcel with the autism, I tried to make friends. Prior to that, I vowed that I never wanted another friend because the risk of a possible attack was not worth the reward, so the valiant effort to be social and make meaningful relationships was a big achievement. I learned to dream again, to love myself and others, and be grateful for my strength. The twenty-three months of hard work and focused studying may not have been leading me to the next logical step on the path, but it did pay me in dividends, just in a different form than most people would have assumed. Ben and I decided that needed to walk for me and for us. No contests are fought in solitude, and this one was no exception. My graduation was as much my own accomplishment as that of Ben’s (or my mom’s). After all, he had been the one I considered when deciding if my life was worth salvaging and he had been the sturdy rock above me, from which he offered an endless number of hands to pull me up and steady me when I stumbled in my physical and then emotional recovery.

As I sat under the large circus tent during my graduation ceremony, I was surrounded by twenty of the most interesting and hopeful peers. Moreover, there were hundreds of excited graduates from other departments, excited to take to the stage and receive their diplomas for all of their hard work. They couldn’t wait to embark on the careers for which they had so long been dreaming of and working towards. Parents, friends, and family surrounded the periphery of the huge tent in countless rows of chairs. There was a dizzying sea of people I had predicted and part of me really wished I had heeded to my wish not to come. Only two of them knew my secret. I didn’t know how to appropriately broach the subject with my peers who were all too excited to be taking the next big step and I didn’t want to rain on anyone’s parade, so I kept to myself, a familiar position anyway.

When my row was finally in queue to receive our diplomas, my heart was racing. I felt like a fraud and once again, I was flooded with feelings of “undeservedness” and shame. I looked to Ben and my mom, who were clearly talking quietly but excitedly that the boring ceremony was about to experience its five seconds of interesting air time. While everyone else’s fear was just that they would trip while walking across the stage, I was worried that someone would yell, “you wasted your degree!” (which, incidentally, is what one of the residency directors shamed me by commenting). When the dean called my name, all of this vanished. Suddenly, I stood tall and proud, as if endowed with the task of proudly receiving my diploma. There are pictures capturing the moments that I traversed the stage. My smile is so genuine and so rich that it appears my whole body is smiling. I shook the dean’s hand with conviction and as I posed for my photo at the far end of the stage, my sole thought was, “good job, kid”—an exceedingly rare self-directed compliment.

Nearly a year later, my life looks very different but I’m okay with that. In fact, I’m generally trending toward increased happiness. I am beyond grateful for the gifts in my life, both in terms of people, opportunities, and my own unwavering ability to eventually turn toxic lemons into the sweetest lemonade. I still have so much healing and growing to do, and that need is not lost on me. In fact, it becomes more clear to me that I bury some of the deepest and hardest parts of my trauma instead of working through them, but I’m getting there. It’s been the most trying and rewarding year in many ways.

I still feel a major loss regarding my prosthetics dream; it remains a devastating heartache. It is a loss; the acknowledgement and acceptance of the fact that it’s not compatible with my current (and likely future) means that that goal is unattainable and I have to re-envision a life that I will be happy with and proud of. And I’m doing just that, one day at a time, with my trusty companion, my copilot, the wind in my sails when my own winds are flagging. The other day Ben so astutely commented that marriage is largely about taking care of one another even when it’s hard. It feels like he’s been dealt an unfair hand, but if anyone or anything has the ability to restore my faith in humanity, it’s certainly Ben’s loyal and staunch support, patience, guidance, and love. Extending beyond ourselves as a cohesive unit, I am also learning to reach out to other family and friends for support and connection; some of the most meaningful relationships over time have their genesis in unfortunate or otherwise strange situations or between unlikely participants so it is good to cast a wide net and accept any and all love and connection offered.

Lastly, I am trying harder to respect and value the person that I am, the needs that I have, and the decisions that will bring me the most happiness, even if they are unpopular or confusing to others or otherwise feel like they are letting myself or someone else down. It seems that is the first requisite to improving my self-esteem and building a life that gives me fulfillment, happiness, meaning, and peace. As Steve Jobs so wisely stated: “Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.” Right now, I’m happy to be alive, I’m grateful for the life that I have and the people in it, I’m enjoying my job and exploring different hobbies and interests, and I’m hopeful that my growth and strength will continue to create a future that is healthy, meaningful, and rich in the things that truly matter.

Summer Screen

It feels like a summer morning. It’s just past 4:00am and I finished my meditating so I’m lying on the rug in the living room. It is still dark out but all of the windows are open in here and the birds are serenading each other. Our house, admittedly, usually has an unpleasant vegetal smell from all of the vegetables we cook, but with the breeze coming through, it smells sweet like budding trees, dewy grass, and what I call “summer screen.”

This term has its origins back when I was a young kid. On summer nights, my mom would open my bedroom windows. We never had air conditioning and while sometimes I had an ineffective fan somewhere in the room—a tag sale relic or duct-taped old dinosaur from grandma’s house—I was usually way too hot to be comfortable. My bed abutted a window that looked out to the side of the house, where, incidentally, I observed squirrels and documented their “mysterious behavior” in my “science sleuth” journal, a small yellow spiral-bound notebook that sat in my windowsill among the dust and dead bees.

On hot nights, I’d drag my pillow, a pillow-shaped lion, from its position on the mattress and into the window sill gulley so I could put my face right up to the window, drinking in as much of the fresh summer air as I could. While an ineffective way to cool down (especially on stagnant nights), it distracted me enough from the sweltering humidity that I would stop rapidly flipping every which way on my mattress to try and find a cool spot (which only made me hotter), and just slowly breathe in the nature around me. I’d listen to the concert of cicadas, crickets, and toads, and crane my neck to try and spot the moon or the North Star through the trees. Whenever I found it, I felt like a ship navigator, finding a stable beacon to lead me home (of course, I was home). I’d narrate everything to Lion, the pillow, and explain to him the night’s story: what the insects were singing about, where our “ship” was returning from, and what the neighbors (“the enemy pirates”) were doing making noise, if they were around. I would press my nose so forcefully against the wire window screen as if trying to break through with my face to join the outside world. It felt cool and I’d put my hands on it too, and wiggle my fingers, as if making snow angels with them on the mesh. And that’s the smell of summer screen: the faint metallic wire of an old window screen with the warm summer air of a New England summer night.

I catch myself even now putting my nose right up to the screens in my new house in the early morning hours. It’s not quite summer and it’s not quite the same sweet mix of smells from my childhood, but it’s enough to remind me of those nights as an imaginative, happy kid full of wonder and possibility and take a pause in my current struggles to realize part of her magic is still in me.

Blood Work

I can’t stand getting my blood drawn. This phobia does not extend to needles in general, as I don’t mind shots, but getting a lab slip for blood work is a doomsday sentence for me. This is more unfortunate for my circumstances than for the average person, because my health conditions necessitate frequent routine draws. I’ve trained myself out of my fear of flying, fear of men post-attack, and other phobias over my life, but this one seems impossible to conquer.

This fear confuses me. I’ve tried to analyze it, somewhat unsuccessfully, because there are still gaps in my understanding. For example, I’m not directly afraid of anything specific about the process of blood work. In contrast, when I was afraid of flying, I was terrified that the plane would blow up in a fury of flames at take off as it built up speed. I could also explicitly point to anxiety that turbulence was “abnormal” and the plane was going to lose its lift and plummet. I reasoned my way out if these through research, which was one step that helped me conquer the gripping phobia I had. I can’t identify a cognitive (even if flawed) reason for my blood draw issue. I’m not afraid of anything bad happening: I don’t think I’ll bleed out, I don’t think the phlebotomist will damage my body in some way. Sure, it hurts, but I’ve faced many significantly more painful situations, so I don’t think it’s that. I have had several bad experiences (passing out and hitting my head because they sent me on my way too quickly, waking up another time after fainting and not understanding where I was and then panicking, and incompetent nurses or techs that had to stick me several times when they themselves panicked due to an issue with the stick, but again, nothing Earth-shattering compared to other actual traumas I’ve faced. I think part of my anxiety is that I do feel sick and lightheaded with bloodwork, but I think some of that is physiological (as I’m chronically anemic and hypotensive so I do get weakened), but it’s undoubtedly also the anxiety feeding into the physiological anxiety reaction in a chicken-and-egg self-fulfilling prophecy. The more worked up I get, the worse I start to feel, and that in turn, makes me feel more uneasy and panicked. Ever since my attack, the number-one trigger that sends me into a PTSD bout is not feeling well or, more precisely, experiencing unaccustomed or unwarranted feelings in my body. I haven’t really divulged the details of my attack here yet because it hasn’t seemed necessary and it’s quite upsetting and emotionally shaking for me to actually think about it in a detailed way. Instead, when I say “my attack,” it couches the severity of the trauma into an emotionally safer package for me. One that has become such a habitual term that I can sort of displace myself or disengage from the feelings around that day. Just saying “attack”, doesn’t fully conjure up the utterly devastating and heinous acts I survived. I’ve recently been starting targeted trauma therapy though and my therapist thinks I would benefit from talking more explicitly about what happened, as a way to get some of terrifying memories that monopolize my brain. I do occasionally talk about it in detail with my mom or Ben, but even with them, it’s generally just mentioned in passing using the globalized “attack” terminology. Anyway, I’m leading myself quite a distance from my intended topic, and thus is more of a post for another day because I’d like to continue to evaluate my lab work phobia, but the point of my digression was to confess that my physical feelings of “unwellness” fuel my PTSD because I was so severely injured during the attack that I was genuinely worried I was going to die. Unfortunately (for once), this wasn’t even all inflated by my anxiety. Anyway, I think consequently, as I kind of was operating in survival mode for the first few days afterward, stunned pretty much into silence, not working or really doing anything, I just had me and my body and it didn’t feel right and I felt unsure if I was actually going to still make it through. Even though the acuteness of the trauma was over, I felt broken in so many ways and there was no clear path, however distant, to my guaranteed recovery. Over the first few days, I started healing physically but deteriorating emotionally. I’d check my own pulse periodically to see if my heart was still beating. While thankfully I’ve never come even within earshot of that sort of physical and mental trauma since, it takes a much smaller stimulus now to shove me back into that am-I-really-going-to-be-ok? place. Although I’m countless levels tougher than I ever was before, I’m a baby when it comes to triggering feelings.

Still, I don’t know that any of that necessarily plays any more than a correlation role in my blood draw anxiety. I don’t think it’s a cause. The one piece that I do think must have some effect on the phobia is that after I lay on the floor post-attack, I was bleeding profusely and I was fighting to maintain consciousness while my body seemed to want to pass out. I was alone, except for my dog, and my phone had been ripped from my hand and thrown behind the couch, so I was pretty removed from life lines. I was too shaken to scream. I knew if I succumbed to the faint, I could potentially bleed out eventually and part of me, in that moment, was okay with that, as I saw no possible way I’d be able to pick myself up literally and figuratively after this and pull together some semblance of dignity and strength to move on. I actually credit my dog for convincing the piece of me that was willing to fight to prevail. She came slinking out of the corner where she had been hovering by the door around the turn in our hallway, out of sight. Slowly, I heard her nails ticking on the floor toward me. She was crouched and sling-backed and the hair on the back of her neck was raised. Even though he was gone and had slammed the door in front of her, she wore every color of fear. As she got within arm’s length of my body, she stopped and looked at me as if seeking approval to enter the invisible outline around me. I stared back at her, barely recognizing her for a minute. I remember thinking in my head, “wait, who’s that?” Unable to lift my heavy head yet, I simply tapped my own finger on the floor. She could read me. Come. She gingerly came forward and sniffed me. Then, in Gross Comet fashion, tried to start licking blood on the floor. That was the moment that finally I cried. It’s also the moment I decided I needed to find a way to get up, and while I’ll detail that struggle another day, I do think she played an instrumental role in me fighting my body’s protective urge to pass out and helped me save myself. Now, I think I’m particularly conditioned to fear even whispers of lightheadedness and fainting. I can’t stand that feeling. I want to be as far from it as possible because it immediately puts me back into that very worst of all my catalogued memories (and I have a very detailed and vast collection stuffed in my brain). It becomes so real; it’s as if I’m transported back to that wooden floor, plastered in terror, deciding what to do, realizing with each passing moment that I was one breath further from the person I had always been and one more into one that was frighteningly foreign: a life I didn’t know I could or wanted to bear.

I do genuinely want to rid myself of this fear. On Friday, I had to get blood work for my preoperative appointment to fix a bone in my foot. To try to quell the anxiety before it had time or momentum to build, I tried employing all sorts of relaxation and distraction techniques prior to arriving: mindfulness meditation, listening to music, deep breathing, talking on the phone, playing games, progressive muscle relaxation, even bribing myself with the promise of a reward on my Amazon wish list for getting through it. Nothing really worked. My heart was thumping and I was overheating just waiting to be called in. I tried talking to the old lady sitting next to me, something wildly outside of my comfort zone, but my brain just kept honing back in on blood work. When the nurse calmed me in, I gave a sheepish smile and tried to walk bravely over to the table. My eyelids filled will tears. They filled to their capacity before the volume exceeded the force from the surface tension holding them in. They rolled onto the paper pillow and spread like cracked eggs. She asked me my name and my voice cracked, the lump lodged in my throat hindering the ease of my most familiar word. I just swallowed. I couldn’t speak. She then looked up from her clipboard and noticed how I’d quickly melted into an emotional heap, entering the room as a young woman and now a small frightened child. She even commented I was smaller than but reminded her of her nine-year-old daughter.

Eventually, I was able to find my voice and string together enough coherent language to answer her questions and assure her I was fine, just scared of lab work. And so we began. I wish I could say it went well, but this blog is all about honesty and my reality, in all its highs and lows, mistakes and weaknesses. It did not go well and I was not the brave solider I fully intended to be. I’m unparalleled in my ability to imitate and emulate behaviors and personas in most cases (in fact, it’s one of my qualities that helps me camouflage amongst neurotypicals and evade diagnosis for so long), yet I was entirely unsuccessful in terms of willing myself to act unphased by the draw. I cried and cried. To my credit (if I can even say that in this case), they did have to get three nurses and try the stick three times because my veins kept rolling, but I still should have played a more stoic role. After the first puncture, the nurse panicked and called another over for an assist. The superior said, “oh, it rolled…no problem.”

They continued to try to rectify the draw and since I don’t look, I envisioned the worm-flipping feeling in my forearm to be part of the sample collection process. It was incredibly uncomfortable and interspersed with sharp transient flashes of pain. Then, it stopped. I felt the needle recede from my skin and the gauze applied with heavy pressure. “All done,” she said. “That was terrible,” I cried, but breathed a sigh of relief that it was behind me.

As I sat there trying to get ease my heart rate back down, I started thinking about some of my challenges and wondering if the sensory issues play a role in my body’s repulsion to the whole blood drawing experience. The textured astringent wipe that is intended to sterilize the skin creates a toe-curling offensive friction on my sensitive inner arm skin as it’s vigorously rubbed back and forth. The rubber band tourniquet similarly irritates my skin, and though I don’t necessarily have a low pain tolerance per se, it feels like I can discriminate each individual cell layer that the needle penetrates and a searingly hot wave floods my whole body even when my antecubital space is touched gently or lovingly. SPD can transpose even soft touches to razor-blade like stabs. Somewhere in my mental survey of sensory insults, I’m brought back into awareness of the pre-op room and the nurses. “Ok, let’s try this again,” she says. “WHAT?” I exclaimed, “you said we were done!” “Oh no, honey. I just meant we were done trying to fix it.” Cue the waterworks. I freaked out. Like a petulant child, I started sobbing. “You said we were finished!” Needless to say, it was two more sticks until we were done, but I survived. I’m not proud of my behavior; far from it, I was filled with shame. As I hobbled on my crutches to the car, I vowed to myself to further research how to overcome this phobia.

I have. Extensively. But nothing has really resonated with me. Even the act of writing this post has made the multifactorial nature of this phobia more apparent to me. I did notice that Autism Speaks (which has its own pros and cons) has a comprehensive downloadable toolkit for parents to exercise with their autistic child prior to bloodwork. Unfortunately, even though I can be quite child-like in many regards, this is definitely geared toward a significantly younger demographic and therefore not useful for me. (If you are reading this and are parent of a young child, you may find it to be a helpful resource.) Becoming aware of the toolkit and assessing the amount of effort that must have gone into it did encourage me to imagine that there may be truth to my sensory processing issues exacerbating the experience for me. I know that the site they always collect from has some of the thinnest and most sensitive skin on my whole body so the cleansing with the alcoholic prep pad alone sends my system into overdrive before we’ve even begun, but I’ve been surprised how many phlebotomists seem reluctant or unwilling to try another site. They are the experts, so I am sure there is a valid justification for this (though I don’t know what), but the least offensive procedure I had was at the Celiac Disease Research Center at Columbia Presbyterian and they didn’t even ask-they just used my hand. It was more seamless and less excruciatingly stressful for me, by far. Who knows. I’m not a very adamant self-advocate when it comes to medical appointments, so perhaps I am less assertive and demonstrative of my self-informed position to adequately request the procedure modifications that would be most helpful for me. I’m working on my medical-appointment imposed unintentional and involuntary selective mutism. Clearly, I’m also working on trying to understand remedy my various challenges, though it’s not a quick nor easy process. At least I have my enjoyment for research and analysis on my side and plenty of opportunities to practice. For the record, I was too disappointed in my “performance” at this last blood draw to warrant getting the foxtail I want on Amazon, so hopefully the longer that carrot dangles in front of me, the more I’ll want to deserve it. (At the same time, part of my ADHD seems to be incredibly focused but short-lived interest in any one thing, so I’m not confident that won’t need updating as well). With my surgery pushed a few weeks back, I can guarantee there will be several updates to that wish list, more reasons I’ve uncovered for my anxiety, and hopefully a bevy of additional resources or facts to pacify (or at least inform) my problem.

Healing?

Good news! My body may be finally stepping in and trying to heal my foot. We are going to postpone the surgery until May 11th, to give it a few more weeks. I’m happy about this for two reasons: there’s the relief that the surgery isn’t tomorrow morning (which makes it feel less real because it is less imminent and there’s a chance I won’t need it at all) and it makes me feel like my body, even though weakened in many regards, may have some inherent healing ability hidden within it after all. I also started to be overcome with nervousness about the general anesthesia required for the procedure.  I had no idea that it meant I was not going to be breathing on my own and would have tubes down my throat. In the past 24 hours, I’ve done enough research to convince myself that logically, this is safe and would be uneventful, but emotionally, it still triggers fear.

So, here’s to hoping that my body decides to heal this thing up on its own. While that’s certainly far and above what I’d prefer, I will face whatever outcome we reach on the 11th with as much stoicism and positivity as I can muster.

Strength Training

I have been lifting weights again and strength training for exactly two months. Although this has nothing to do with autism, when I started my blog, I decided not to put constraints on myself regarding what I needed to think about or write about. This blog tends to be a space where I can simply mull over and express some of the many thoughts and experiences that confuse, frustrate, excite, scare, or otherwise impact me. As mentioned, strength training also has been a big bear I wanted to retackle, after going cold turkey post-attack for a couple years. Once a huge part of my identity and an integral source of joy in my life, it became one of many things I could no longer face. Except for running, I became a voyeur of the fitness world, as the mere thought of strength training made my stomach flip.

Not anymore. I’ve been training. I wouldn’t necessarily classify this training by tacking on any adjectives like “hard” or “serious,” because I’ve tried to take a low-key approach (and I have a broken foot!), but I would say my practice has been dedicated, courageous, and empowering. And fun. For as much as I’ve been trying to hold my ground above the depression abyss, any little source of happiness must be coveted like prized possession. Plus, it’s been effective. I’m actually back up to all of my old benchmarks and lifting at least as much—and in some cases even more—weight than in my prime strength training days in NYC as a full-time trainer. I never thought I’d get my body back up to that level of physical strength because it just hasn’t seemed as resilient anymore and I’ve had so many health problems, not to mention I was basically working out all day then through my job. 

It’s interesting because I have also mentioned that I avoid looking in the mirror. While I’ve gotten better and continue my daily practice of positive self-talk, this is just to the reflection of my face. My body is a different story: I don’t look at it. Until very recently, the weather had been cold enough that I was always bundled up anyway, so I never even really “accidentally” saw it. Sometimes I feel like this is actually healthier than it sounds for me personally, because I’ve hated my body unwaveringly for so long that it can be more beneficial to ignore its appearance altogether than risk critiquing it and hating it. I hope this is not the case for most people. I even shower in the dark. 

With all that said, I’ve looked at my arms lately. In fact, I not only looked casually at them, I decided to flex them. Boy there’s a lot of muscle trapped in a little arm! My scrawny atrophied arms of the past couple of years have reverted back to my healthy and muscular arms of my younger twenties. I’m not sure how it makes me feel, maybe surprised, maybe partly (ashamedly) nervous that my attacker’s words will ring true (that having muscles and a strong body made me attractive, and thus a target). Most of the time, my logical brain assures me this is not true, but I still have to fend off the occasional worries. The good news is that I’m not repulsed by my changing appearance, so that’s a start. I hope that confidence finds her way to quietly seep in, gathering a groundswell presence while I’m busy focusing on other things, until one day, she is big and loud enough for me to notice her secure hold in my mind. From there, she can slowly open the gates for the self-hatred, fear, and trauma to begin to recede and my mind, heart, and body will start finding more peace.

A Visit

My oldest sister came over today. Even though I’ve moved closer to home, I don’t see her often: she’s busy, I’m anti-social. In fact, when she got here, she commented that she couldn’t remember the last time we hung out alone. I was hoping that my nervousness was not as palpable as it felt. I guess that’s one of the weird things about me—perhaps it’s an autism thing—nervousness to see my own sister. She’s known me my whole life, yet my own social anxiety is so crippling that I fear seeing her. It’s also likely a product of times in my life I have been judged or teased, even bullied, and certainly made to feel even more different than I am by other people. Even though she’s family and I’m confident she wouldn’t treat me that way, I have trouble separating fears induced by past experiences in disastrous social situations over likely safe, and even pleasant new ones. This is another instance where I often let self-limiting anxieties hinder my happiness. Not only do I end up missing out on a source of love and joy, but it’s also unfair to wrongfully project the behavior of behavior of a handful of spiteful people onto my notions of everyone.

I think one of the special qualities about family members or true friends that you don’t have to “do” anything when you spend time with one another. Because I am basically immobile with my fracture and carry all sorts of limitations normally, ranging from severe food allergies to sensory challenges, there isn’t much I can do right now anyway. Ashleigh didn’t care. She didn’t pressure me to go out, provide any sort of entertainment, or make me feel like I was boring her to death. She just sat and talked with me, asked how she could help, tidied up my messes and mishaps, made me laugh, and distracted me from the loneliness and pains I’m going through. She regaled me with humorous bits from our favorite shows and talked to me like an equal, not a little sister.

Ashleigh has her own challenges and doesn’t claim to know how to help me with mine, but we seem to have a tacit understanding that we’ve got each other’s backs and admire the courage and strength that we both engage against the struggles we face, including the necessarily hard work of self-improvement and self-understanding. I look at her and see someone who is quite different than me, but also someone who, just like when I was young, I aspire to be more alike. Especially over the past couple of years, she embodies such grace, such resilience, and such clemency.

Even though she didn’t stay long, it was a bright spot in my day and a welcome break from work and even from my usual routine that I so tightly cling to. When I was talking with my husband after she left, he asked how the visit went. I caught myself saying, “surprisingly well.” Again, reminding me that I had the preconceived notion or fear that it likely wouldn’t. He asked me why I thought it went well or what I liked about it. All I replied was: I felt like I had a real friend.

The Mighty

Exiting news! My first blog post—the one that bravely kicked off this blog (if I may step out of my normally modest shoes for a second and toot my own horn!)—was featured by The Mighty and is available on their website. The Mighty is a big, supportive online community for those with or affected by any variety of disease or disability. The community offers not only perspectives of afflicted individuals, but also their parents, siblings, friends, etc. One thing I really admire about The Mighty is that it not only provides great resources for those with or affected by a given condition, but it gives those same individuals a platform from which to share their experiences, triumphs, and concerns, which I think is powerfully influential in altering our stereotypes and rattling our contemptuousness. The Mighty gives voices to people who may not otherwise be heard and through such sharing, shortens the distance between things that seem blatantly different. Honestly, even before I had my autism and sensory processing diagnoses, I followed The Mighty and subscribed to their weekly digests of stories and articles because I marveled at the bravery of the storytellers and found that weekly messages of some people’s hidden or invisible struggles was a good reminder of the strength of humanity and the importance of constantly exercising compassion, even through my own hurt and battles. Some stories, even if about a disease I had never heard of and certainly didn’t face, made me feel understood, simply because many of the same challenges are faced by all of us, even if they come with different names or wear different costumes.

This now reads like an advertising spot for The Mighty, which certainly wasn’t at all my intention. I guess it’s just my honest one-minute appreciation speech for my new inclusion into the community as a contributing writer. In fact, they have asked me to add new content and posts overtime, so I’m really appreciative of the opportunity to share my perspective to hopefully help some readers understand and help others feel understood.

(it’s actually the featured story on the main page this morning!)

Prognosis

I’m crutching all around the hospital today. For some reason, they’ve designed it so that the orthopedist is in the basement in a small office that’s only reachable by snaking through several very long hallways. The radiology department—where he sends nearly every patient to get an X-ray after first seeing him—is upstairs at the opposite end of the building, in an entirely different wing, down another set of long, zig-zagging hallways. Thank goodness that I’ve been doing my strength training and have these triceps in gear!

After crutching for what feels like 30 minutes, I’m sitting back in his office waiting: waiting for him to come back in, waiting to hear why my foot is not getting better, waiting for an action plan. I start working myself up into an anxious state, flirting with a full-blown panic attack. I have my huge headphones on to drown out the rattling of the heating unit that seems to be situated in the wall behind his office rooms. I wear my noise-blocking headphones without exception when I go on most errands, unless I’m certain the place is very quiet or I’m accompanied by someone (in which case, it would be rude). I’ve also been wearing my winter beanie basically as part of my daily get-up since November (at least I have three!). It not only keeps me warm, but it tamps down my little flyaway curls that otherwise blow as I move—a guaranteed fast-track to throwing me into sensory overdrive.

The thick hat and the enormous headphones are quickly sending me into overheated territory. Thermoregulation and body temperature awareness are significant challenges for me with SPD. I seem to have to no idea if I’m trending towards becoming too hot or too cold until I’m beyond the point of easily reversing the situation and re-establishing comfort. This is one of those moments. It seems I am still dressing for January and it’s in the 60s outside. I begin to sweat. Anxiety is indubitably contributing to this heat flush, but my down coat isn’t helping. This doctor makes me nervous and so does this injury. I have a premonition it’s not going to be a favorable prognosis. My foot throbs as if to remind me, yes, I’m here and I really hurt. I don’t need the reminder but the throb won’t be silenced.

For some reason, once I’ve identified that I am, indeed, too hot, I do nothing to remedy it. I keep waiting.

I wish Ben was with me. He’s at work so I send him a text telling him I’m bored. I’m sure he knows to substitute in the word scared or lonely. I do multiplication problems in my head while I wait; over the years, I have found this to have a mild relaxant effect. 243×77

Finally, my doctor enters after reviewing my x-ray. Even though I struggle to interpret facial expressions appropriately, his is a clear tell.

It’s not good news.

I need surgery. He will insert an intermedullary screw, which is essentially a screw that gets drilled longitudinally into the metatarsal bone marrow. It will help my fracture heal.

The word surgery doesn’t jive well with runner or anxiety-riddled—both of which are equally understated adjectives to describe me.

So that’s where I am today: just wrapping my head around this next hurdle and working on convincing myself that I’ll be fine and this will ultimately be the best treatment. I will and it is.

I’m sure that I’ll have a lot of thinking and writing to help me digest this but I’m actually feeling like the depression might be lifting a little bit. Even though this is a scary proposition, it will ultimately help me heal. April 25th sounds like a good day to have surgery anyway, right?

 

Takeoff

Yesterday my mom visited with my nephew who is just two weeks shy of his first birthday. My mom forms one of the three vertices of my triangular support system. In fact, we talk every day and those conversations (which are always the real stuff of life and not just about the weather) are often a highlight of my day! She’s also my dog’s favorite person in the world: one mention of the word “grandma” and she starts cocking her head to hear more and whimpering in excitement. String together “grandma coming” and you’ve got a full-on frenzy of jumping, sneezing (her excitement reaction), and whining. I’m somewhat the same way, albeit with a bit more of a muted and controlled reaction.

Though she always makes me feel better, I push my mom (and others) away when I’m at my very lowest. I tell her not to come, I cancel plans, and while I keep up the daily phone calls, I keep them brief and more impersonal than our normal deep talks. Part of this is the social challenges of autism intensified by the depression, which makes the mental picture of entertaining “company” completely exhausting and unappealing. As depression zaps my energy even more than it is already usually taxed with SPD, this becomes an insurmountable ask. Secondly, it’s self-preservation. Such a deep state of depression feels shameful and I want to hide from those I love so they don’t see how much I’m struggling. It’s too tiring to cover it up and pretend to be “fine” and it’s too embarrassing to be real and authentically express my emotional pain. With that said, ultimately, it’s self-sabotage. By avoiding my mom (or others), I’m denying myself the opportunity to get help with my problems, to talk and spend time with someone who not only loves me unconditionally, but is an amazing listener and resource. I wish I didn’t do it and even when I cancel plans, it sends me deeper into despair and I immediately regret the decision and start crying. I’m crazy!

My nephew is a real charmer and my sister and brother-in-law have done an amazing job raising him so far and he is their first. The kid exudes happiness and wonder like nothing I’ve ever seen. He approaches everything with a smile so big and unwavering that it looks like his happy cheeks will topple him over they are so bright and expressive. There’s something about young children that’s always been reassuring and soothing to me.

For instance, I used to be so fearful of airplanes that I chose not to travel when certain opportunities presented themselves. When I did fly, my phobia was so debilitating that I’d break into a panic attack as soon as we pushed back from the gate and started taxiing toward the runway. Even though a space shuttle and an airplane are quite different, after watching a video of the 1986 spaceship challenger’s launch, I could not separate the vision of the plane blowing up in flames at takeoff. Flying is also a sensory nightmare. The rumbling engines, the hissing cabin air, the sudden lowering or raising of the wheels that make an audible and perceptible clunk, the stuffiness, the inability to move freely, the ear pressure, the nauseating sensation of changing directions or altitude quickly, turbulence, and the inability to regulate your own temperature easily are just a few of the flying challenges that are particularly exacerbated for those with SPD. Those, I can manage a bit now like anyone else. The crippling fear the plane was going to be engulfed in flames? I got over it. I’m not afraid at all anymore. I just started watching young kids around me on the plane. Although most people hate being seated near a toddler or small child because of the inevitable crying, I hoped for those spots. Watching children’s reactions during takeoff calmed me. Babies rarely cared. Toddlers went along playing and were blind to the fact that the engines were roaring, our altitude was rapidly changing, and that stomach-turning feeling of lifting off was upon us. Even more, young kids excitedly pointed out the window, shrieked with glee, or clapped. The naivety of children is refreshing and can be reassuring for someone who is constantly fighting the chokehold of anxiety. Their ignorance is bliss, even for me.

A parallel can be drawn between the reassurance I felt on planes with children and the power of my nephew’s awe, enthusiasm, and undeniable joy to elevate my mood and reestablish some pleasure in the simple things around me. It was impossible to not smile while watching Eamonn (my nephew) totter around stumbling towards things with such palpable exuberance. A stick. The arm of a chair. An old plastic cup. His favorite, of course, the dog. How thrilling!

Even though social interactions are exhausting for me even when I’m not depressed, they come with an inherently wonderful tradeoff: they are able to refill the tank. When they left, I felt a familiar sadness creep back over me. This isn’t as bad as it sounds because it meant that I was afforded a pause from such pain while in their company and some of that goodness and love lingered with me even after they were gone, bringing my baseline up. My takeaway for myself on this one is two-fold: don’t hide from those that love you just because you’re too depressed to be social (it’s worth the effort and transparency) and approach the little things with joy and wonder because life looks even more beautiful and less hostile with those glasses.

 

Is the Sinkhole Escapable?

The beautiful weather this weekend helped wrap a strong rope around me and took me back a little further from the edge of my depression canyon. I can still see too easily for comfort over the edge into the sinkhole, but I’ve got at least one foot on some solid soil. Now I’ve got to harness all my physical and mental strength and pull the rest of my dangling body up onto the ledge.

At the risk of over-analyzing things and scaring this slightly elevated mood back into its shell, I want to consider what made this weekend a little better so that possibly I can identify strategies to keep things trending in this direction. Of course, weekends are always nice because I get to spend much more quality time with Ben and we had fun together this weekend. Unfortunately, the way that our schedules (don’t) line up during the week prevents this from transferring easily to a weekday luxury. The weather was great, and I thrive on sunshine. With the significant limitations of my injury, this is actually a positive and negative. It’s almost more emotionally painful to weather the tease when the warm weather and sunshine beckons me to be out walking, running, biking, or playing outside than suffer through the gloomy, rainy days we’ve had lately; at least in the latter, I don’t feel like I’m missing much. The weather will only get better as we enter spring and summer, so I guess this will be mostly good.

Ben and I had some difficult talks this weekend but they enabled us to make some big steps forward together so I think that feels good. It reminds me that I’m healing. Sometimes progress seems so stagnant and possibly even reversed, but then suddenly, an impressive step is taken and rewards the patience and toiling that was previously invisible.

What else? A few people reached out after my last post about depression and that helped me feel connected and understood. I’m quite socially isolated, so sometimes it can feel like my struggles fall in uncharted human territory: I’m the sole soldier in such battles. Even with others who are far away and whose lives have seemingly little parallel with mine, it feels validating and somewhat relieving to know the struggle is not only mine (not that I would ever wish an ounce of emotional or physical pain on anyone).

Not that much else this weekend was radically different. I just tried to ride on the coat tails of my own inertia and bounce between activities a bit to keep busy and distracted. I also made a list of things I’m grateful for as I strongly believe there’s nothing as powerful as gratitude (outside of love) that can elevate one’s mood. I’ve restarted my daily morning practice of jotting down three things for which I am grateful, even if they are ostensibly small; it’s remarkable how quickly a list of life’s beautiful gifts amasses and that bounty is plentiful enough to keep my head and heart reeling me away from depression’s cliff.