Precarious

I am finally recovering from that nasty virus, although my mental state is still a bit dodgy. I'm still having some problems with random anxiety attacks and my brain feels like Swiss cheese. Keeping a thought going or concentrating on anything is a no go.

Yesterday I had my monthly appointment with my psychiatrist and today I saw my therapist. My poor brain had a hard time keeping a conversation going. Fortunately they both know me well and were patient. But we were able to communicate a couple of issues.

First, my mental state is very precarious, more so than I thought. I have been doing quite well and the mix of medications I am on right now is doing me a lot of good. I am by no means "well" - whatever that means - but I have been stable, even with the surgery and the pain associated with it. Then all it took was a virus, with its sleep disruption and vomiting, and I was pushed to the edge. And I really was at the edge. The only thing that kept me from falling into full-blown psychosis was 30 years of experience of keeping my mind wrapped in mental duct tape. It was frightening how being sick physically could push me so far off  balance. I thought I was solidly on the cliff top, at least a few steps from the edge. Instead I found out I have been on Angel's Landing trail where it is only a couple of feet wide and there is a 1,000-foot drop on either side.

Second, I need to put provisions in place for when I get that sick. When I was barely clinging to reality because I was vomiting and had horrible welts and hives all over my body, I should have gone to the ER. I know this now looking back at it and my psychiatrist and therapist both agree. But because I was having a mental break, my paranoia was fully flared up and I truly believed that there was absolutely nothing any doctor could do for me. I was on my own. In other words, when I'm that sick, with my autoimmune diseases flared up and my mind going haywire, I can't trust my own judgement. And now I am angry not only at myself, but also at my parents for not suggesting I go see a doctor. Logically I know I can't blame my parents, after all, I told them I was fine and knew what to do. But logic doesn't always apply. And I have decided that I will have to talk to them about what to do if I get that sick again. I sincerely pray that it doesn't happen again, but I can't count on that.

I am still tired. My body is just worn out and my brain is still fritzing. And I am scared. I am terrified of heights, and I am even more terrified of falling. I don't like learning that my solid ground isn't so solid. I just want to feel safe with myself.