Three Days

On Friday, I posted this. It was difficult for me to write, and I hesitated to put it online, but everything in it is true, so up on the blog it went. It was picked up by one of my online heroes, Rosalind Robertson (follow her, she’s amazing), who reblogged it on tumblr and was kind enough to comment on it. 

Now, I should point out that at that point, my blog had been up all of three days. I’ve been longing to write for years but was too intimidated. Depression lies, and mine kept telling me that I had nothing of value to say. That my words are worthless, just like I am. 

For once I didn’t listen, and the post was greeted with so much empathy and support that I wept with relief and, frankly, disbelief. Here was the kind of support and understanding that has been absent in my day-to-day life. Although I wish there were not so many people out there struggling with depression, I find a bittersweet solace in the thought that at least I’m not alone. None of us are. It’s a clichéd sentiment but profoundly true.

On Friday night I slept, soundly, for the first time in weeks. It wasn’t uninterrupted sleep (shout out to interstitial cystitis), but it was restful. I woke on Saturday feeling calm, a far cry from my typical waking state of panic and fear and self-loathing. I wasn’t magically cured of my depression, but it felt manageable for the first time in a while. 

The sun was out after a few grey, rainy days. I made whole-grain blueberry pancakes for my family. I relaxed in a ray of sunshine and drank my favorite herbal tea. I sat on the sofa Saturday night and laughed out loud while watching tv with my spouse. Saturday was a good day, by my standards.

Around 3 a.m. this morning, I got out bed for the fourth or fifth time since falling asleep close to midnight. When I tried to stand upright, I experienced such searing, agonizing pain that I had to lean against a bookcase for support. My abdomen felt like I’d been stabbed with a hot blade. I started crying involuntarily and, honestly, rather angrily. To paraphrase my favorite author, the late and incomparable Sir Terry Pratchett, what an embuggerance.  

From great day to fully realized IC flare in 18 hours.

There’s something to be said for what chronic illness and/or physical pain can do to your mental state. But I’m all out of words right now, at least those of the SFW variety.

Three days. 

What a ride.

Again?

I have to pee. A lot.

Actually, that's not an accurate statement. I have to pee frequently, but rarely in great volume. Let's define frequently, shall we?

On a good day, it's at least once an hour. I haven't been to a movie at a theatre for at least three years.

On a not good day, it's every 10-15 minutes. I can't even sit through a single sitcom episode on Netflix without having to pause it. Marathon binge watching? None for me, thanks!

Also on a less-than-great day, during what's referred to as a flare, my abdomen swells up and I look pregnant. Sometimes this is accompanied by stabbing pains or tenderness so very acute that I cannot bear for anything to touch my skin. I can only wear large, loose clothes that make me feel like a less sassy Nell Carter.

I know where the restrooms are in almost every shop, shopping center, mall, big box store, grocery store, and restaurant in Greenville. I can tell you which ones are tidy, and I actively avoid patronizing establishments where they aren't.

Oh, and more to the point, I do NOT get to have as much sex as I'd like.

To compound matters, this is not really the type of thing you can politely tell people about. So if you're at work, people murmur when you have to leave your desk, AGAIN, for the third time in an hour. If you run into an acquaintance, you have to explain that, no, you're not expecting. If you're enjoying the holidays with family, you have to endure laughing jibes about your tiny bladder.

But those things happen when you feel like leaving the house at all, because on a really bad day you feel completely exhausted and frail, too.

All of this is due to a little-understood and largely untreatable condition called interstitial cystitis. It's my own little "hidden" disability, and it isn't going away.

But I'm making the best of it. I parody popular songs, improvising lyrics about my need to pee. I own more nightgowns than I used to, which my husband loves. I'm far more conscious of and sensitive to the potential "hidden" needs of others. I've become a better advocate for my own needs.

And I'm a whiny little bitch from time to time, too.