A series of transitional experiences buffered with liminal doughnuts

Tubing the Anxium...

I've reached the point in Covid recovery where my body is still tired much of the time but my brain has enough energy that it resists sleep. I let it go for a while, but I am shifting almost completely to my purely nocturnal form and that really isn't sustainable with the things I wish to do with my time. Last night I stayed up extra late, then I got up at my new usual time. My plan was to refuse naps of any kind and get to bed early.

This is clearly why I am essaying at 0312 rather than sleeping.

See, I've been tardy with the estate stuff because I've been sick. Understandable. Then it was Thanksgiving. Understandable. And then I procrastinated a week. Today I made a totally doable list and scheduled myself time to work in the functional workspace that I've been putting together with all of the documents and tools that I need to do the work.

I even built in a time limit for working so that if the time ran out and there was still stuff on the list, it would be done another day.

I got showered and ready for bed and then got distracted. It happens.

When I finally got into bed I felt my body waking up and then ramping up and when I noticed that I had shifted into Internal Family Systems mode and was comforting myself I figured out that I was having a lovely anxiety attack.

So, I've gotten up and taken my acute anxiety meds and I'm essaying at you while I wait for them to kick in.

See, I've totally done all of this paperwork, made these calls, gotten amazing support, and been completely surprised at how easy it was and how kind everybody was. But that doesn't matter. Having the proof of lived experience that this can be easy and even friendly doesn't make me a whit less terrified that something is going to go horribly wrong and I'm going to get yelled at and kicked out of my home.

I guess that pushing myself to do Dad's estate stuff was easier because I started it right away while I was still dealing with the immediate aftermath and the horror of the realization that I was now the “man of the house”. Mom being gone mostly means that I feel that I have Fewer responsibilities instead of more. Given a mission I focus like a laser and butch through every obstacle. Given a completed mission I diffuse and refract off of every surface.

Still, I suppose that many people deal with intense emotions after the death of a mother and probably don't knock out all of the paperwork in the first week. Death of a mother plus debilitating virus probably justifies another couple of weeks. It's been a month today and... seriously, nobody has yet yelled at me when I've asked for help in dealing with post parental death paperwork.

And, you know, if someone did yell at me? I could practice acting and cry at them. I hate to use manipulative faux tears, but knowing that I COULD do so as an OPTION feels comforting to me right now as I navigate the turbulent waters of the Anxium.

I have the skills that I need to navigate this work. I can ask for help. I can portray strong emotion on demand. I can also portray curious friendliness and gracious acceptance of help. In the past month I have been researching potential SNAFUs that may be in my path and all of them have proven to be paper tigers.

It's also possible that the one month anniversary of her passing is triggering some feelings, and the evidence of security and safety in a home of my own with Spouse and I spending a lot of time together doing things we love together is triggering my PTSD and sparking that feeling of “waiting for the other shoe to drop.” I would consider both of those to be entirely normal things to happen, if someone else described this experience to me.

Shall I extend the same consideration to myself? I think I shall.

I think I'll head back to bed now as I notice the absence of irritability coursing through my blood. There are reasons that I feel the things I feel and think the things I think and I deserve just as much kindness and consideration as any of those things.