skip to main |
skip to sidebar
I have another sinus infection. I went to the doctor yesterday, and they were baffled by it. So of course I began to feel responsible, as if I had done something wrong.
The doctor can't figure out why I have another infection, so in my head this is what
happens:
-- that means she thinks I'm making it up
. . . except she said my throat was red and covered with drainage
-- that means she knows I'm just seeking attention
. . . except she suggested sending me to an asthma specialist
She gave me a hug after we finished the exam.
-- does that mean she pities me?
. . . it could mean she likes me, and that's why she said she was glad to see me, but sorry I felt so badly.
Abuse does weird things to the way I process everything. All people are suspect. Motives must be investigated to find ulterior motives.
And when I am sick that just adds another layer to it all. Yesterday there was a resident shadowing my doctor. She seemed nice, but she doesn't know me. Did they talk about me after I left? Did she wonder why my doctor hugged me? Did she think I was malingerer?
Paranoia. One of the usual signs that I am actually physically sick. Most of the time I can keep it in check, but when an infection wears on my strength, the paranoia sneaks back in.
So for today, I'm taking my medicine and resting on the sofa. I'm drinking lots of water, and trying to settle my racing thoughts, while really hoping and praying that this round of antibiotics does the trick.
Blessings!
linking up with imperfect prose
I lost it yesterday.
In the kitchen with my husband and son.
The anger, hurt, tired, and frustration of the past few weeks hit the breaking point.
I yelled. I screamed. I may have used some profanity. I slammed cabinet doors and shook my finger in my son's face.
He'd been home from college for just about three hours.
The good news is that I feel better, and they could take it. They seemed to understand on some level, and it doesn't upset them when I yell. Especially since it's not their fault. Actually my son laughs and tells me how to fix the problem, and my husband (a little more experienced with me and anger) cracks a wry grin and nods his head -- a lot.
Once I got past their amusement at my frustration, I found it was rather freeing to tell them how I was feeling. I was even able to laugh along with them at some of it.
We made a plan and clarified some confused communication. I reminded my son that, even though his brain works just like his dad's, my does not. I don't have their genetic make up. Plans must be clearly verbalized. (They are not unlike dealing with Spock on Star Trek. Logic is king.)
So this morning I have a list and a plan. And when that list is dealt with, I'm switching gears to do the things that are important to me. With no guilt.
Maybe the paranoia, exhaustion, and anger will take a break for awhile anyway.
Lord willing.
linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays
