I can tell from yesterday's post, that the lack of Abilify is affecting me. And we head into winter, swiftly now. The night is cooler than the apartment when I open the window. The zinnia bronzes slightly and furiously sends out more flowers.
I bought some tomatoes on the market yesterday, which cannot be trusted. It's been too wet of a summer to think these pretty things have come from this area. They are too clean to think they have come out of a local garden. But their scent is right for tomatoes and they taste only slightly watery.
I am up extra early this morning as I have run out of a medication that helps me sleep, trazadone. But I look forward to this crisp day with all the enthusiasm I can muster. The grass is more yellow than it has been, but crisper in the morning sun. The emerald color is gone, and the tomato plants, as well. I wait for the maple's leaves to turn. The unicorn meat eating cats vie for my attention along with the cat statues on the dresser.
You and I both know that I can write about the beauty of fall for pages, but the abilify withdrawal effect has me concerned. How seamlessly life was for a time! How serene and uncomplicated! Now, I look at winter, and the sum of my fears, and how endless it seems.
I cannot have a repeat of last winter, whatever I do. I can't shut the world out for days on end, and survive. I can't go back to that kind of insanity. So I must make plans now. I have a routine in place that needs some attention. Back on omega 3's. More sunshine, even in the cold. Vigilant about my therapy and group. Time blocked off for friends and loved ones. More faithful about attendance at AA meetings...
The revisit of the Old House has burned my brain. I will rebuild and cultivate the wood and the field, so that it matches my memories. I need to erase the picture in my head of the house as it stands now, and replace it with my memories freshened. For some reason, the past couple of days, it has been easy to envision my Mother, as she truly was, well and not grieving. 3 years after her death and I can hear her voice clearly now. I can feel her love and her soft arms around me.
I can also pick out the parts of my personality that I don't like, that were shaped by her. My need for approval, and my codependency. My need to do for others without thoughts of taking care of myself. An overwhelming inability to just Let Go and Let God. The creep of the spastic thoughts of micromanagement that come with OCD. And, despite my love for her, my passing regrets about being raised by a mentally ill mother.
It's the time of year to make 'her' beef stew. The days where the welcome warmth from the stew heats the stomach. The days where it can be frozen, in anticipation of a busy evening. The days of the wind, and the eyes in the wood, and the last flowering of lavender.
Today is therapy day, and it comes at the right time. I do not want to drink, neither do I think of cutting. And this coming Monday is my reading at Liminal: An Alternative Artspace. I will post the Youtube link, when I have it.