Not making excuses, but there are reasons at the root of my grumpy. I can check off damn near every box on the life stress list during the last six months.
Biggest stressor lately is the car accident in June, which led to the injury, which became a hematoma, which has been more ouchy than I wanted to let anyone know, which has led to an ER visit and three visits to a wound specialist.
The mother of all bruises is healing, but it left a hole in my leg that will not require a skin graft but will leave a scar.
This will be the first summer in my life I won’t be able to get in a pool. Because no one wants a weeping wound in their pool. Understandably.
And I still don’t have my car back. And the insurer — it rhymes with Miberty Lutual — hasn’t paid a dime toward the thousands of dollars of medical bills I’m racking up and won’t return my calls.
I left my temp job because the hour-long commute each way was sucking the life out of my soul and might have been causing a little PTSD.
My two oldest pets now have chronic illnesses. Emotionally I am preparing for the possibility we may lose them both this year.
Yeah, lots of fodder for the grumpy mill. Actually, I passed grumpy and wandered into downright irritable while on vacation, which *should* be the time when run from stress straight into the loving arms of fun.
Adding to the downward spiral, I haven’t been able to exercise since my injury. Without the exercise endorphins, my emotions have been craving all kinds of calories — taking “eating my feelings” to an unprecedented level.
Overeating because you can’t exercise is kind of like treating a gunshot wound by stabbing it with a dirty knife.
In other words, depression and anxiety has totally trashed my summer.
But I have to remember depression is a dirty rotten nasty lying son-of-a-bitch. It whispers all kinds of negative shit into my brain. And the best way I can tell depression to STFU is with positive self-talk.
Plenty of people think that talking to yourself is in itself a sign of mental illness, but I’ve always maintained that if YOU don’t like talking to yourself, how can you expect anyone else to enjoy your conversation?
Plus, depression is already a mental illness, so for me there’s no shame in adding another layer of flavor to my emotionally fucked-up mental soup.
So this week I’ve been reminding myself of all the good things I have going on in my life and, while not denying that there’s some serious shit going on up in here, I remind myself that Bob Marley eloquently sang, “Every little thing’s gonna be alright.”
How can you argue with Bob Marley?
My leg will heal. It will take as long as it takes, but I’m getting excellent care and eventually it will get better.
My car will eventually find its way home, probably before my leg completely heals.
I will find a job that is emotionally satisfying, blends well with my family time and makes the best use of my talents and skills. Eventually.
We have an elderly dog and an elderly cat who are both facing some health challenges. We will do the best we can for them. We will not let them suffer for even one minute. They both enjoy happy lives with lots of love and, with the right meds and food, they may have a few more good years.
Every little thing really will be all right.
*In a twist of irony, just as I was about to hit “publish” on this post about positivity in the wake of a crash, my blog crashed. Fate has a harsh sense of humor.