Pre-breakfast blood sugar: 206
Pre-dinner blood sugar: 191 (Movin’ on down!)
Breakfast: sausage and a couple of bites of chocolate muffin (I certainly don’t need the whole thing, but I kinda have to eat what the almost-2-year-old shoves in my mouth.
Lunch: Leftover pizza (3 square-cut slices) and a container of cinnamon applesauce.
Snack: Some leftover bacon. And a fun size pack of M&M’s.
Dinner: Smoked sausage, green beans, and rice.
Good news: I remembered to take my meds, and even renewed them for when Jeff’s paycheck hits Friday we can pick them up at the pharmacy. And I emptied my stocking without going on a candy-eating spree (I know my kids don’t need it, but it’s in their stockings now; besides I don’t like white chocolate to begin with).
Bad news: This is totally a comfort food day. Since the fun and excitement of the new year has died down, though I intend on giving much crap to the gay man that grabbed my boob, and am fully prepared for the recipient of the drunken proposal to give me crap about it all year long, I still have lingering feelings of the pre-New Year’s tear-inducing trifecta (I’ll spare the details). On top of that, my kids have a cold, I found out when Jim left for out-of-town via social media, and Jeff’s been grumpy, but all of those are totally manageable, though not helpful.
A friend shared a link to The Bloggess’s brave and spot-on post about her latest battle against depression. And then the unresolved anger about my own battles hit hard. I, too, battle depression from time to time. I first started therapy in my teenage years, when my first thoughts upon entering a room where listing ways I could end my life right there with objects in the room. I continued therapy unto my college years, and even begin antidepressants (SSRI’s like Zoloft). They were all nice and good in the whole keeping me from ending myself, but there were times when I wanted to cry, and had good reason too, but I physically could not conjure up the tears. Nor did it fix the constant environmental source of my suicidal tendencies. In the past few years, I’ve been examining my life, trying to determine the environmental source(s) of my depression and fix the problem, instead of treating the symptoms as I have for many years. (Yes, I do know I could have the dosage or type adjusted, but how much trust do you put in a doctor who’s just seen you once, and hasn’t asked a single question about your mental health, but just writes a prescription for Zoloft at the drop of a a single tear? Clinical depression is supposed for last for 3+ weeks; busting out in tears tells you nothing along those lines.)
Today marks the 6 months the major source removed itself from my life; well, since there may be legal action I won’t mention names, but this have been too much of a controlling influence on my life. What do I mean by “too controlling”? Well, let’s just say this past holiday has been the first holiday in all my 29 holidays where I’ve actually gotten to buy presents without getting anyone’s permission other than Jeff’s (since, after all, I’m buying on his behalf and he’s master of the household budget). My choices for both colleges and college major met much a heated debate; I’ve even had arguments about my minors. I spent a night in the ER days before my grandfather’s funeral because of a throat injury (yes, I was forcefully choked to the point of having trouble breathing hours later); all I did to spark such a thing is demand to take my child home. Neither Jeff nor I got to choose how we were going to decorate our bathroom, or plan major points of our wedding. I’ve gotten threats because I refused to take my newborn out in the freezing cold for the zoo’s holiday light display, and tantrums from grown, otherwise developmentally normal, adults because when I did cave into the zoo threats I wouldn’t make him wait in long lines to see Santa. When I followed my own gut and the advice of several pediatricians as to the care of my kids, I’ve been dragged down to the floor by my hair and beaten in front of my child. I’ve been continuously censored from the other people in our circle so this source couldn’t be ashamed of me. When I’ve not been feeling well and I just mentioned it in whining, they’ve entered my home and taken my children against my will. They already insisted that my children would receive the religious education I don’t want them having.
So when they decided they no longer wanted me, I took the chance to flee. A few days later when they changed their minds, I wasn’t ready to come back and asked for time (time still not received). While as of late they haven’t contacted me much, they have certainly manipulated people to come after me, something I fully expected them to try. What infuriates me is those who fluff off my abuse, to insist that I go back to that state of subservience, because “they’re good people”? What kind of good people beat someone with the cordless receiver of a phone not in defense? What kind of people say things so purposely hurtful to drive a pregnant woman to attempt suicide? What kind of good people celebrate someone’s miscarriage, shoving their joy in the face of the grieving mother? Is it not abuse unless I can carry a photo of a bloodly and bruised self?
We cut out cigarettes, fatty foods, drugs, etc., because they are bad for our health, and often receive oodles of support. Why is the support not as readily there for those who cut out toxic and manipulative relationships? They are just as bad.
For those of you who have triumph against depression and/or emotional abuse, I salute you for tackling one of the hardest challenges of my life, one of which I believe I’m at a hard point right now. For those who do support those people, whether you hold them for many a tearful night, help them learn to live and make independent decisions, or just listen: Thank you.
Now, if they could only make cheap, fast, easy, carb-free comfort food. 🙂