Today is Pride. We had plans to go with a friend to see the parade and walk around the festival.
Then the thoughts crept into my mind. Last night, I was fretting about the hill we’d have to walk up from our car to the festival. What if I couldn’t climb the hill? What if I tripped or fell? What if I was so out of breath from this horrible allergy season that I had an attack while climbing that hill? The hill took on mammoth proportions.
This morning I woke and thought “This will be fun” but in less than a second, the anxious thoughts crept back in. And of course, I didn’t go. I’m sitting here typing this post and drinking cold coffee. Happy Pride, right.
I haven’t left the house in weeks except to drive Laura to work and to run a few errands with her. I haven’t seen any of my friends. No one comes over, no one has time to come over and I get that. The only people I’ve had regular contact with are sources of stress in my life.
I’m struggling to eat again so I have a low energy levels and that feeds my fears of walking distances and up steps and hills. My clothes are falling off me again which adds to my apprehension.
I know intellectually that June is a difficult month for me. My doctor bumped my medication. My therapist and I are working on it. But I recently realized that my grief for my mother is not as healed as it should be. Or I think it should be. And it is stealing away my joy. If I had my druthers, I’d just stay at home all month and wait it out. But losing entire days of my life is sad.
I’m disconsolate. I thought I was improving, but I can’t go to a Pride festival because I have to walk up a hill.
And I’m afraid to try.
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