WEAK AND PROUD

And then, suddenly, it finally happened: the crisis moment where I couldn’t stop crying my eyes out and feeling dreadful. Oh yes, there is no denying that. The big low, counteracting the massive (medicine-induced) high hit me like a truck on full speed, and there was nothing to do but just release all the emotions I was feeling.

I have a confession to make: since I was feeling absolutely great, I didn’t exactly spend my days recovering, taking things slowly, resting and just “go with the flow”. No no no.I have been out and about, I’ve been working (yes…), I have been doing basically everything I was not exactly supposed to even entertain the idea of doing. I was feeling great, so why stopping?

damn he is right

Well, I tell you why, because once all the medicines wore off, and all the “high” from the morphine etc left my poor body, I felt like dying. My brain and body clearly told me under no circumstances to attempt doing anything at all or face their wrath. I kept pushing myself, thinking “naaaa, it’s just momentarily, I’ll be fine” and guess what? Of course, I ended up not being fine. Actually, I ended up crying my eyes out, feeling dreadful, mentally and physically. I could barely speak (I’m bilingual, and I struggled with both Italian and English!), barely move, I felt like thinking and moving in slow motion compared to the rest of the world. I couldn’t do it. My boyfriend was trying to talk to me about work and important stuff, I could barely look at him and hearing his words, but not “listening” and understanding a single thing he was saying. I had to ultimately stop everything and confess I was too weak.

THE TRAGEDY

I said it millions of times how much I HATE to expose my weaknesses: over years of depression, suicidal thoughts etc, I hid all my troubles under a mask and pretended everything was ok with the rest of the world, because I was surrounded by people who, for whatever reason, could not handle by any stretch of imagination what was truly happening with me. It made their life easier and my life easier too: no explanations to be given, no dramas, no listening to stupid advices (“maybe you should get a walk and have some fresh air” because of course, depression can be cured with air and trips to the park, right?), no bullshit, just (fake, in my case) quietness all around.
I didn’t want this to happen this time. I didn’t want to hide again, pretend all was ok and sulk in a corner full of negative thoughts, so I did the most obvious thing to do: I told my boyfriend “I am too weak, I really need a break. I need to stop thinking and doing, I need to just rest”. It was so hard to admit it and ear my voice saying those words, but at the same, it was also the most liberating thing ever. I started crying in his arms, feeling like I just had a massive weight lifted from my shoulders. I couldn’t stop! And you know what the best part of this was? Instead of all the past reactions I had from various people from my past, I had a big hug, a kiss, and cuddles. Everything I needed. No questions, no talk back, no lessons, no explanations. Bliss!

It took me years, but I finally managed to understand this very simple concept: there is nothing wrong to be weak. Nothing. Zero. Nada. It is absolutely ok. Of course, having zero self-esteem, I thought that if I showed to the world my weaknesses, I would have been outcasted even more and “unloved” because I couldn’t handle everyone’s shit as per my usual self. Now that my self-esteem and self-care is high, well, I don’t care if people sees me not at my best. For fuck sake, I just had a very complicated and problematic surgery procedure, my body is all focussed on healing and recovering from this major trauma, if someone has a problem with this they are more than happy to do one and fuck off. Weakness is actually part of the healing process, it is a sign from the body that needs you to just do as little as possible so all the energies etc can be used solely to fix what has been “broken”, and believe me, my shoulder has seen better days than these.

So yes, I am weak. Big time weak. I’m so weak I feel I can barely function above survival level at times. My brain is less foggy, yes, but still, I can’t really focus too much or dig deep into work matters because, when I do, the rest of my body shuts down to cope. To give you an (hilarious) idea of it, I have noticed that if I experience very strong emotions (be them anger, frustration, happiness…) I become so, so, so desperately tired that I can barely keep my eyes open. One evening my boyfriend and I were discussing stuff, and something upsetting from the past resurfaced which made me very annoyed and angry: well, as soon as these feelings took hold of me, I had to lie in bed unable to move, like I just got paralysed in order to process what was happening. Such a weird thing!

I owe my body respect and care. I beat it, disrespected it, hurt it and being careless with it for way too long. I don’t want to allow myself to slip back to the old ways, those days are long gone. Besides, should I be silly and disregard my body’s signals and all the medical adviced I got, I’ll fuck my shoulder up again and… put it this way, I am in no mood to piss my orthopaedic off or visit a surgery theathre anytime soon!

So, more resting and relaxing, no more superhero silliness!

“HELP ME” SEEMS TO BE THE EASIEST WORD

I didn’t expect to be able to say it so soon after my surgery, but I’m feeling and doing great. It’s only day five post-op but it feels like day twenty. The pain is next to zero, I weaned myself out of paracetamol, my range of movements is progressively improving, my brain is less foggy and I’m mentally doing just fine. Yes, I tend to get tired quickly, I feel like I’m running on battery saving mode, but to be honest, after what happened on Monday, it is fair to say I better thank my lucky stars that this is the only “annoying” thing I’m experiencing.

I told my therapist “this surgery will be a very good challenge for me to see at what stage I am with my mental work, what things I still have to work on and what progresses I made” and I was so, so right. I can’t help but keep referring to what happened with my previous surgery two years ago, because at that point in time I was in a very dark place mentally: I wasn’t suicidal anymore, grant you that, but still, I was a very damaged, depressed, self-hating woman with now an elbow sliced up and so much frustration that I could have exploded there and then. I was alone at the hospital, alone before the procedure, alone afterwards, alone during my endless recovery, I was negative, I was not making the progresses I wanted, I kept doing stuff I was not supposed to do with the passive-aggressive mindset of “See? I’m doing this shit even though I’m supposed to be in bed recovering” in the hope that, I don’t know, someone thinking “aww…..poor Silvia” would have helped me: of course, I would have never “lowered” myself to directly ask for help, and even in the remote chance I’d receive some, I would have never allowed the helper to do anything because “I am doing JUST FINE!”. I know, I know, what an absolutely stupid way of thinking. I worked during my medical leave with that same mentality and when I went back to work I felt like I was punished further for something that was not my fault. Oh, and should I mention that I ignored anything my then physiotherapist said to me? No wonder why recovering felt like a total burden instead of a chance to be physically better.

This meme cracked me up big time

You cannot begin to imagine how grateful and happy I am that I had all that psychotherapy under my belt before this surgery. I am on a whole different planet this time round. I surrounded myself with love, affection and positivity, there is not a moment I am alone facing any difficulties by myself and, most importantly, I am allowing myself to be cared for, something that has never happened before; I’m trusting others to do the right thing for me, I’m not only letting them help me when they volunteer, but I also ask for help when I’m stuck. A year ago, all of this would have never, ever be even remotely possible, because I was the rescuer who helps others in order for them to love me, and who never, ever, EVER shows how weak she truly is, so she puts up with any shit with a fake smile on her face (and moaning up a storm). Now, not only I have accepted the fact that I can be helped, and it is just normal, but I went a step further: I let an extremely vulnerable and embarrassed me be lovingly bathed by my boyfriend after he took me home from hospital.

As I said in my previous entry, I fainted on the anaesthetist. Well, the truth is that during my first anaesthetic procedure (I had to have the nerve on my right shoulder blocked and my arm numbed before being put to sleep) I felt incredibly sick. Gosh, I thought I was about to vomit my stomach up. I was sitting on the bed, with a mega needle stuck in my shoulder, and the last thing I remember is my anaesthetist rushing up saying “don’t worry, is fine, now we’ll lay you down” whilst I moaned “gosh I want to vomit….”. When I opened my eyes, I was in the recovering room with a lovely nurse taking care of me. I felt great (good old morphine!) and, to be pretty honest with you, at that stage I didn’t give a remote fuck of what happened in between the moment I closed my eyes and the moment I re-opened them.

I discovered, later in the day, that they saw in the monitors that I was not doing great (hence why they swiftly made me lay down) and that I was about to pass out big time. Apparently, when that happened, I hardly bit my lip as well (funnily enough, it is still more painful than my shoulder!). The anaesthetist had to bring me back, stabilise me then put me to sleep again. In addition, my surgery lasted a bit longer than expected: once my surgeon got his needles inside, he discovered that my shoulder was actually waaaaay worse than expected, so yes, it didn’t go all roses and fairy tales as I hoped. Yet, despite all the scary things and issues, I looked at the physiotherapist telling me all this tale thinking “who cares! Am I fixed though? YEAH!”. Two years ago? I would have probably have freaked out and felt paralysed by fear.

When they rolled me back in my room, I looked myself in my phone’s camera and I realised that I looked like a vision from hell: my face (and lip!) was swollen and sticky, my hair was messy, I had my arm in a sling (what the fuck?), I smelled of sweat, medicines and… well.. pee. Soon enough I realised I was sitting in an absorbing pad, and by the, ehm, wet feeling on my poor bum, I think I may have had a moment or two of incontinence during my ordeal.
Guess who was the first person who saw me like that? Yes, the last person on earth I wanted to ever see me in those conditions: my boyfriend. Thankfully I was still too high on morphine to cry and feel so embarrassed to call the nurse and beg her to put me to sleep for good.
It felt so good (and funny) to see that he saw past my frightful state to only see the usual me in front of him. He cracked me up with few jokes, helped me getting dressed and took me back home like I was just “normal me”, and not a smelly zombie from a horror movie, and this caring, loving attitude is what made me confident and trusting enough to let him help me to wash myself.

I know, it sounds very stupid and basic, but I’m telling you, when you feel so vulnerable, sick, tired, unable to move properly, embarrassed etc one of the last things you’d like to do is to strip naked in a bath and let someone wash you, especially if, like me, you have a life history of being plagued by self-hate, zero self-esteem and a billion body-confidence issues. To me, it was a great big deal. I remember talking about it with my psychotherapist and how uneasy the thought of “having to surrender to someone else and be helped – including being bathed and fed” made me squirm and feel unease, at best of times. Yet, there I was, in all my extremely vulnerable glory, in the hands of my hilarious and caring boyfriend, who not only gently washed me head to toes with a warm wet towel, combed my hair, dressed me up in a clean pyjama and made me feel (and look) like my normal self again, but that also made me laugh till tears and feel just fine about whatever was happening, breaking my mental barrier of “this is so wrong, you are never supposed to see me like this, ever!!!”. What a weird thing to think: in reverse, I’d be doing exactly what my boyfriend did to me, without even blinking an eye, so why should I feel that being at the receiving end of some love and care in a difficult time is something that it’s not ok? You know when they say “in sickness or health”? Well, now I got the hang of what it really means and letting him help me without reserves not only allowed him to prove what a tremendous, incredible man he is, but also brought us to another, better relationship level, I feel.
I would have never been able to see that before since I would have never allowed anyone to “be my hero” even if I wanted to: I would have rather spent my time smelling fowl, being miserable and nagging all the time at anyone who dared to listen to me.

Ok, ok, I have to admit, I had my rebellious moment when I took advantage of one of his lazy mornings and I cleaned the kitchen top to bottom, but then, once the “I’m a warrior yeah look at this” moment finished, I had a laugh and went back at taking this recovery time as easy as possible. There is nothing I have to prove, to anyone. It’s fine if I’m not ok for a while, it is exactly as expected, so just chill dude, ok?
My next steps now are resuming psychotherapy on Monday (believe me, I cannot wait to sit on my therapist’ sofa to tell her all about what happened so far) and starting my shoulder rehabilitation on Tuesday. I can’t wait to be in a condition where I can hit the gym again!

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

I am back at home as I write. My surgery went very well though I have been told I fainted on the anaesthetist after he gave me a nerve block for my shoulder: all I remember is feeling very sick and then, suddenly, I was with a nurse in the recovery room!

Anyway, all is ok, my recovery starts now. Thanks for all the kind messages, I truly appreciated them!

Lots of love,

Silvia

SURGERY PARTY INVITATION

The dreaded letter I was waiting for has finally arrived – my hospital admission confirmation is currently in my hands, together with few forms that I have to fill and send back to finalise the whole thing. Even if the envelope was plain and anonymous, I recognised it as soon as I saw it. I must admit, I opened it with a very heavy heart: I knew that, the moment I had that paperwork in my hands, the whole thing would have been immediately more “real” than before.

The wonderful Spire Harpenden Hospital, my home for the surgery day

Now, not only I have a date, but also an admission time which, by the way, it’s 7:15am, like… seriously? Do I need the pain of waking up at 5am on top of the pain of going through this? Jeez…. And then, no eating from 2am (fine, I’ll be sleeping anyway, I hope) and no drinking from 6am. I can already see myself awake at an ungodly hour in the night, hugging my coffee machine, unable to go back to sleep, sipping espresso whilst trying not to run to the airport and hide in some remote island in the middle of the ocean.

I am honest here, I feel slightly less brave than when I shouted “BOOK ME IN!” on my surgeon’s face few weeks ago.
Ok, to be truly, truly honest, I’m crapping myself with fear as we speak. I still am 100% wanting to do it. I don’t have a choce anyway: I have to do it, don’t get me wrong, my shoulder is bad, my movements are substantially impaired on a normal basis, let alone when that frigging bursitis decides to be even angrier than average; at my company’s party I have barely been able to get dressed, and after dancing like crazy, the next day I woke up in a world of pain. The pain wakes me up in the middle of the night, multiple times, and there is so much paracetamol I can take. I need that shit out of me to go back to lead a normal life, no questions about it. However, having said that, I am quite…. Anxious? About the whole thing. Yes, I’ll be in amazing hands; yes, I’ll be spoiled rotten; yes, I’ll have all the support, mental and physical, that I’ll need; I know my surgeon and his team will be on my side when I’ll freak out. But… but yeah, it is not exactly going to be a spa retreat, right?

Filling the admission paperwork triggered a variety of weird feelings.
Have I got a next of kin? Yes, my son, but he’ll hardly be answering the phone, chatting to a hospital about his mum… so I suppose the answer is nope.
An emergency contact? Ehm…. Nope.
Any adult or carer that will help me when I come home? Aaaand again no.
Have I got any phobias or fears I would like to discuss? Dude, I need more than a little text box here….
Anyone that will sleep in my house the night I’ll come back to ensure I’m safe? Aaaaand no, no and no. No. I will be alone before, during and afterwards. Just like last time. There is nothing I can do to change this situation, so I’m not even moaning or crying and pulling my hair. Plus, the last thing I want is someone wandering the house, annoying the shit out of me: I’m kind of looking forward to a week of me time, ass glued to my bed, having a threesome with SkySports and BT Sports (and, sometimes, Eleven Sports when AC Milan is playing), doing absolutely nothing but chilling. I plan to stock my freezer with ice cream and I’ll do everything I can to make the most out of this forced staycation.

Having said that, let me shout it loud and clear: what a pain in the ass this thing is. What a frigging pain! Seriously, what the hell.

Yes, at the moment my brain is taken over by the child in me, who is having quite a good moan about the whole thing. You know what? it’s fine. I don’t want to bottle up these feelings. Writing them down is making me feel better already. Suppressing feelings is very similar to when you need to go on holiday and you overfill your suitcase: you sit on top of it, you push as much as you can till you close it, and just when you think “yes, I did it” BAM! The suitcase explodes, and your shit is all over the place (if you are wondering: been there, done that). There is really no point of ignoring or trying to push these feelings as far as I can away from me. The more effort I put in trying to get rid of them, the more importance I allow them to have, so I just stand back, observe them, acknowledge their existence and then, once the storm has settled and the tantrum is over, the adult will take over again.

Schumy in all his glory, currently chilling on my pillow

I am very anxious (ok, scared as fuck) about the anaesthesia, in particular. The thought that I’ll be put to sleep fills me with horror.
And yes, I don’t want to do this alone. I would LOVE to be rolled back in my room and find a friendly face there, waiting for me. Or some flowers. Ora little card. Since I know there will be no one, I plan to go there with my Ferrari teddy bear Schumy (I suppose I don’t need to explain his name, right?) to pretend I have company. Djeezus, I sound like I’m a desperate nutcase here.

You know what I was thinking? Maybe I should order myself some nice flowers – not a box of chocolate though, I am a pain in the ass when it comes to chocolate – and maybe some other little treats for when I will be back home, in the comfort of my bed. Last time I bought myself a very cuddly blanket, but for this time, I may opt for an ultra-soft pyjama. I have at least two weeks of pyjama catwalks, I might as well make the most of it right? Yes, I know I have the Dollhouse photoshoot to look forward to, but in the immediate “I’m in pain, I hate the world, I feel so lonely and sad and miserable and I can barely scratch my arse” panic, I will have something that will cheer me up a bit. Sounds a bit pathetic, I know, but do I give a fuck? No, not really.

So, any recommendations for a post-surgery treat? 😉