Thursday Thoughts: Write What You Need to Read

Content Notes: Anxiety, Depression, Hospitals, Medical Trauma

“I notice you haven’t posted lately…”

“Did you get this?”

“Hope you are well!”

I’ve been pretty quiet (online and otherwise) since my last post in April. If you haven’t heard back from me, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to say. Then my phone broke, and I lost almost everything: all my photos, all my contacts, all the well-meaning text messages I never replied to, and it was almost like without the evidence, I could pretend this year never happened.

If only.

You may have seen on social media that I had an NSTEMI heart attack in May. In other words, a heart attack caused by inflammation instead of a blockage. They’re still not sure what caused it. Was it stress cardiomyopathy, aka broken heart syndrome? Was it viral myocarditis from whatever sickness I had the week before? Was it a reaction to the antiobiotic that I was prescribed?

“You’re so young!”

“We don’t usually see people your age.”

“Would you say you’re under a lot of stress?”

I was back to work full-time a week afterwards, despite feeling breathless, scared, and more tired I’ve ever been. My discharge instructions: Drink water. Eat a heart healthy diet. Exercise. No explanations for what happened or why, or what to expect next. No follow up appointment for almost three months.

The cardiologist didn’t fill out my official leave paperwork until nearly a month after the attack, leaving me unprotected at work. I had a note saying I was supposed to be on “light duty”, but instead I went on summer reading school visits. I can’t believe I never fell asleep at the wheel driving my 48 mile commute home every night. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I kept going.

My body begged me to stop. My heart fluttered around in my chest like a trapped butterfly, wiggling like a worm on a hook, lurching like a missed step. I tried taking walks. I tried listening to birdsong to reduce my stress. I tried listening to ocean sounds to help me sleep, but night after night I woke in a cold sweat, heart racing.

I tried so hard to put my broken heart back together. I couldn’t do it.

I coudn’t stop crying. I sobbed for hours at a time, clutching the ache in my chest, scared I was having another heart attack. I cried so hard I gave myself bloody noses.

“Work seems like a significant source of stress for you.”

“Get out of there!”

“No job is worth your health.”

The thousands I owed for my three day hospital stint hung over my head. I couldn’t just quit. I was the sole provider and insurance carrier (my partner having had a bad mental health breakdown earlier this year). I just wanted to go home — or even better, go back in time so that we never left home and moved to Oregon at all.

But time only moves in one direction.

Or so they say. If that’s true, why does it feel like I’m still hunched over in that hospital bed, barely breathing, curled around the knife in my chest? Why does it feel like I’m flat on my back on a cold table, looking up at the surgical lights, wondering if this will be the last thing I see?

(I know why. Once a trauma brain, always a trauma brain).

“Wish you were here!”

“Miss you!”

“Want me to come out?”

(I do, I do, but I don’t want you to see me like this)

Flash forward to this fall: new meds, new therapist, new library (still in Oregon). I’m a youth services supervisor now, if you can believe it! I can’t. This year feels surreal.

I don’t know if, or when, I’ll be able to blog about the really cool stuff I somehow did during those dark days this year. Thinking about it hurts. I don’t know if, or when, I’ll be able to blog about all the library stuff I’ve yet to share from happier times in Colorado. Thinking about home hurts, too.

I still don’t know what to say to you, my friends and followers. Instead, I’ll write what I need to read. Maybe it will resonate with you, too.

You are not alone.

You are loved.

You can cry.

You won’t always feel like this.

You are more than what you do.

You are enough.

You matter.

You are here.