Nuclear Fallout: The Aftermath

"Nuclear fallout or fallout, is the residual radioactive material propelled into the upper atmosphere following a nuclear blast, so called because it "falls out" of the sky after the explosion and the shock wave have passed. "

  Seems very apropos given the enormity of said nuclear blast.

The blast:  In the span of 4 years we lost two children, my father, my grandfather and now my father-in-law.  Along with numerous friends.  During that time we weathered financial instability and unexpected crises, emotional upheaval and an increase in our property taxes.  We overcame insecurities about our parenting, our jobs and lost countless hours with AP Chemistry and grid-lock on I-10.  We acclimated to life without those we lost and built up defenses for the potential loss of another.

We made checklist after checklist and then checked again. We picked up the proverbial pieces and thought we had gotten to a point of recovery.   We mapped out phone tree after phone tree, devising an "escape plan", something to better prepare us to cope with grief, loss and the inevitable chaos that would ensue.  Agonizing hours upon hours on how to prevent another blast we failed to realize the damage left behind.

Because what we didn't do was prepare for the fallout.

The fallout:  In my infinite wisdom, I decided in the midst of this to change companies.  I needed a change of pace, I was stagnating at work, and I was tired of being underpaid to do the work of others who were paid more than me.  Classic working tale.  What I didn't plan for was 22 days after starting finding out my routine physical wasn't so routine.  One diagnosis later and I was facing thyroid treatments and cold backless hospital gowns.

I won't bore you with the details, but three months later and I felt we were beginning to gain some sense of normalcy.   I was beginning to get back into the groove, but I couldn't shake the sense that something was off.  Chalking it up to a lifetime of doctors' offices, hospital beds, IV drips and ice chips, I still felt as if I was wading through mud.


That "mud" turned out to be so much more than I can wade through.   With a new  life altering diagnosis and new meds and new symptoms, the "mud" threatens to drown me.

And so it is that this phase of my life which I like to dub "the FML chapter" began.

This chapter is my rock bottom. This chapter is our fallout from the blast.  And for a recovering addict, you'd think I would be prepared.

I wasn't and am still not.

 I wasn't prepared for the inability to maintain "normal" routines like wiping my own ass,  braiding my daughter's hair or sitting through a baseball game for my son.    When your brain is fried to the point where every encounter involves someone asking if you're high or drunk, and you barely have enough function to write these words, it's difficult to keep up the act.

You know the act.  The one every woman is required to assume their part.   The inevitable assumption that this too will pass or how this is one more responsibility I should have as a woman, a mother, a wife.


When all I want to do, can do, is pull the covers tighter and turn the lights lower.

Even if it leaves me smelling like depression.  Because what's wrong with admitting defeat? With being honest with yourself and others that you are not ok.

And that's ok.


What isn't ok is the building resentment and anger I harbor for the people in my life who don't understand or don't want to understand what the fallout of all these things means long-term.  What isn't ok is having to explain, justify and argue for my mental and physical health.


One of my favorite words used to describe any situation is 'fuck'.

If you know me, it is probably one of the first things that pops to mind if you are asked to describe me.


  It is synonymous with both love, hate, anger and excitement for me.  It's the one word that can hold a significant weight. It isn't a word I use lightly; each utterance is meaningful for that situation.

I just happen to have a lot of meaningful situations where it applies.

And that's ok for me. Think of it like a safe word I use because the alternative to shouting 'fuck' is a complete loss of all faculties.

The only alternative I face is death. And that doesn't do fuck to help me.


Four months ago my biological father told me I was fighting for my life and I owed no one an explanation or apology.

Of course coming from one of my worst critics, a person who's volatile degrading parenting skills leave me confused with Daddy issues to the 10th power, I took it with a Costco-size grain of salt.


Fast-forward 2 months, and I literally was standing right where he told me I would be.  Only it's like showing up with a knife to a gun-fight.

And yes, he's one of those who takes the time to gloat with their 'I-told-you-so' grin.

However, Daddy Dearest forgot to mention that the amount of people who have already bet against me.

From the so-called "friends" who grow uncomfortable around sickness, death and their own mortality.  Their calls were the first to stop.   Then there were the nosy co-workers and lookyloos whose feigned compassion almost had me fooled.


But their calls stopped too.  Not before their snarky judgements brought rumors of drug addiction, breakdowns and outright accusations of the validity of my health. Or lack thereof.


It's surreal how many people lack compassion, understanding and the basic knowledge of autoimmune diseases.

And these fuckers were my friends.  If this is what I faced when things weren't all Pollyanna-sunshine-and-roses from the people who loved me, imagine what the rest of the world was like.

FUCK. 

All the Lexapro and Cymbalta produced by big pharma didn't prepare me for when these thoughts started to consume me and I found myself Googling medically-assisted suicide states and double, triple-checking the fine print of life insurance policies.

It didn't prepare me for the guilt and shame I experienced talking about it with others.  We are taught over and over again to internalize the pain, the anguish, the unknown for fear of others reactions, society's judgment.

To make it go away.  To make it better.

Everyone's a mental heath advocate as long as you don't talk about it in public or in private or at all.

So this is my stance, my confession, my anthem.  This is me talking about it.

 I am suicidal every day. And it isn't going away anytime soon.


 And it doesn't make me crazy, unstable, a bad mother, a broken person.

It doesn't make me ungrateful for the amazing family and friends I have.

It makes me human.  And right now the world could use more of those.


I don't write this because I want sympathy or empathy.  I write this for the others like me, the ones fighting a silent battle of any kind, the ones who feel like nothing goes their way, the ones
who experience pain and loss and they don't move on or bounce back fast enough.


The ones who too find they can't talk about it.  Or aren't supposed to.

This is for you.

For the friend who struggles with her own health issues, her child's and trying to climb that corporate ladder; for the friend whose wit and humor can only deflect from the pain of daily injections and tiny test tubes because realizing motherhood might take her a little longer; for the friend who lost his beautiful wife and sense of purpose and doesn't know where to from here; for the friend who resigned herself to a different version of life with the loss of her husband; for the friend who feels he won't ever realize his professional dream and equates that to failure as a person; to the friend who feels like they aren't good enough and suffers from whatever it is in silence.


Because it is ok to not be ok. And you deserve to hear that.

We all have our nuclear blasts, and while the fallout may come in different forms, it's fallout all the same.


I like to try to put my big girl panties on because it is quite possible this is temporary.  The threat of foreclosure, repossession and a wheelchair are only my life now.

But then it might not be.   This may be my happily-ever-after and somehow I have to find my footing, develop better coping mechanisms and a winning lotto-ticket to survive.

But I am here today, nuclear burns and all.


My problems don't define me, but they sure as hell are going to try.


Sometimes I have a grip and sometimes, like today, I don't.

We should all be able to speak up when we don't without fear of judgment and scrutiny.


The cleanup:  This is the next chapter for me.   This part involves doubling down on medical options, working my treatment plan, Coinstar visits and dodging debt collectors and Fannie Mae a/k/a Navient.

This part involves setting goals based on realistic expectations which can mean 5 days in bed with one shower and cold pizza.  It may equate missed school plays in lieu of PT/OT and everything else being medically disabled can bring.

This part brings mid-life crisis pontifications of faith, loss and love.  It also means purging my life of anyone not conducive to my well-being and letting go of the guilt.

This part it a lot like recovery.  Only I'm not dreaming of 8 balls and white lines, but days without canes, walkers and $50k IV drips.

And I just got to white knuckle it a little longer. Or at least until I can't anymore.


And that's ok too.