You know, at the ripe old age of 44, I like to think that I kind of have my shit together. It’s 100% not true, but it’s what I like to think.

First of all, vacation was last week and, to speak frankly, it was pretty awesome. We didn’t do anything spectacular (zip lining and the Columbus Zoo), but just being able to hang out with my girls was such a breath of fresh air for my soul. Very needed. Very, very needed.

Then, yesterday, I restarted some meds for the depression. I’ve had a psychiatrist for, you know, ever, but I’m quite honestly the world’s worst patient (let’s be real: most nurses are!). I saw her a few weeks ago and wasn’t on anything except for the occasional script to help with sleep. She has been with me through the shooting, the divorce, nursing school, and the entire relationship/end of relationship with G. The woman KNOWS me. She gets me. She also knows that I’m the world’s worst patient and she is equally patient in return. Because she trusts me to know my symptoms (I’ve always been honest with her about compliance/noncompliance, suicidal thoughts, etc), she will often defer to me on whether my symptoms are bad enough to warrant medication.

[As an important aside, much of my hesitation with antidepressants and medications for mental illness stem from the fact that the vast majority have NOT worked for me or have had such horrendous side effects that they aren’t tolerable. Still, sometimes I’m willing to brave the physical discomfort to ease the mental anguish. I think meds can and often are an important part of treatment …. Just like therapy is.]

Anyway, because I’ve really been feeling crushed under the weight of the depression (and I know when I stop showering, stop cooking, stop interacting, and basically become surgically attached to my couch that it’s getting bad), I restarted meds yesterday. The good news is that within a few weeks I should notice improvement. The bad news is that for a few weeks I’m really going to physically feel like poop. Life is about compromise, right?

Speaking of compromise, I mentioned before that I’ve been walking with G. We’ve been talking. Seeing where things are and where they may, or may not, go. Before you send me a message telling me what I should or should not be doing with my life (I’ve already gotten quite a few), rest assured that my therapist and I cover this subject AD NAUSEUM. And she’s a no-bullshit therapist. She pulls no punches and doesn’t hold back. The subject is well-covered.

So this morning on our walk, I had some stuff on my mind. LOTS of stuff on my mind. Gobs of thoughts swirling in my head. For a psych nurse, I am TERRIBLE about expressing the thoughts in my head if I think that said thoughts might bring about a negative response. This is a long-standing problem of mine. It’s why my marriage ended the way it did. It’s why my alcoholic brother was permitted to drink beer at my house. Even if/when my safety has been compromised, I still have had a tendency/strong pull toward silence versus speaking my truth. I’m great in GENERAL with expressing my opinion: in personal, intimate, important, heavy relationships, it’s a completely different story. I become mute. I swallow my feelings and pretend that everything is golden (remember when I blogged about my denial? It’s a real problem.).

To start, I had NO desire to walk today. Scratch that. I had NO desire to walk today with G. But when we first began talking again, we both agreed that we would make an actual effort to see where this would/could go. This morning, then, was one of those moments when I made a decision, a choice, to do something that I did not remotely FEEL like doing because I’d given my word that I would. I got up and drove to meet him for our Tuesday walk. The first thirty minutes or so of our walk, I was quiet. Didn’t say much. In truth, I was battling it out in my head: “Jen, you need to say something. You need to be honest. You need to speak your truth.” versus “If you say this, it’s going to start a fight. You will accomplish nothing. It’s not worth the aggravation. Just swallow it.” And maybe because I’m going to therapy later and I didn’t want to walk in and have to confess a failure, I took a deep breath and spoke my truth. It was not comfortable. It was not pleasant. It was not easy. I did not feel better after getting it all out. In fact, there were some raised voices from time to time. Some uneasy and awkward silences. Some walking a little ahead or a little behind the other person. It did not feel remotely good. I did not feel glad that I spoke my truth. Several times, I hesitated before speaking more of my truth, literally saying to myself in my head, “Just forget it. Just stop. Just swallow it; ignore it; move on.” But I kept on. Occasionally with a raised voice, occasionally fighting back tears, I kept on.

The car ride back to his house (where my car was parked) was in silence. Well, actual physical silence. I had numerous conversations in my head that ran the gamut of swear words to tears to icy detachment. But no words were spoken.

Before I got into my car, I peed. I remained silent. I grabbed water. I remained silent. Then, as I walked out, he reached out for a hug. In that moment, he offered some kind words. In that moment, my defensiveness melted. In that moment, we had a resolution. Not a solution. But some peace. It’s not perfect. It’s not remotely perfect. I still have no idea where it will go. But I spoke my truth today to someone important to me, and IT WAS GOOD. It wasn’t enjoyable. Not even a little bit. But in the end, I knew I’d taken a step outside of my comfort zone. I still have a long way to go (and luckily I have a great therapist to help me get there), but I made a step.

Meds, truths, and resolution. Not bad for a Tuesday. I’ll take it.