In Sickness

I’ve been out of commission for the past few days because of my period. It honestly wasn’t that bad–at its worst, a 4 out of 10 on the pain scale–but I’m more comfortable with a 0 thank you very much. You go, women who never take pain pills and run a marathon with cramps like it ain’t no thang. I’ll be at home in bed with Tylenol and a brownie.

On Tuesday, I woke up feeling great and tried again to go to yoga. I started cramping during my walk, but brushed it off in my head as nothing. Next thing I knew, I was doing deep-breathing exercises in a very hot room and my body wouldn’t let me brush off those cramps anymore.

Like I said, my cramps were only about a 4, but Bikram yoga itself is a 4 on the pain scale for me!! I had to leave. If I couldn’t even deep breathe, how could I do all the stretches and lunges that Bikram yoga requires? I didn’t want to spend an hour and a half laying on a hot mat feeling sick. So I left. The instructor followed me, asked what was wrong, and implored me to stay. I was mortified but I refused. My body needed to be horizontal in a normal-temperature room.

I hobbled home, got into bed, and pretty much immediately fell asleep. Mind you, this is all happening about two hours after I first woke up for the day. I was exhausted even when I woke up from my nap, but had to pull myself together and get ready for the big holiday party that rented out our whole restaurant that night. (To summarize, I scooped a lot of gelato.)

Yesterday I knew better than to even attempt yoga, so instead I went grocery shopping (which I think will be a daily occurrence until my holiday cookies are baked) and had an intake call with a therapist. I’ve been seeking therapy since I moved to Seattle almost three months ago, and Ben even searched for resources for me before we left Ithaca. It’s been an uphill battle. I generally see the options of $100+ per session, which is completely unaffordable, or a six- to nine-month waiting list, which is presently unhelpful but seems to be the direction in which I’m headed.

After a 20-minute chat with a volunteer therapist at the Psychotherapy Cooperative (they of the six-month waiting list), I was told–no guarantees–that I’m probably an ideal candidate because I’m “articulate and emotionally aware.” Of course I appreciate that, and hope I do qualify for the therapy I think I need, but what about all of those inarticulate and emotionally unaware people?! They need help more than I!

It’s tough to be a grown-up. When I get sick, I still have to walk home. And go to work later that night. Nobody’s making a doctor’s appointment for me. I do still have some basic health insurance off my mom, but I’m afraid to use it in case I do it wrong and get charged, and anyway I think it’s just for emergencies. Where’s my Obamacare? Is it going to cover vision, dental, and mental health services or just basic yearly check-ups?

I have a lot of questions.

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About Emily Suggests

Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother.

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  1. If you’re happy and you know it « Not Ready To Have It All - January 31, 2013

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