Medicating Grief

It's pretty dumb that I am actually posting an entry today. Today is the six month anniversary since the death of my father.  I've spent the entire day on the computer and in my jammies. So many plans to make, emails to write and to respond, JESUS: it was like having a office day. At least I was at home and in my pjs. Finally made plane reservations for our trip to CT to do some final things with Dad's house: the attic and the garage. Okay, that and the wine collection, the hundreds of books,  the china still in the cabinets...I think it'll just be the two of us, K and I. And frankly, I'm a little on edge today.

I have, like many others going through the deep process of grief, wished for something magical to help take the emotional pain away. But there is also physical pain associated with this process.  We are traumatized. This is automatically reflected in how the body works, how it responds. Is it wrong to seek out meds that may mitigate some of this suffering? God, no. But should we rush to medicate ourselves? No. And we certainly should not take to self-medicating with alcohol, food, recreational drugs, reckless behavior...

I saw my doctor the other day, and told him about the spikes in anxiety I've been experiencing even though the more traditional elements of grieving seem to be lessening. All I have to do is see a list with more than a few items on it, and my heart races, I start sweating, and I can't think clearly. I feel stupid and crazy. Well, his reaction was to have me try a new anti anxiety med.  It's called Klonopin, for those of you interested. *Disclaimer: my physician is a great guy. He listens, responds, and is always willing to help with pharmacology as well as more holistic approaches* However, in my short experience with clonazepam, it is not for me. Firstly, I was a zombie, literally for four days. A stupid zombie. I feel asleep in yoga class with NO warning. More like passed out. Missed the whole class. I was a danger behind the wheel,  I slept like the dead during the day, and then could not sleep at night, finally falling asleep as it was getting light out. Which brings me to my next point. My life does not normally allow me to sleep until 11am and yet....there I was, several days in a row. Thank god it's summer time and I'm not teaching. (Karl couldn't wake me up over the weekend)  So today, I also missed yoga (it's at 11am), which I know may sound whiny, but it's a big part of my overall wellness and has really helped with the grief process. And so the decision was made. I am calling the doctor tomorrow to let him know I plan to discontinue Klonopin and staring again with the Ativan, which works well enough with NOOOOOOOOO side effects. I just have to work harder at dealing with the anxiety spikes.

As you might imagine, I did some research on Klonopin (clonazepam), and it is usually prescribed for people with bi-polar disorder. I have not been diagnosed with this disorder. I really bristled at this.  I may feel crazy as I go through all this grief stuff, but I feel remarkably certain that being zombie-fied is not the healthiest way to go about the healing process. Is this my doctor's fault? ABSOLUTELY NOT. He was trying to help me because he knows I'm going about this process in a largely drug-free manner: sitting with and experiencing bone-crushing sadness, fits of crying, and then more  positively, drinking lots of water, exercising every day, and choosing positive things to do each day. So I'm thankful he was so willing to try and help me.

Okay, so where  am I going with this? I just made reservations to fly back east to finish up my dad's house. The attic, the garage. Flush of anxiety, flush of fear. So much to arrange, so much to *touch*. This is hard. I feel the energy of my dad in his things. Even still. The watch of his I have, his rings, his photographs. I"m afraid of what we'll find in the attic. Not like bats or mouse poop or anything, but memories. His handwriting on ancient boxes. Seeing what he has saved, what he thought was important. I have to be honest when I am there: what was important to him may not be important to me. This may kill me, but I am going to try and stick to it.  And then there's the garage. All important things to him. He was a DIY guy. He was a sentimental man. The thought of emptying its contents into a dumpster may crush me. No, I'm pretty sure it'll crush me. That's where I hope our hired man will be able to come in to help. He is the man my dad used to do lawn and yard work. I hope, HOPE, having him there will help.

I am incredibly hesitant to call my sister. I really don't want her there for this. She'll bring the kids --there is no tv, radio, internet or phone at the house. She'll be worried about their sadness, as I would be, and then she'll be distracted and not work. This happened in February. And my brother-in-law? Banned. Banned. I will not have him in my father's house after he barely ever visited him while he was alive. So he will not be welcome in this final process, which he will view as a "shopping opportunity." I will say this to any face that opposes me. I am fiercely protective of my father's house and his things. They already have his beloved Mustang. The brother-in-law has, literally, shouted belongings he wants while my sister and I were talking on the phone.  I have a lot of anger toward him. I think he used my father, took advantage of him because he is the father of my dad's only beloved grandchildren.

Ooh. I"m in a toxic place. Gotta sign off to decompress. This  post did not go where I thought it would.