Recovery blows. Like, for real. I’ve been in some foul moods.

I mistakenly thought this would be the last step in my journey. I think most people thought that. I realize now it isn’t. It isn’t the beginning, or the middle, or the last giant mountain to scale. It’s just another damn step I have to take (among a zillion steps) in figuring out how to care for this dysfunctioning body of mine. The effect of this realization feels like a vacuum sucking all hope out of my tired body.

Here we go with another cycle of emotions again: frustration, anger, depression, hopelessness.

My insomnia is back. Old friend. Saved ya a spot next to me on my bed.

The week after surgery I was sleeping 12-13 hours per night. So that became my new standard. I was overexcited and formed expectations that are not being met now. Throw in a sour attitude and you have one pissed off girl recovering from a laparotomy.

The “in between” stage was my happiest. It was the end of April to the beginning of July (in between my 2 surgeries), and was the best I’ve felt in a decade. No pain. No worries. I was also on heaps of hormones. My body does well with hormones.

Man. I really miss ’em. Dr. Mangal has taken me off of the Lupron and birth control until I see him this upcoming week for my post-op, and I feel like he’s taken my life away. Now, my daily symptoms consist of really intense hot and cold flashes, stabbing intestinal pain, nausea, crying, migraines, bowel issues, early satiety, and an overall sense of discomfort that is so aggravating I want to scream.

I can’t even meditate. I lie down, and instantly I’m cold, so I get a blanket. 30 seconds later, as I’m settling in, I get a hot flash and have to throw the blanket off. 2 minutes after that I’m cold again so I leave the blanket where it is but put socks on. I settle in. Everything seems calm, then I’m slammed with a migraine and another hot flash.

I take smalls walks, watch Netflix, read books, magazines, stare at the wall, get lost in my thoughts, wander from one end of the house to the other, organize my soundcloud and spotify playlists, cook, curl my hair, paint my nails, try to master cat eyeliner, look up recipes for things I can’t eat but want to cook anyway…anything to take my mind off of my body.

I’m frustrated. I don’t want to see anyone or talk most days. Most days are bad days. I’m arguing with my parents a lot, which is a rare occurrence. The problem is me. It’s my attitude. I’m angry because my body isn’t performing like I expected it to, and…I don’t know…maybe there’s a little bit of resentment against myself too. I want to step away from my body and yell: “I’ve done all of this for you!! Why can’t you just meet me half way and function? What the hell is wrong with you??” I feel like screaming and throwing in a few fallopian punches for good measure.

Temporary. Temporary. Temporary.

Right?…..

And here it goes again –> back to acceptance and surrender. I always always always find myself back here.

Time to remove my expectations and accept what is. I begin to ask myself questions like, “How will I handle it if this is my life from now on?” Will the universe form a new life to accommodate that?” I let the questions hang in the air, while I stand back and watch everything I’ve held true about my life crumble. I’m fine with that. But I’m waiting for something new to show up in its place.

Again I decide to unclench my jaw and relax. If my body doesn’t want to sleep until 5am then hey, whatever. If I can’t ingest anything but chicken and water, whatever. I’ve got two more seasons of An Idiot Abroad to watch anyway, so I need the time. Again, I throw out my timelines of when I should be sleeping and when I should be feeling better.

I made this attitude change last Thursday, and I’ve been significantly less woebegone since. Don’t get me wrong – I still feel like bulldozed shit. But this is my “health sabbatical” my friend Boka said, and she’s right. So I suppose feeling like shit is only natural.

Any movie or show recommendations – send ‘em my way. I got nothing but time.