A new normal

The other day my friend Kate asked me a question about how I was feeling. I'm so used to spouting out my BP or HR in response to "How are you?" or giving a generic "Oh, you know, been better been worse" or the ever so popular "Fine, how are you?" 

But Kate was more specific. She asked me how I was doing with adjusting to the new phase of all of this. The phase where we've stopped looking for a solution to my syncope and started working to adjust and manage it. Learning to live with it. Creating a new normal. 

I hadn't realized it until that point, but I have been feeling frustrated. When I was first diagnosed with the tumor I was scared, but I was determined and hopeful. I've lost that. In the last few weeks I have lost hope of an independent existence or a normal life without fear of fainting. I've stopped saying "When I get better..." My mindset has shifted from defensive action to maintenance and survival. People have stopped saying "You'll beat this" and started saying "You'll adjust to this."

I coped with giving up Scotland and my internship and my social life by telling myself that there will be other summers to travel, other job offers, other chances. I will get my turn. But will I? 

I've used this blog to keep my friends and family updated on my condition but also to help process everything I'm going through. I've tried to let writing be an outlet for all my emotional phases. It's been helpful to correlate my emotional state with the way I'm writing about it, so when I write my blog posts I try to follow an arch. I start with the questions reeling in my head and weighing heavy on my heart, but then I try to write about the uplifting parts of the story and the silver linings, ending with a solemn but strong step forward. I acknowledge my fears and heartaches, remind myself of my strengths and blessings, and then walk on, not ignoring the voices in my head that challenge and taunt me, but speaking back to them firmly. 

I'm not sure that I can write like that today and I'm not sure that I can feel like that today. Today, my voice, which is trying to speak over the fear and anxiety, is wavering. It is quivering. Today, as I tried to pack to return for school, I kept having to take breaks to rest. I spent more time sitting on my bedroom floor trying to get the room to stop spinning then actually packing. I ended up fainting while trying to put some of my unused bags back in my closet. I couldn't do any of it on my own. 

I can't stop questioning my decision to go back to school. This time last year I was so immeasurably excited to get back to WAC, but even then, in much better health, I was overwhelmed with the beginning of the semester. Last year was hard. I struggled to get through both semesters as my stress levels rose and my health status fell. Now, a year later, I'm in much worse health and I'm not nearly as confident in my ability to conquer the academic year. The voices asking "How are you going to manage this?" are much louder than the voices saying "I can't wait to get back to school." I'm starting a school year, my last school year, already feeling defeated. 

If I had another option, I would probably stay home. But as things stand now, not returning to school would be a sentencing myself to a year of house arrest. I wouldn't be able to get a job or take classes here because my parents work and I'm still unable to drive. My life would be a series of lonely, aimless days and I would undeniably lose my mind.  

Maybe I'll lose my mind either way. Maybe weighed down at WAC, struggling with my immobility and various symptoms, I will go mad with stress and pressure and anxiety but here I will be driven into insanity by the solitary sound of my own ever-so-low blood pressure in the otherwise silent and lonely house, with nothing to work towards and nothing to occupy my decaying brain. 

I guess I just have to pick my poison in my new normal.