Unclench

Andy and I ended up spending at least part of our anniversary weekend starting to go through our kitchen.  There are a number of different things that we’ve held on to, a number of items that had very good intentions but are not used practically or otherwise are not in a place where we can easily get to them.  There’s one cabinet we refer to as “the black hole,” one of those corner cabinets with a tiny door but a lot of space, the kind of space where things go never to be seen or heard from again.  This tidying process, therefore, is two-fold:  we’re clearing out different pieces that we don’t actually use and we’re reorganizing the things that we do.  Thus begins the analysis of what we need, what we want, and what we’re actually going to use and putting it in a place that has the best functionality. 

I have two modes—there’s treasure mode, where I want to keep everything because it has a story, and there’s purge mode, where I am happy to remove anything that I haven’t used in the past week.  Understandably, we seem to get the most done when both Andy and I are in the latter, and we’ve definitely started that direction.  In my brain, I’m approaching the process with “what would I be upset to end up unpacking if we were to move?” 

This is easy in some places—the extra microwave can find a new home; the rollerblades neither of use can be donated; the dresses that are a size or two too large can be donated, too.  But I hit a wall when I went into the bathroom.  I have a stock pile of medical supplies.  IV sponges, topical analgesics, tape (about six different kinds, actually), gauze, sterile saline, “chucks,” wraps, pre and post surgery soap, and a number of other things, stored away in Styrofoam container that once shipped my temperature-sensitive medication.  The container itself was well-organized, lines of different sizes of gauze and items tucked away neatly, and it was normally high up in the bathroom cabinet, out of the way but ready when needed. 

I pulled it down this week and actually started to look through it.  Some of the saline was dated back to 2014.  While I don’t expect saline to go “bad” in the same way as I would other things, I recognized that I genuinely did not have need for it right now and clearly had not in over four years.  But it was still harder to go through that bin and decide what I should keep than it was to go through than any part of my closet.  Hell, this is even the second or third time through some of these pieces.

I can unclench my fist.  I can let go of some of the plan C and plan D options that I’ve kept. 

When I get sucked back into my trauma vortex, one of my main responses is to freeze.  This makes sense—I was in many situations where I could not move for safety’s sake, whether it was holding still to allow for the precise placement of a needle or a stitch or simply because everything hurt too much for any movement to be “safe.”  I’ll still move my arms and legs, but my torso will stay as immobile as I can possibly manage.  My therapist has suggested trying to, if I feel safe, do some movement, try a couple of small stretches just to remind the muscles and consequently myself that it is safe to do so.  I can unclench.  The fist that I didn’t realize that I was making; the particular flexion of both of my feet even as I’m “relaxing;” a clenched jaw and tightened temple; the breath I didn’t know I was holding; I can let those muscles relax.  I don’t have to steel myself all the time.

And it’s scary, to try to move or allow those parts to relax when my instinct and training has been to stay frozen to protect myself, to isolate my torso to prevent more pain, prevent more damage.  In thinking out how to describe this, I am consciously wiggling in my seat more than usual as I find myself locking up again, needing to remind myself physically as I try to work through the emotional element of remembering what it feels like to be in that space.  It’s not a nice space.  There are certain images that I immediately go back to, certain places, specific sensations—a particular series of stretches in my torso help me remember that I’m not there anymore, ground me where I actually am once again.  I’m learning to listen for those indicators.

Digging through my old medical supplies, sifting through old medical paperwork, it happens to put me back there, back in those unwanted, dark places remarkably fast.  It seems weird to hold back tears as I’m dumping out the partially-used bottle of sterile saline or squirting out the remains of the pre-surgery soap; this required pausing from time to time, a few careful body rolls to remind myself that it was okay to move, and a fair bit of mental coaching just to empty this damn box.  I kept parts of it—gauze and tape are always useful—but I cleared out most things that were specific to the worst of my medical disasters. 

It was time to let these pieces go.  It is hard to convince myself that it is safe to do so. 

I have four (five?) of these little red pillows (pictured in this post) that I received after each abdominal surgery, an object used to apply positive pressure against sneezes, coughing fits, and laughter so that any new stitches would hurt a little less.  I wanted them partially to have them around the house in the event they might be needed again and partially as a pride factor, that I had earned these small consolation prizes through my sufferings.  I’m still keeping one, but I don’t really need the whole set.  Shedding these when I had honestly needed them in strategic locations around the house is hard, too.

Even after that major sifting, I know that there is more that I will still go back and get rid of, that this will be a continuing process trying to find the balance between being prepared and being paranoid.  I give myself permission to be afraid of falling apart again. 

But, I can in the meanwhile downsize my full pharmacy to a corner store.