Well, isn’t that just lovely? I managed to hit some mystery key sequence that deleted the work I’d already started on this post. Given my current streak of writer’s block, maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. Or maybe it’s just another opportunity to stare at the blinking cursor and mutter expletives at my laptop.

 

It’s been a pretty crappy week—and not just because of the colonoscopy prep. I’ve been spiraling in regret again. I know it’s unhealthy. Everyone knows it’s unhealthy. And yet, here I am, stuck. My therapist’s words keep bouncing around in my head, and as I sift through my mental inventory, I can’t help but admit she’s right. Unfortunately, even acknowledging my pride as part of the problem just… wounds my pride. So that’s a fun little loop.

 

I’ve been trying the mindfulness tactics she recommended. They work—for a little while. Things settle, I feel calmer, and then a random reminder blindsides me and we’re back at square one. It’s exhausting. It’s wearing me down enough that my depression has spiked. Withdrawal has been the biggest symptom—sure, I leave the house for essentials, but otherwise, even stepping into the backyard feels like too much.

 

This all ties neatly into my Master’s thesis research on how pain affects mental health. The connection works both ways: chronic pain can worsen mental health, and declining mental health can crank up the volume on your pain. It’s a classic Kobayashi Maru—no-win scenario—so the best you can do is mitigate both. Mindfulness, while not a miracle cure for chronic pain, can help your mental health, which in turn can make the pain easier to manage. Unfortunately, a lot of providers miss this link entirely.

 

The tricky part is that as my depression worsens, my regret intensifies. My therapist was right again: I have to unpack the emotions underneath it all. And what I’ve found is a heavy stew of embarrassment—about the situation I was in, my inability to handle it, how I look now post-strokes, and the mountain of unresolved issues from years of domestic violence.

 

He was never thrilled about me getting bariatric surgery, even though he knew I needed it for my health—high weight, borderline diabetes, the whole metabolic syndrome package. Instead of saying “don’t do it,” he fixated on how it would inconvenience him. Meal prep. Grocery shopping. The fact that he’d have to adapt. I wasn’t often allowed to cook, and when I did, he’d critique my meals like he was auditioning for Hell’s Kitchen (he hated that show) . I’m fairly certain he snuck in ingredients I wasn’t supposed to have.

 

He’d tell me I “cheated” my way to weight loss and that I could’ve done it with willpower. Except, no—I was medically in a place where my body chemistry made that nearly impossible. The surgery brought my labs into normal range within a week. Meanwhile, toward the end of his life, he was gaining weight rapidly. Honestly, I think he’d just stopped caring.

 

The verbal and psychological digs weren’t limited to food. Let’s talk about one of the less glamorous side effects of my surgery: the poop. Big, daily, and… potent. With the duodenal switch, nutrient absorption changes, and so does odor. I couldn’t shower it away fast enough to escape his commentary about how I “always smelled bad.” It destroyed what little self-esteem I had left.

 

So here I am, prepping for a colonoscopy and hearing his voice in my head, mocking me. A friend stopped by last weekend, and I warned them: “I’m doing bowel prep. It smells awful.” It was meant as a courtesy, but the fact that I even needed to issue that warning shows how deep those scars go.

 

Even after the abuse ended, the effects linger. Narcissists love to toy with people who have PTSD, and the damage doesn’t vanish just because they’re gone. The best I can do now is keep practicing mindfulness, keep leaning into healthy distractions, and keep moving forward—however slowly.

 

On that front, Fallout therapy is still working wonders. Fasnacht’s nearly over, which means no more hourly events, and honestly, I’m ready for the break. There’s comfort in battling fictional enemies in the Wasteland instead of the ghosts in my own head.

 

Remember: your dog and your mom love you. They’ll help you fight your real foes.