When I was a Wiccan, I associated myself with May First. A.K.A. May Day’.

May Day is the celebration of fertility and growth. It’s the symbolic shedding of the cold and listless winter returning to life. It’s often associated with the birth of lambs, children, and dancing around the May Pole. You know – that’s the tall podium thing that would have long ribbons attached to it. People, particularly young girls, would dance around it and weave these ribbons into a braid that covers the pole.

May Day is also an international day that recognizes and celebrates the work of laborers. These are the people that do the bulk of the work, often underappreciated, and nearly always undervalued. But, yet, they do the work. They put in the time. It’s a non-Hallmark Labor Day with a deeper meaning. Well, at least for me.

When I was in elementary school and a good portion of middle school, I was in love with Dracula. Not the movies or actors, but what Dracula’s character represented. Classic. Ruthless. Commanding. But he would share himself by extensively recollecting his history to a near complete stranger – Harker. His history and, beyond that, Dracula’s view and survival of his past made him who he is.

I felt that he knew others thought he was a monster. That he was broken in some way. But he thrived on it.

Harker’s first journal entry is May third. I’m sure there was some sort of connection – master plan. But I ever really looked into it.

Spring (and fall) have always been my favorite seasons. The life and the death. The two extremes. That fits nicely with what Dr. S thinks of me and my favored D&D character alignment are. I’m black or white. I don’t care for exploring the gray or the wish-washy. As Yoda says, Do or do not – there is no try.”

Once I embed myself into the black or the white, I have an insatiable thirst to learn more in as much detail as I possibly can comprehend. I become a bit dangerous. A well-informed person who (hopefully) has a non-biased knowledge base that can argue and defend a specific point with unbound stubbornness.

It’s where my Taurus side – unrelenting, stubborn, – meets Gemini. The jack of all trades but master to none.

This is also the month I had my back surgery all of those years ago. The anniversary of that is coming up as well. Another year of being part cyborg. Of the constant pain. But still walking and still, some how, surviving while attempting to thrive. Maybe thrive. Hopefully. In some small way.

So, the month of May has always had a special meaning.

And, wow, did I really mess this one up. Already.

On May First, I met with Daniel over at Centerstone. He’s some sort of psychologist. Hails from California. His parents are from El Salvador. Married, although he never talks about his wife. One daughter, that I know of.

During our meetings, he pulled out a white board and even used Google Earth to look at my little dead-end street. Those are actions that a shrink hasn’t done before and I found them impressive. Like he was trying to take a real interest and learn instead of me being just another client on a conga-line of daily clients.

He brought back a ghost. One that I dread and has all but defeated me multiple times – intensive care. This is the psyche ward. Selah House. Multiple weeks in the hospital and trips to the ER. The Charsis Center.

It’s a very very very sensitive area for me and, one that I thought or rather hopeful, that I had bypassed. No one had mentioned anything of that nature to me for nearly half a year. Not since I stopped seeing the Charis Center shrinks. Not since I was passed to Daniel and Kara went on leave for her child’s birth.

But, here it is again. He said it. If he had his way, I would be institutionalized or some sort of intensive care until I became ‘whole.’ Or brainwashed again, I guess.

All I did was trying to be honest and shared. I told him that I was anxious about completing yard work. Anxious that I only have one class, not two, and my income will be halved for the next couple of months.

I told him that I caught sight of myself in a Bob Evan’s mirror and didn’t like what I saw. I was trying to share and ‘be real.’ I guess I wanted to be vulnerable – just a little. And that’s his job.

Maybe by my stories, that he could apply or reinforce his own methods to help someone else.

———- But, no. Instead. More. Psyche. Ward. Or something equivalent, was his answer. So. um.. yeah. The whole fight/flight kicked in.

Not happy.

Then, yesterday, May the two, I had a unique trial. My body is starting to use the Synthroid at the same levels as what it was using the Armour Thyroid. That was as a steroid. That causes bone loss. Lack of sleep. Depression.

For the last two tests it was 6 something. This last one double to 11 something – nearly 12. And, bless this doctor, instead of just increasing the medication more and more until some sort of satisfaction is achieved, she wanted to know if the body was actually absorbing it.

To do so, she needed three blood tests. A before and two afters, to get an idea of how much is absorbed when.

I never had a test like that but I can understand her logic. I want to encourage it. Most doctors seem to just throw drugs until something hits. It harms the patient’s health, feeds Big Pharma, and cultivates a victim mindset.

These are blood tests.
That’s three blood draws within six hours.

I am ** petrified ** of needles. I hate them. I accept that they’re a necessary evil and have taken strides to reason my way through this fear.

Shane, the senior medical assistant, was um… had other ideas.

The three blood draws became six needle gouges. He was only successful in drawing the required blood twice. By the end of it, I had ran out of viable real estate to be exploited. The back of my hands and various places on my arms sported band-aids and purple koban.

It happened in a small room that could barely handle a chair and computer. Jason, my guardian, couldn’t be in there to calm me.

Instead, he paced the hall and even more to my shame, listened to me shriek as Shane hit nerve after nerve. As he moved the needles around under the skin trying to puncture the veins.

Six. Times.

Even worse is that the ordeal happened over six hours. To monitor the absorption, the draws needed to happen over the course of a day to provide data on how effective the Synthroid is.

Poor Jason had to be around me while my anxiety continued to increase after each Shane session coupled with the already heightened WTF from the threat (or perceived threat) of being placed back into a psyche ward.

I was… am? quickly falling back into the dark space. The mental amusement park of chiefly desperation, self-disgust, and self-loathing. That dark space that was unescapable for multiple months last year.

I am a twisted monster in that space. I’m Dracula without the self-worth. Self-disciplined enough to keep myself there.

Jason, playing the hero…or maybe a hero… attempted to support me and took care of the yards. Without much of a quibble or quabble.

I so needed that. I needed him to pull that thorn from me. The desperation about not having the strength to start the mower. The mental support to keep me from falling into the dark space.

Mom supports. The sister supports. But Jason has really been shining through. Maybe I’ve undervalued him for years. Maybe he has always been this supportive and strong.

Or, maybe, it’s something that’s developed. A muscle of some sort.

But I’m glad it’s there and, although I’d rather not – I would rather return to the normal (for me) person, it’s going to be a while.

I think – hope – I have the capacity to be there but just getting there – the journey which is supposed to be the most viable and valuable part – is my challenge.

And, right now, I don’t have enough to do it myself. I don’t trust myself to do so.

I need him.
I need my family to support and nurture.

Maybe, through this season of fertilizer (hopefully organic fertilizer which would be sh*t – literally) to grow again.

Just, don’t abandon me.