It’s the day before my first maintenance ECT, or the sixteenth little spark. “Meet the Press” is on the television, but I can’t seem to pay attention even though the two Davids, Axelrod and Gregory, are having a lively conversation. Instead I’m looking at my hands.
I’ve completely chewed up my nails. They now look like the fingernails of a five-year-old, short and stubby. With the rough edges, they probably accurately display the level of anxiety I feel but I don’t readily admit to having. It’s quite embarrassing. As much as I try to never show publicly any semblance of that tension, the condition of my now-nonexistent nails along with my rough hands reveal the truth.
I guess I’m more scared than I say I am. Just how much more, I don’t know. I wonder how I’ll feel about it tonight.
Anyway, what did I do this weekend to distract myself from thinking about Monday’s treatment? Go on date night, with myself. Hours before the show started, I drove to the nearest Ticketmaster outlet to purchase a single ticket for the show, and last night I went to see Bill Maher at the Ryman Auditorium by myself. It was the break that I needed, to just be transported into that world of political humor, profanity and sex jokes. You won’t be thinking about ECT while you watch Maher pretend to hump numerous objects. He was quite generous with the time; the show was nearly two hours long.
The high from getting to see live one of the comedians whom I watch weekly has mostly worn off (at least it’s not the haze of alcohol), and my mind is clearly zoning back into thinking about tomorrow.