Date Nights and Dopamine Hits

We are sitting on opposite ends of the couch finishing up a couple of episodes of "our show". It's a nightly date. Together, we like to escape from real life news of murder, protests, riots, and pandemics and immerse ourselves in a Netflix or Prime series that...depicts fake murder, protests, riots, and pandemics.

Yes. There's irony.

After the last episode ends, I gather up my stuff while husband finishes shutting down the house. I walk into our bedroom, and in dismay, realize that I am two hours late turning on Austin's feeding pump. The overhead light is still on, and he is still hooked up to a now empty water bolus bag.

My mood flips and I feel the weight of the fail which I try to defer to husband as soon as he walks into the room. "Why do I have to be the one to remember? Why didn't you remind me? Why do I have to always be the one to keep him on my radar?"

None of these questions are really directed at him. He actually "keeps him on his radar" way more than I do. The questions are mostly a lament at my own selfish desire to get immersed in something without having to think of someone else and the ensuing guilt when I do.

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I wrote a blog post called Rabbit Holes and Carnival Rides the other day. I am really only trying to process all that I am reading on Twitter, to somehow sort through it in my mind and come out with some kind of resolution so I can move on (hence the rabbit hole reference - I just want to have a chance to let my brain run amuck and consider all the sides and angles).

And weirdly, I had almost no emotion when I wrote it. I was merely recording observations about what I was reading in contrast to what I was experiencing with Austin. And sometimes I'm so numb to Austin's stuff, I can go through the motions bereft of the E.

I really thought it was a big fail of a blog post since I didn't feel a huge emotional response while relaying my thoughts. Most of my writing that has garnered the biggest responses where born out of grief spilling out in the midst of tears and anger. The words were a verbal form of rioting. And people liked it.

But after getting my thoughts down, I read what I had written, and thought, huh, maybe that's ok. Maybe it's good. I saw some interesting parallels between what was going on in the world, and what I was experiencing right in front of my eyes. I felt latent emotion while reading it even though I did not experience any specific feelings while writing.

I was curious to see if other's would like it or hate it.

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Later in bed he says, "I read what you wrote, and I'm worried...".

My body responds with a sinking feeling in my stomach, and I feel sick. I've written so much in the past when people SHOULD have been worried. Yesterday's is the last post I thought would cause concern.

He says, "I'm worried about rabbit holes."

And this is why I love him. He knows me in and out, and he knows I have a master's degree at getting lost in thoughts and potentially spiraling into a funk. He tries to help me prevent that. That's a good thing.

Fortunately though, I assure him, that post was not referring to those kind of rabbit holes, but only the desire to follow a thought trail to its end without interruption.

Although, I confess, the reason I couldn't follow a thought trail is because of Austin, and the radar, and this going on 10 years - referring to the ritual of morning and evening of Austin's care. I complain, "I'm so tired of doing the exact same thing every morning and every night."

He quietly comments, "Well, I get up and go to work everyday. I do the same thing EVERY. DAY."

"Oh yeah, " I say. I guess that's just what people do.

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The "I'm worried" thing is why I share, delete, and reshare when posting on my personal Facebook timeline. I never know whom I might be causing concern, or how my words might be taken. I'm a people pleaser, and I don't want to disappoint anyone or make them worry.

So I write. And usually I also post on my Facebook blog page and Twitter feed.

But I post tentatively to friends and family because I certainly don't want to burst anyone's bubble. I wouldn't want anyone to find out that I'm actually NOT a Super Mom heroically taking care of a Medically Complex Kid all the while finding a way to co-parent Two Awesome Adult Boys while simultaneously executing the role of being an excellent Supportive Wife, organized Home Manager, and all around Good Christian Girl saying yes to everything church. I mean, I've worked pretty hard to give that impression on my personal timeline. I'd hate to screw up that perception.

So I could avoid all that. I could just post on my blog and be done and not advertise anywhere that I wrote anything. No one actually follows it and it's rarely found by accident. I would be speaking into the ether, and it would serve its therapeutic purpose.

However, besides the therapy of unloading what's in my head, I secretly, ok - not so secretly, hope I get a response. I hope that people will read what I write, and be like, "I'm so glad she wrote this, because it's close to what I was thinking," or "There goes Rachel again, trying to sort out her head in public...she's so funny when she does that...but maybe she has a good point there," or "I can't identify at all with this girl...she's a freakin' insane idiot, but I sure love her honesty and the way she writes...she's a good Trying Trier Who Tries."

Whatever. Something. Anything.

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So I published it.

First I shared it quietly on my official Facebook blog timeline (Rachel HagEstad Blog) and on Twitter. But neither of those spaces have a very large reach or exposure, and I rarely get responses.

I got exactly three.

And I want responses. Actually, I NEED responses. I need the dopamine hit of getting a response. The best hit is an encouraging comment with, at minimum, people clicking a positive response button.

So like I said, I shared it on my personal timeline, deleted it (because this is going to be friends and family potentially reading it, and do I really want that?), and then reshared it hoping at least someone relates to it and the risk doesn't go south. It's like I'm fishing, and I'm worried I might actually catch something because then I'll have to eat it or throw it back.

Whew, it goes over ok. I got my small dopamine hit, enough to get me through another few days or weeks.

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He walks across the kitchen to kiss and hug me goodbye after his morning ritual of prepping for work, listening to a podcast, eating, showering, and making me coffee. He's been up since 5:30 am? How would I know. I just got up 5 minutes ago.

Mid hug I say, "Thanks for going to work every day so I can stay home and complain."

He smiles and leaves. 

I sit down to consider what I can complain, I mean, write about before Austin needs me.

The addiction is real.