Tag Archives: anxiety

Wish You Were Here

I can’t post videos and this is lame but Wish You Were Here (by Pink Floyd and only Pink Floyd by personal preference) is playing on repeat right now and for some reason I thought someone might give a crap.  I will never post about music again (by personal preference).

Oh yeah, and one more:  Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen.  Totally probably most likely overused but understated all at the same time.  Okay, now I’m never going to post about music again (personal rules that don’t apply to anyone else – I’m totally okay hearing about music likes, choices, etc., etc.)

Sometimes I have really strong convictions about very specific things even though I have no basis for really strong convictions about very specific things.  Like flu vaccines.  I don’t want one and never will and there is absolutely no logic nor explanation nor reason behind this choice.  (These tendencies drive my sisters nuts.)

I feel a strong conviction to express all this in a blog post RIGHT NOW.

Oh my gosh, someone put me to bed already I have so much to do in the morning and I have absolutely no chance in hell of waking up to my alarm now.  I have four hours to sleep and I need 18.

Good night.  Peace.

 

One Day at a Time

One day at a time.IMAG0264

It’s been my motto for a while now.  I have it posted in various places where I can see it often along with visually soothing images (usually with farm machinery involved (I grew up on a farm)).

index

Only today did not feel like a one-day-at-a-time day.  It felt like one moment at a time, then it felt like five seconds at a time, then it felt like a complete panic that said “oh shiznick I’m crying in front of co-workers, wipe your tears off with your sleeve and try to keep moving.”  I go on break and I soak myself in mindless youtube videos and for the short half hour I forget where I am and suddenly I’m late punching back in on the timeclock.  (And yes, my job has a literal old-timey timeclock where you put in the time card and it cha-chunks and stamps your ticket.)

index

I wiped my tears on my sleeve all day long today and when one co-worker asked if I was okay, I confessed that no, I was not okay.  Yet, I didn’t burst out in sobs as I had expected I would.  She just turned to me and said, “Life, huh?” and I confirmed that yes, I was not fine because of Life and we left it at that.  And I was grateful.

Because the thing is, even with all this depression floating around, I still have to do my job.  And I’m actually glad I have one, otherwise my depression could spiral out of control with no steering wheel attached, or burst out in flames with just the right spark.

I’m glad I have to routinely converse with other human beings, as much as I loathe getting out of bed and have to spend a good 45 minutes talking myself into the entire process of opening my eyes, getting myself into an upright position, and putting both feet on the floor.  And that 45 minutes  doesn’t even include remembering all the other parts like pants, shoes, and socks.

index

This whirl of depression has snuck up on me, jumped onto my back, as Winston Churchill’s sneaky ol’ Black Dog will do.  He’ll sit in the corner, tight into the dark, so you become almost unaware he is there.  Maybe he’ll bare his teeth once in a while, growl, or in some other frightening way, remind you of his presence.  But eventually, inevitably, he will attack, always with a ferocity that scares me, sinking his teeth into my neck in a complete ambush, debilitating me.  And I suffer.  And sadly, in turn, my family suffers.

And imagine with this dog on your neck (or for my unlucky readers who have their own Black Dog of depression who already understand and don’t have to imagine) trying to perform normal day-to-day tasks.

He drags you down, you’re bleeding from your neck with a wound no one can see, and you falter at every step.

Take a walk!  Go outside!   Enjoy the sunshine!  Count your blessings!  I would if it would get him off me or even keep him at bay.  Sometimes when I write, I’m able to alleviate some of the pain enough to continue.  So I’ll keep taking it one day at a time.  And I’ll keep my chin up and hope he releases his grip soon.

Please, Black Dog of Depression.  Please, release your grip soon.

Related image

 

Negative-ities

I’m defaulting to my norm – criticizing myself, hiding beneath a hoodie and cigarette smoke, avoiding others, overly-focused on news events through my typical youtube channels and NYT articles.  I’m withdrawing from the world, attempting to avoid what is inevitable.  I smell the stench of failure everywhere I turn my head.

I start a new job this week.  It’s all I can think of.  I am consumed with negative thoughts.  My mind is bursting with them, and they’re all pointing at how I’m not worth it, how I’ll never make it, how I’m stupid, incompetent, how they’ll see right through me, how I won’t be good enough.

Tomorrow I’m going to try – really, really, really try – to do something for me.  I’m going to write or create or draw or something but it’s only going to be for me and it’s going to be something positive that I can etch into my mind and try to fight back some of these demons.  Wish me luck.

Avoidance

So I’m in this place.

I intend to get right down to it and prepare for this interview tomorrow.  But instead, I sent a few texts.  Then I talked on the phone.  For an hour.  And a half.  Then I made my kids a snack.  And put them to bed.  And read them a book.

All of this with a meaty intention of getting down to it, getting right down to it and preparing, researching, reading, investigating, searching all about this place I had applied to that happened to call me back and say, ‘hey, we’d like to meet with you’ and here I am and the day is finally almost here and I’m going to be spit-shiny ready with knowledge of all things knowable about the job and who I am and what I have to offer and everything nice and tight and perfect.

And then I spent some time searching for my son’s library book.  Because his need for it was urgent and he said if he didn’t give it back tomorrow that we’d have to pay for it.   And I’m not paying for some rinky-dinky book he picked up that’s been looked at and chewed on and probably touched 10,000 times over the course of 15 years that it’s been in his school’s library.

And I couldn’t find it.

So then I toasted a bagel and put cream cheese on it and ate it.  And then I picked up the book I’d been reading and smoked some cigarettes out in the garage while reading the book.  And the book is about the author writing about writing.  And so here I am, really ready to get right down to it, buckle down and lean into it and really get focused on this preparing.

But when you read a book about a writer writing about writing, it’s kind of a tricky thing.  Because writing is not something I find myself doing much of these days.  Maybe it’s cause I’m avoiding.  Not just this interview preparation, but alot of things.  Alot-alot-alot of things.  Things I’m avoiding right now as I write because I’m only referring to them as “alot-alot-alot” of things to emphasize the point that they are really big things and there are many of them but still I resist specifying what those really big, many numbered things are.

Because if I put them on paper (so to speak), then I have to move to the dealing phase.  The recognizing, acknowledging, then handling these many numbered big important things.  And as much as I’m ready to buckle down and handle this interview tomorrow, I’m not even remotely in the realm of pretending or fooling myself into believing that I might just be even the tiniest bit interested in diving into all THAT.

Therefore, to avoid the avoiding, I’ll focus on getting ready for tomorrow.  Wish me luck on my great, big interview.  I’m sure I’ll write about it.

Struggle

I’ve got to make it through this.  I’ve got to be able to carry this and keep going.

Right now I’m using every tool in my toolbox.  Im scrounging around in the very bottom of it, searching for what’s left.  I’ve used up all the ink in my pen, my voice is harsh and strained from all the talking and crying and my mind is drained.  I have very little left.

I’m angry and hurt and I’ve lost the ability to express myself in every way imaginable.  I have no map for this awful terrain.

I’m on my knees begging for help.

I’m going to lay down now and hope that my thoughts dont follow me to my pillow.  Music, tv, any distraction – just please work so I can have one peaceful moment outside this reality.

I have work in the morning, in just a very few hours.  Please just let me sleep and when I wake up, please make this nightmare disappear.

Wabi Sabi

Read the story of Wabi Sabi to my kids the other day.  I found myself in tears.  Not sure why or how it happened.  I don’t really shed too many tears these days.  I’ve heard that certain medications can do that to you.  In some ways, I miss it.  I miss the emotional release I feel afterwards.  I imagine all the feelings like vines twisted up, gripping my insides with their thorns digging into the meaty parts.

I forgot how to relax.  In therapy, they talk about mindfulness.  I never practiced it before.  My therapist led me through it, and I instantly felt a rush of intense emotions.  Tears flooded my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.

I used to use a visual image that I’d made up in my mind.  Water crashing on the beach.   I was never there, so it was mostly only visual.  But when I sat in her office that day, she walked  me through an image that is so vivid in my mind it’s like I can reach out and wrap my fingers around it and balance it in my open palms:

I’m camping with my sister.  Everyone has gone to sleep and I lay awake in my tent.  I quietly unzip my tent and open it to the dark forest.  Everything is alive with sound.  I tiptoe past her tent and walk over to the rushing river, furiously pushing jagged rocks for years until they are nothing but smooth stones.  I put my feet in the water, and let the water run over it.  I sit down on the edge and just sit.  For a moment, I feel human.

Click-clack

Bought a pack of Marlboro Blacks that I can’t afford especially now that I’m quitting (says the woman sitting in the plastic lawn chair smoking.)

I made up my mind not to call but I did anyway and I’m not surprised as I often make up my mind about things only to find me ignoring myself (oh, shut up, you/me/whatever.)  She was sitting there lonely, my disabled mother, on Christmas eve of all days, and as I listened to her speak I wasnt sure I heard.  I’ve smoked so many cigarettes since then that my breath comes out in tiny wheezing sounds, but I couldn’t care less.

I’ll probably smoke the whole pack and then be shit on cause it’s Christmas and every store is denying us our goods per preference of a holiday no one even cars about anymore (oh wait, they do?)

I want to punch someone in the face or maybe just me for being so pitiful and overweight and annoyed and irritable and such of myself.  Writing is freedom; let’s me click-click-clack my way out of this hellish mind of mine.

You’d think hypomania would be a good time, a nice fling, a fun vacay, but it’s not. It comes with too much baggage to get on the plane at takeoff and then you’re just left standing there holding your empty yet overloaded luggage watching as your flight leaves the runway.

Funny how I call myself all kinds of nasty names that I’d never let my kids repeat inside my own house, but I never really seem to make any progress in that department.  Therapy reminds me of boundaries and mindfulness and positive self-talk but my bipolar self shits on all that and laughs hysterically.

I love the way this phone makes an old- timey clickety-clack sound as I tap the letters on the screen.  Click. Clack.  Clickity-clickity-clack.

Whoosh, ka-ching.  I’m done.  Peace.