So I don’t know about you guys, but since starting my anti-anxiety meds instead of having full-on panic attacks I will have moments of self hatred but not coming from myself. I know that doesn’t necessarily make sense but here’s one way that I can describe it:
My brain is a Megabus.
Usually everyone’s quiet and is along for the ride most of them are sleeping others are equipping in with obvious observations about the outside world. Some are even having social-psychological conversations with themselves giving me quite a bit to think about. But when I start to have a lot of anxiety they all wake up and they’re all start shouting at me, the bus driver. And they begin driving from every seat in the bus but my own. If anyone has worked in retail you will probably understand this. Being the bus driver means that I can’t react I can simply say shut up period sometimes but usually it’s just shut up.
But sometimes my mind is a terrorist.
And because I’m American I’m sure I have to sit here and explain that no I do not mean someone wearing a turban speaking Arabic or someone from another country that other less educated Americans would believe to be terrorists. I apologize if I offend anyone I really do not mean to this is not the point of my blog. I’m actually quite fascinated with cultures languages and people around the world and if you would love to talk to me please message me. Or not I would totally understand. As I have told my boyfriend you should not stick your dick in crazy or let crazy stick it stick and you. And I’m sure that correlates to messaging crazy people. But don’t quote me on that or do I don’t care. Maybe I do. Shit.
Any way back from that rant what I mean by my mind is a terrorist is the fact that sometimes those passengers who like to say mean things about how I’m driving like to jump into my lap or completely remove me from the driver seat and decide to drive it the way they want to which unfortunately is not always healthy for the bus AKA my body? Anyway so I take a an Emergency anti-anxiety pill which isn’t currently working.
I won’t bore, or scare, you with all the things that my brain tends to come up with but I can tell you that they are not nice and they are really demoralising and saddening.
Anyway, I’m currently house sitting for my best friend at the moment and will be for the next week so yay me and doing things on my own. hashtag trial run living on my own for the first time in my ever fucking life. But that story comes later.
I swear to God depression is going to kill me. I can’t hardly sleep and when I do sleep I have vivid dreams and when the vivid dreams are nightmares their dreams about getting back together with my ex-husband. I hate these dreams not only because it makes divorcing him that much harder, but it also makes waking up that much harder.
In real life my ex-husband and I get along pretty well. We could pass for friends if things weren’t so awkward. We still get along and talk about video games tabletop games that he’s running tabletop games that I want to be playing. I tell him about my progress on some of our favorite games that we used to play together. And of course we co-parent. We co-parent so will that it’s weird. I say that it’s weird because I’ve seen other divorced parents co-parent and my ex-husband and I do it really well. We rarely fight or go back on what we say or do. In fact we’d give each other lots of time and notification of our plans so much so that it makes co-parenting easy. And I know that I really shouldn’t be griping or complaining and maybe I am but it’s just odd. But maybe that’s just me. I am a little odd.
Then likes to tell me that I need to be open to the Future and any possibilities of my ex-husband and I getting back together and dating and so forth the possibility that things could go right again. I hate this advice and I wish you would stop telling me that. I don’t want to hear it because I know it won’t happen. I know I can’t be as happy as I am in my dreams. I can’t be monogamous and that’s all Zac wants is to be monogamous and I can’t blame him for that. If that’s what makes him happy then I want him to be happy.
I had a conversation with ben last night. New Years Eve we had a big fight and I still don’t feel right about it. David wanted to sleep on his new gift from my grandmother and I was happy to oblige because, well because i didn’t have an argument against it. Ben did. It was his living room in his house. Suddenly, all that work I did to make this house to feel like home is gone. I don’t feel welcome. I can barely sleep in my own bed.
Ben and I talked and he apologized but proceeded to tell me that he wouldn’t watch me fall into the abyss. The abyss being a place where i’m no longer in touch with a functional reality and I can no longer fit in. Not that I’ve ever fit in in my life but I don’t feel like i’m falling. I feel like i’m just not in control. like i’m locked in or out of my body but someone else is pushing the buttons. That part i’m not fond of.
But I do like seeing the squirrels who want to cuddle with me when they are tired. The dragons that help me to remember my meds, the feminist climber from the 20’s who tells me that I have to take risks and blaze my own trail even if the fire turns purple. I like embracing my reality because of 2 things.
This is the only reality I’ve ever known. Fighting it only made me depressed and embracing it means that I get to interact with everything that is going on in my mind.
This road to “Sanity”, climbing out of the abyss, is hard and scary and it sucks so much. I want to have as much fun as I can to help deal with my suffering. The alternative is apparently not an option.
I do my best to let the people around me know what’s happening. Sometimes they think it’s funny too and that’s what I need. I need joy throughout the suffering.
I won’t choose. Life will show me where I land, whether that’s into the abyss or reaching the top of the canyon. I’ll be somewhere. I just hope i’m surrounded by loved ones either way.
So, the beautiful thing about being diagnosed with Panic Disorder is that you get to tell people: hey, I’m struggling today so don’t expect much. The problem with that is that you are going to see your boyfriends family who has no idea what is going on in your head (and in reality nobody really knows because it just can’t make up its mind…) and so you have to save face and act normal when all you want to do is hide in a corner with your coffee and crochet hats for poor kids in a school district you’ll never live in.
When i have a panic attack, it feels like everyone has eyes on you. Never mind the fact that we’re grabbing our hair, trying to pull the thoughts out with your hair and screaming in a fetal position. Once that passes the embarrassment takes over and another micro panic attack takes over and you start crying. I still haven’t been able to go back to that movie theater.
It’s these days when i wish i had a service dog to lean on me and reassure me that everything is ok. I can’t for quite a few reasons (including psychopath dogs and insurance disagreements) so instead I have my coping habits which have become more and more difficult to perform. I pain, crochet, or do my woodworking. My painting only works when I’m hit with a chair by my muse, my woodworking only works when I’m at home, so i crochet. Even then, coping while crocheting is tricky. Not only do i have to keep my hands busy, but i also have to keep my mind busy.
I just read all of this and feel like I’m complaining. I’m making excuses for my mental illness. AM I allowed to do that? Being high functioning and mentally ill means you can get by even though your world is falling apart in your mind but you can’t take the day off right? Cause “at least you don’t have it as bad as some people”. I hate that. Even though i don’t exhibit signs of the extreme doesn’t mean that they don’t happen behind closed doors. Lately I’ve been so upfront about my mental illness that when i meet new people or new dates, I’ll be upfront about it. Sometimes I want it to be worse so that people would understand what goes on inside my head that they can’t normally see. But then i wonder how much of a grip I have left on my sanity. On my reality.
I feel like that could be a song. I’ll probably write that and post it later.
Us exactly the reason why i dobt keep a diary. Fuck. I cant remember breakfast in a good day. I’m high, not on my meds (gonna be fixing that one), and pretty…. not happy. Nor can i remember what it was that was so fucking awesome that i needed to blog about it. My memory hadn’t been great ever so i can’t imagine trying to write while high is going to be easier than writing drunk.