One-sided conversation with my brain

So, speaking of anxiety and things I can't control...

Last night, I was sitting in the living room late at night with Boy-child. Neither one of us could sleep and so we sat and just talked. We discussed his new fish, and what he did on his mission trip, and then came around to high school, which he begins this fall.

It was really only about 30 minutes, but it was a nice thing. Hanging out. Just the two of us quietly chatting.

And then we went to our own beds and I lay down to try to sleep.

BRAIN: Hey! Guess what? Your son is starting high school! Do remember high school? Do you remember how much it sucked for you? What if it sucks for him, too? What are you going to do then, huh? Do you remember that you were only a little older than he is now when your mom died? Do you? Huh? Huh? It was the last day of your freshman year, so you were fifteen. Way to start your summer break. Geez. I mean, seriously, your body is probably already riddled with cancer and you're dying right now and you're going to leave your kids and hubby alone just like your mom did. What would their life be like? Cycle back to the beginning and start over. Let's beat this dead horse to a bloody pulp, shall we? I mean, you don't really need sleep, right? It's not like you have to get up in the morning. Oh, wait, yes you do! Ha! Hey, let's sing "She's a maniac!" She's a maniac! Maniac on the floor! And she's dancing like she's never danced before. Tra La La.

Yeah - this is my brain. And it's no wonder I'm tired all the time. Leave it to my brain to give me something else to stress about that I have no control over. One thing is for sure, I'm going to get every cancer screening I can think of. Hateful disease. Stupid anxiety.

TTFN
JMS

Me vs. My Traitorous Mind

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please watch this video BEFORE reading the post below.

Watching this video, I realized yet again, that I am not the only one who has this problem. BUT, for every person who has anxiety issues, there are just as many people who don’t, cannot, or refuse to, understand the anxious person. I’m no doctor, but neither can I explain WHY I feel or think the things I do.

Granted, a lot of the things I think or feel might not be true, at least as far as the non-anxious person is concerned, but the things ARE true to me.

I DO feel fat and ugly and useless and good for nothing and…(I won’t go on)…even while at the same time I know those things aren’t really true.  Yes, I may be overweight and average-looking (who really cares, right?) but I am not useless and good for nothing. And see…even as I type that my brain is working against me: But what about all those days you come home from work and do nothing except crawl into bed, huh? What about those times? What about when you just want to be left alone and don’t want to talk to anyone, even your family, when all they want is your time and attention?

Well, I can’t explain it. I’m tired. Really, actually, truthfully tired. And it’s not just a physical exhaustion, it’s a mental one – which is even harder to explain. I’ve spent all day “people-ing” and I just don’t have it in me to “people” any more. And every time I hear my name I cringe inside. And stuffing my ears with an audiobook doesn’t help, because I get interrupted anyway. I cannot ever tune out 100% as I want to.

And yes, dammit, it’s freaking selfish. I know it’s selfish. But it’s also self-preservation. And – if I’m being honest – I’m preserving others, too. The 11^th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Harm Self or Others. That’s an institutionalizing offense!

So, when I express aloud that I feel a certain way, and it’s irrational and confusing to you, by the love of all that is holy, please, let it go. (No, I won’t sing.) Just assume it’s my anxiety talking and go with it. Trying to question me, or make me see things a different way, only makes me more anxious and then I yell. Or cry. Or some snotty, tearful combination of both. Suffice it to say, it gets ugly.

Every day I tell myself how awful I look because I FEEL AWFUL!

Every day I wake up and want to immediately put my head right back down on the pillow and IGNORE MY RESPONSIBILITIES in lieu of sleep. Sleep is good. But then I have insomnia, too. So, I have trouble sleeping - both getting there and staying there. And my legs are restless which is SO ANNOYING.

Every day I have to force a smile when I speak to most people. I have to qualify that: MOST people. Not ALL people. There are some people who do not make me anxious, but they’re very few. And people as a general whole, en masse? Nope. Sorry. I’ll stay in bed, thanks.

Every day I tell myself how others feel negatively toward me, no matter what they might say aloud to the contrary. I’m convinced I’m not worth anyone’s real love, attention, or respect.

BUT I STILL TRY. I still try to DO IT ANYWAY. I’ve said this before. I try to get up anyway. Go to work anyway. Talk to people anyway. Smile and be friendly anyway.

And today isn’t any different.

I cannot say doing it all anyway is strength or courage. It isn’t. It’s a survival mechanism.

And you don't want to hear all this crap anyway.

TTFN

JMS

Holy cannoli! I did it!

IRRATIONAL FLOWERS, A Coloring Book

I'm certain this will fail. Why is it such a fun, exciting thing has me such a miserable wreck? I guess it's just scary to really put yourself out there. And I REALLY don't like failure. I mean, I know everyone fails, sometimes in Grand Fashion, but it makes me physically ill when I do.

So, now it's out there. This is a real thing. I'm thrilled and terrified at the same time. And they're only drawings, for crying out loud! Sheesh! You'd think I'd done something really cool like, written a novel or something.

Throw me a bone? Even if you hate it (and I know the image quality via electronic transfer to print is going to be a bit questionable) please pretend that you love it? Leave me happy feedback, not negative feedback. Because you're my friend and you love me and want me to succeed. And even if you don't want me to succeed, maybe you at least want me not to be sick, right?

TTFN
JMS

Go me?

Yesterday was Memorial Day. Please don't misunderstand when I don't really talk about Memorial Day. I'm not dismissing it, or its importance. It's just not what I want to talk about.

I started CrossFit (which I genuinely like) a few weeks ago, and decided to go to the 9AM class. Yes, there was one on Memorial Day.

I already knew my regular trainer would be there, we'd discussed it. I either didn't know, or didn't remember, that they'd be doing "The Murph" workout; way beyond my current skill level. Although, I don't think my gym uses a 20lb vest or body armor for added weight. Either way, I was there at 9AM.

Usually, there are about 8 people in class when I'm there. Yesterday, there were closer to 30!

I already don't like crowds. My anxiety was already high. Too many people + high anxiety = I couldn't handle it, so I left. I ran away like a frightened dog with her tail between her legs. I chickened out. I was so disappointed in myself. I cried all the way home, and on Hubby's shoulder, and alone in my room. It took a while for me to settle down. It was not a full-blown anxiety attack, but it was up there. Add in the disappointment and...well...it wasn't pretty.

I finally channeled some of my energy into cleaning. I completely cleaned the bathroom, did a few loads of laundry, stripped the bed, washed the sheets, the blankets - everything, and completely cleaned the cat box and surrounding area.

I was still in a funk, but somewhat less so.

I'm going back to CrossFit tonight. I don't want to quit. I'm sure my trainer will want to know what happened to me yesterday; why I just disappeared. I'm embarrassed to tell him, but I will. He needs to understand I'm challenging myself in more ways than just fitness.

Go me?

TTFN
JMS

Staplers: Evil Machines of Pain

You know, I would assume most people have some memories of their early elementary school years. Me? Not so much.

I kind of remember kindergarten. My teacher's name was Mrs. Vince. She had brown hair and was nice. She gave us trail mix with carob chips instead of chocolate in little white paper cups as snacks. We took naps. I read my first book all by myself in Kindergarten. It was called: Put Me In The Zoo. I was SO proud of myself. (It's still one of my favorites. I have read it to my kids.) I remember little seeds growing in cups, too. That's about it.

I remember, at some point in my very early elementary school years (couldn't tell you what grade or how old I was) there was a little half-wall at the left of the doorway, dividing the room, on which stood one of those huge staplers with the large pad on top for smacking... Anyway, my mother had me up in her arms and we were standing near this evil machine of pain when I managed to staple two fingers together. I cried. There was blood. It was traumatic. I've been wary of staplers since.

And that's about it. I have no memories of my early elementary school days until third grade. I know (because I've been told) that I repeated second grade. I have no memories of first grade at all.

Is that weird?

My doctor asked me if I have ever been diagnosed with PTSD. No, I haven't. He wondered aloud if I'm repressing some kind of traumatic incident (other than the Stapler Incident) but I don't know. It seems unlikely. And furthermore, what could be that traumatic that I would repress it entirely? I'm really not asking for suggestions, just putting forth a rhetorical question.

I have lots, and lots, and lots of gaping holes in my memory. I've written about that before. All the awful stuff surrounding my mother's death...I get why I've suppressed those memories. But the other...? I guess I might never know. And maybe I don't want to.

I know after my second Second Grade, we moved. I remember that move. And with the move came a new elementary school, and - what do you know? - third grade! Memories. Coincidence? Who knows? My teacher's name was Mrs. Glover and she had blonde hair and soft hands and was absolutely amazing. She took me and my brother in occasionally when my mom was having surgery or other treatments and procedures. She had a second home in New Hampshire, which I visited. I remember I threw up in her car on the way up there. How she didn't hate me for that is beyond me. She also had guinea pigs. That's when I found out just how horribly allergic I am to guinea pigs. Benadryl became my best friend. Her New Hampshire home was built into a rock and part of the inner walls of her home were actually natural rock. I also remember the other third grade teacher's name was Pearl Johnson. (Or was it Jackson?)  See? Memories.

Anyway, I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that some of whatever this stuff is (repressed or suppressed) can be directly linked to my current and ongoing depression and anxiety, but I'm no expert. Someone recently suggested I do some kind of regressive hypnosis to see if I can uncover whatever IT is. But I think probably not. As a wise friend of mine said, "Some doors need to remain closed."

What do you think?

TTFN
JMS

Wormholes of Lost Time and Anxiety Attacks

I learned a lesson last night. Walks down Memory Lane are, for the most part, not the most prudent of ideas for me. Especially when I let my brain run away with my thoughts. When my brain eventually returns, it brings baggage. It's difficult to explain the baggage, though, because not all of it is bad, or sad, or hard. Some of it is okay. Not happy, exactly, but okay. It's just stuff I'd forgotten. And for whatever reason, those things brought with them hitching, gasping breaths, giant tears, and vomit. I literally made myself sick. Full-blown anxiety attack at 10:30 PM. It was awesome.

There are blank spots in my memory. Black, gaping holes of time I can no longer pin down; time leading up to, and immediately following, the death of my mother, Mary, back in June of 1989. And, if I'm being honest, I don't really start having full, in-Technicolor memories again until about 1993 or '94, when I moved to Mystic, CT.  I was definitely in a dark place for a long time. I'm not entirely sure how I didn't get myself into a ton of trouble; I'm convinced there were plenty of opportunities. Somehow, I managed to...for want of a better word...survive. 

No matter how dark things got, though, I never, ever considered removing myself from this mortal coil. I did some self-destructive things, but I don't think those things were ever life-threatening. Stupid? Absolutely.

But when my thoughts wander into the wormholes of lost time, sometimes they unearth things which I'm not ready to examine. I can't steel myself against, or prepare myself for, what memories will hitch a ride back to my conscious mind. And that's what happened last night. I dug up stuff that I would have preferred stayed buried.

Mostly because of the mental and emotional state I was in during those times. I'd lost my mother. I was a teenager. I was hurting and destructive and was convinced no one cared or understood or wanted to help. It was those feelings that resurfaced last night. That desperate pain of grief and loss and of being lost. 

So I cried. Long and loud and hard. It was awful. I don't recommend it.

The lesson I learned is sometimes, those blank spots are blank for a reason. It's usually self protection. And to shed light on them - even a dim light - can be...not exactly detrimental, but certainly not helpful, either.

I feel better this morning. I do. Yesterday was not a good day anyway so I was already fragile and my barriers were down. Today, aside from seriously puffy eyes and some post-crying jag congestion, I feel better.

I believe getting better - trying to find that emotional upward swing in a downward spiral - is a game. Like two steps forward and one step back. Progress. Set back. Progress. Setback. I'm not sure you're ever really...there. Done. 100%.

But I'll take better. That will do for now.

TTFN
JMS