It's official. I'm medicated. God how I hate this, but if it helps, it's better than living with the god-awful anxiety. I am, officially, taking a controlled substance. I felt like I was buying dope off a dealer. Dope being a benzo and the dealer being the pharmacist. I don't know how drug addicts do it. It's too much damn work. If a person becomes addicted to prescribed medications, they can't legally purchase more than prescribed. So they have to either steal someone's identity and use that to purchase more, "legally", or they have to buy them off the streets. And don't get me started on illegal drugs. My god, the work it takes to sustain a habit like that....makes me tired just thinking about it. I was a lazy addict. Give me the legal substance to abuse that I could purchase any time I damn well felt like it.
So far, I've had extreme tiredness that lasted only 2 hours and did not help me with my afternoon nap. Then it all stopped and the heart palpitations & sweats returned along with the anxiety, during my supposed nap. This pill's supposed to last 8 hours. I think I must have monster anxiety for it to burn off an 8-hour pill in 2. However, I'm not taking another one until bedtime because I have a meeting at work at 5 with our HR Committee (yeah, ummm, now you know why I'm so anxious) and I don't want to appear doped-up with that crew of people. Like they need an excuse to fire me.
It's going to be a rough rest-of-the-day. But at least I'm medicated. Yeah.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
"Somehow our devils are never quite what we expect when we meet them face to face." ~Nelson DeMille
I finally caved in and called my doctor to discuss anti-anxiety medication. I can't keep living like this. It's hard to imagine a day, an hour, a minute without this all-consuming anxiety, but I'm ready to do something about it. It's so bad, all I want to do is something......drastic. Like ignore the world. Walk away from reality. Just to stop this shit from going on in my head & my body.
Logically, I know it's all me. I create my own angst. I tell myself to Stop, to Let It Go, to Relax, yet I can't. I don't know how. You'd think after a decade of therapy I'd have learned HOW. Apparently, I wasn't paying attention.
There isn't a lot I feel good about. Work is awful. I feel helpless. I feel like any of us could lose our jobs at any moment. I feel like the employer isn't supportive; they just want us to 'buck up' and be the good little gestapo they want us to be. Don't question anything! Just follow orders! Slap a smile on that face! They don't want to deal with the true issue. I don't feel like I should even be here anymore. Maybe I am the cause of all that's wrong. *eye roll* OK, I'm not, but sometimes I feel like maybe they'd be better off with someone new. Someone who doesn't know what's wrong with this place....yet......and is ignorant and blissful. I wish I could be ignorant and blissful. I don't feel confident about anything I do. I feel like a failure. I feel like at any moment they're going to say, "You did this wrong and you're stupid and you're outta here!"
I continue to look for new employment, but I don't even feel good about that! How could I? It isn't like anyone's knocking down my door to offer me a new job. I can't even get an interview! How's that supposed to make a person feel? Disheartened. Discouraged. Disgusting. Not good enough. Worthless. Useless. How's that?
I'm not even allowing myself to enjoy my time away. All I do is think about work. What is wrong with me? Who does this to themselves?
In the grand scheme of things, I know none of this matters. In the long run - or as AA-ers like to say, 10 years from now-- is any of this going to matter? Well, maybe. If I don't do well here, it will be more difficult to get a job later. But the day-to-day shit that goes on in my head-- does any of it matter? No. Not at all. I worry, worry, worry; I dwell, dwell, dwell; I make myself sick over it....and for what? What does it get me except an ulcer and heart palpitations and knotted muscles and a massive headache? So why do I do it?
Because....what else have I got? If I had any other kind of distraction, my anxiety wouldn't be so all-consuming. That's why, when I get like this, I wish for the stomach flu or a bad head cold-- a plausible excuse to distance myself, shut myself away, from the world. An illness allows me to not feel guilty about being absent. Hell, I feel guilty on my day off! That isn't right. That is soooo not right.
So, keep me in your thoughts, dear blog readers. I have a feeling this week is going to be rough, but at least I've taken the first small step and maybe.....just maybe....things will start looking better. Hell, at least I'm not drinking, right?
Logically, I know it's all me. I create my own angst. I tell myself to Stop, to Let It Go, to Relax, yet I can't. I don't know how. You'd think after a decade of therapy I'd have learned HOW. Apparently, I wasn't paying attention.
There isn't a lot I feel good about. Work is awful. I feel helpless. I feel like any of us could lose our jobs at any moment. I feel like the employer isn't supportive; they just want us to 'buck up' and be the good little gestapo they want us to be. Don't question anything! Just follow orders! Slap a smile on that face! They don't want to deal with the true issue. I don't feel like I should even be here anymore. Maybe I am the cause of all that's wrong. *eye roll* OK, I'm not, but sometimes I feel like maybe they'd be better off with someone new. Someone who doesn't know what's wrong with this place....yet......and is ignorant and blissful. I wish I could be ignorant and blissful. I don't feel confident about anything I do. I feel like a failure. I feel like at any moment they're going to say, "You did this wrong and you're stupid and you're outta here!"
I continue to look for new employment, but I don't even feel good about that! How could I? It isn't like anyone's knocking down my door to offer me a new job. I can't even get an interview! How's that supposed to make a person feel? Disheartened. Discouraged. Disgusting. Not good enough. Worthless. Useless. How's that?
I'm not even allowing myself to enjoy my time away. All I do is think about work. What is wrong with me? Who does this to themselves?
In the grand scheme of things, I know none of this matters. In the long run - or as AA-ers like to say, 10 years from now-- is any of this going to matter? Well, maybe. If I don't do well here, it will be more difficult to get a job later. But the day-to-day shit that goes on in my head-- does any of it matter? No. Not at all. I worry, worry, worry; I dwell, dwell, dwell; I make myself sick over it....and for what? What does it get me except an ulcer and heart palpitations and knotted muscles and a massive headache? So why do I do it?
Because....what else have I got? If I had any other kind of distraction, my anxiety wouldn't be so all-consuming. That's why, when I get like this, I wish for the stomach flu or a bad head cold-- a plausible excuse to distance myself, shut myself away, from the world. An illness allows me to not feel guilty about being absent. Hell, I feel guilty on my day off! That isn't right. That is soooo not right.
So, keep me in your thoughts, dear blog readers. I have a feeling this week is going to be rough, but at least I've taken the first small step and maybe.....just maybe....things will start looking better. Hell, at least I'm not drinking, right?
Monday, February 18, 2013
"All I want is a little understanding. Like, when I say "Get lost, pal!" I really want you to understand that." -Maxine
I'm sure I've told you this story before, but bear with me-- it relates to what's coming up next.
A few years ago, a new, crazy old lady moved into the apartment complex. She was parking like any other crazy old lady-- taking up 3 stalls. This was before I got my garage, so you can imagine how much that pissed me off. I called the apartment manager and asked what could be done about it-- she said she'd leave a note on the crazy old lady's car. She did. I came home for lunch one day and there's the 'ol bat walking along the sidewalk. She asked me, "Did you leave a note on my car?" and when I responded, she repeatedly called me "STUPID". It makes me laugh today but hooo-ha, that day, my adrenaline was going and I was a wreck. This crazy old lady was....well, crazy. I made it up to my apartment without getting attacked again, called the apartment manager to let her know what happened, was too upset to eat so headed straight back to work. I got a call later that afternoon from my apartment manager.
The crazy old lady had CALLED THE COPS and claimed that I "tried" to assault her. Tried. Yeah, right.
From that moment on, I avoided crazy old lady at all costs. I refused to engage with her. I wouldn't even look at her. Who knows how the 'ol bat would interpret a friendly "hello"? She might think I was gunning for her! There was one time after that incident that I was getting rid of my old sofa. It was sitting in the yard waiting for Dad to arrive with his pick-up to haul it to Goodwill. Crazy old lady saw it and wanted it. I said to Dad, "But Dad, that's the crazy old lady"! He said, "Honey, she doesn't remember who you are"......OK, but I was surprised there weren't repercussions to giving her my sofa. There weren't. She truly has no idea who I am.
Every time I see her, she wants to know "Do you live here?" Every single damn time. Usually I can get away with pretending I don't hear her and just keep moving. Don't make eye contact! Get inside! Run, Run Run!!
However, Sunday afternoon was a bit different. As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw her dog (sans leash, of course) and her, dumpster diving. No surprise. I pulled into my garage, unloaded my trunk and started walking towards my apartment. She was coming towards me. Towards me. Had I had my wits about me, I would have done an about-face and walked the other way. She's old! She's slow! I could out-walk her! But....I didn't. As I approached her, she again asked me, "Do you live here?" Now, you have to imagine this question being asked not nicely, but in such a way that it sounds antagonistic; almost threatening. She's not some sweet little old lady. Oh no! Don't imagine that! She's crazy like a loon.
I responded, while looking at my garage door close, "Yep, I sure do" and just kept walking. She turned to follow me and said, "Well, where do you live?" (again, antagonistically) and I did a wave of my arm, as I kept walking, and said, "Here". Puh-leeze. Like I'm going to tell crazy old lady where I live?!? Duh. Her response was, "Well, isn't THAT nice?!?" as she's hightailing it to keep up with me and her dog is right on my heels. I think she was trying to instigate something with me and it made her damn mad that I wouldn't participate.
I kept waiting for the cops to show up at my door because she claimed I tried to assault her.....again. The good news is, she doesn't know which apartment I live in, what my name is, or anything about me so good luck trying to find me! I had a peaceful, cop-free, assault-free night.
I wonder what her response would be if I said I didn't live there? Hmmmmm, might be an interesting experiment to try out. Or it might get me killed.
Note to self: Never, ever go outside the apartment at 3:00PM on Sundays!
A few years ago, a new, crazy old lady moved into the apartment complex. She was parking like any other crazy old lady-- taking up 3 stalls. This was before I got my garage, so you can imagine how much that pissed me off. I called the apartment manager and asked what could be done about it-- she said she'd leave a note on the crazy old lady's car. She did. I came home for lunch one day and there's the 'ol bat walking along the sidewalk. She asked me, "Did you leave a note on my car?" and when I responded, she repeatedly called me "STUPID". It makes me laugh today but hooo-ha, that day, my adrenaline was going and I was a wreck. This crazy old lady was....well, crazy. I made it up to my apartment without getting attacked again, called the apartment manager to let her know what happened, was too upset to eat so headed straight back to work. I got a call later that afternoon from my apartment manager.
The crazy old lady had CALLED THE COPS and claimed that I "tried" to assault her. Tried. Yeah, right.
From that moment on, I avoided crazy old lady at all costs. I refused to engage with her. I wouldn't even look at her. Who knows how the 'ol bat would interpret a friendly "hello"? She might think I was gunning for her! There was one time after that incident that I was getting rid of my old sofa. It was sitting in the yard waiting for Dad to arrive with his pick-up to haul it to Goodwill. Crazy old lady saw it and wanted it. I said to Dad, "But Dad, that's the crazy old lady"! He said, "Honey, she doesn't remember who you are"......OK, but I was surprised there weren't repercussions to giving her my sofa. There weren't. She truly has no idea who I am.
Every time I see her, she wants to know "Do you live here?" Every single damn time. Usually I can get away with pretending I don't hear her and just keep moving. Don't make eye contact! Get inside! Run, Run Run!!
However, Sunday afternoon was a bit different. As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw her dog (sans leash, of course) and her, dumpster diving. No surprise. I pulled into my garage, unloaded my trunk and started walking towards my apartment. She was coming towards me. Towards me. Had I had my wits about me, I would have done an about-face and walked the other way. She's old! She's slow! I could out-walk her! But....I didn't. As I approached her, she again asked me, "Do you live here?" Now, you have to imagine this question being asked not nicely, but in such a way that it sounds antagonistic; almost threatening. She's not some sweet little old lady. Oh no! Don't imagine that! She's crazy like a loon.
I responded, while looking at my garage door close, "Yep, I sure do" and just kept walking. She turned to follow me and said, "Well, where do you live?" (again, antagonistically) and I did a wave of my arm, as I kept walking, and said, "Here". Puh-leeze. Like I'm going to tell crazy old lady where I live?!? Duh. Her response was, "Well, isn't THAT nice?!?" as she's hightailing it to keep up with me and her dog is right on my heels. I think she was trying to instigate something with me and it made her damn mad that I wouldn't participate.
I kept waiting for the cops to show up at my door because she claimed I tried to assault her.....again. The good news is, she doesn't know which apartment I live in, what my name is, or anything about me so good luck trying to find me! I had a peaceful, cop-free, assault-free night.
I wonder what her response would be if I said I didn't live there? Hmmmmm, might be an interesting experiment to try out. Or it might get me killed.
Note to self: Never, ever go outside the apartment at 3:00PM on Sundays!
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Each day should have a clearly marked emergency exit sign. ~Dr. SunWolf
OH. MY. GOD.
I just had the best massage. The best. My friend, T, got me a gift certficiate for a one-hour massage. I think because she got sick of hearing me bitch about my gimpy arm. I'm sick of it, too, and have craved a massage for a long, long time. I am, however, stingy and I think I secretly like bitching about pain.
I can't remember the last time I had a massage. It has to be over 3 years ago. That means no one has touched this body in over 3 years. I barely touch it. I shower. I slather on the lotion. I do not pay attention to what I'm doing at all. I only pay attention to my body when it hurts. It was nice to have someone pay intense attention to it for a whole hour.
The room was relaxing. Candles. Soft lighting. Soothing music. And the bed had an electric blanket under the sheet. I was in bliss. The massage was just right- not too soft, not too firm. Perfect. The whole time she was working the knots out of my back, shoulders, neck, arms, hands, I was thinking, "How can I work this so I can get one every week? Does my HSA cover massages?" When she was done, I didn't want to get up. I wanted to stay laying there forever. "Just give your hands a 1/2 hour break, then get back in here & do it all over again". I thought I'd need a wheelchair to get out of the building.
It was perfect.
And then I got home, all ready to put on my pj's, put a heating pad on my arm, and relax in front of the t.v. and my lock wouldn't unlock. Damn door. This is the third time I've had trouble with my locks. I could hear Elvis inside, meowing, of course, and I thought...did I feed him before I left? Luckily, maintenance was quick and I was relaxed anyway so I didn't yell.
Nothing could ruin this day.
Thanks T!
I just had the best massage. The best. My friend, T, got me a gift certficiate for a one-hour massage. I think because she got sick of hearing me bitch about my gimpy arm. I'm sick of it, too, and have craved a massage for a long, long time. I am, however, stingy and I think I secretly like bitching about pain.
I can't remember the last time I had a massage. It has to be over 3 years ago. That means no one has touched this body in over 3 years. I barely touch it. I shower. I slather on the lotion. I do not pay attention to what I'm doing at all. I only pay attention to my body when it hurts. It was nice to have someone pay intense attention to it for a whole hour.
The room was relaxing. Candles. Soft lighting. Soothing music. And the bed had an electric blanket under the sheet. I was in bliss. The massage was just right- not too soft, not too firm. Perfect. The whole time she was working the knots out of my back, shoulders, neck, arms, hands, I was thinking, "How can I work this so I can get one every week? Does my HSA cover massages?" When she was done, I didn't want to get up. I wanted to stay laying there forever. "Just give your hands a 1/2 hour break, then get back in here & do it all over again". I thought I'd need a wheelchair to get out of the building.
It was perfect.
And then I got home, all ready to put on my pj's, put a heating pad on my arm, and relax in front of the t.v. and my lock wouldn't unlock. Damn door. This is the third time I've had trouble with my locks. I could hear Elvis inside, meowing, of course, and I thought...did I feed him before I left? Luckily, maintenance was quick and I was relaxed anyway so I didn't yell.
Nothing could ruin this day.
Thanks T!
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
"I'm tired of hearing sin called sickness and alcoholism a disease. It is the only disease I know of that we're spending hundreds of millions of dollars a year to spread." -Vance Havner
If you haven't seen the movie "Flight" yet, you might want to stop reading. Or you might not.
When I reserved this movie on Redbox last night, I forgot about an AA member talking about it when it first came out in theaters. I forgot. I forgot that he had said it's a good reflection of an alcoholic, of AA. I forgot that another member went to see it after hearing this and at the next meeting, asked What the fuck did you do to me?!? Almost the entire movie is a reflection-- the epitome-- of an alcoholic; an addict.
The movie is difficult to watch. It's highly entertaining. It's suspensful. It has action. It has drama. Just my type of movie. Except for the fact that it made me cry. I don't like to watch movies that make me cry. I don't like to cry. My reaction is to make it stop, immediately. There were two or three times during this movie when my eyes welled up with tears and my initial reaction was to shut them down. I didn't. I welcomed these particular tears and allowed myself to sob. I allowed myself to feel. I allowed myself to experience my own alcoholism, my own horribleness, and my own gratitude for the fact that today, I'm sober.
The whole time I was watching the movie, I kept thinking, "Whoever wrote this has been there....They know what they're talking about" and I wasn't wrong. The screenplay was written by John Gatins and while he's sober now (he has a lot of 24 hours), he recognizes his own issues with alcohol.
I wonder what it would be like to watch this movie as a normie. You tell me. What was it like for you, if you've seen it? Were you appalled? Were you bored? Were you like, "what the fuck is wrong with this person? why can't they get their shit together?" Did you cringe? Did you cry?
It was an intensely personal movie for me to watch. I did cringe. I did close my eyes to shut out the images. I did cry. I also thought, "what the fuck is wrong with this guy?" and then I realized I'm him. And I cried some more.
And then I smiled. At the end, there's always a smile.
When I reserved this movie on Redbox last night, I forgot about an AA member talking about it when it first came out in theaters. I forgot. I forgot that he had said it's a good reflection of an alcoholic, of AA. I forgot that another member went to see it after hearing this and at the next meeting, asked What the fuck did you do to me?!? Almost the entire movie is a reflection-- the epitome-- of an alcoholic; an addict.
The movie is difficult to watch. It's highly entertaining. It's suspensful. It has action. It has drama. Just my type of movie. Except for the fact that it made me cry. I don't like to watch movies that make me cry. I don't like to cry. My reaction is to make it stop, immediately. There were two or three times during this movie when my eyes welled up with tears and my initial reaction was to shut them down. I didn't. I welcomed these particular tears and allowed myself to sob. I allowed myself to feel. I allowed myself to experience my own alcoholism, my own horribleness, and my own gratitude for the fact that today, I'm sober.
The whole time I was watching the movie, I kept thinking, "Whoever wrote this has been there....They know what they're talking about" and I wasn't wrong. The screenplay was written by John Gatins and while he's sober now (he has a lot of 24 hours), he recognizes his own issues with alcohol.
I wonder what it would be like to watch this movie as a normie. You tell me. What was it like for you, if you've seen it? Were you appalled? Were you bored? Were you like, "what the fuck is wrong with this person? why can't they get their shit together?" Did you cringe? Did you cry?
It was an intensely personal movie for me to watch. I did cringe. I did close my eyes to shut out the images. I did cry. I also thought, "what the fuck is wrong with this guy?" and then I realized I'm him. And I cried some more.
And then I smiled. At the end, there's always a smile.
Monday, February 4, 2013
"I have CDO. It's like OCD but all the letters are in alphabetical order, as they should be."
Hello blog readers! Are you still there? Did you get sick of visiting the blog and realizing there's nothing new? That's exactly what I would do and in fact have done to several blogs. I hope you've hung in there with me.
I've wanted to blog several times but I gotta say -- I've spent so much time at work, on computers, that by the time I get home or have a day off, I don't want a damn thing to do with one of these garflunkin' contraptions! And, to be perfectly honest, my paranoia reached a peak level. I was told not to do anything on my work computer-- anything but work, that is, because they could be monitoring me. Puh-leeeze. These people couldn't find the nose on their faces. Plus, I have a brand new computer and I don't think they've had the time or the inclination to figure out how to monitor me....yet.
So, here I am at work, on my new computer, waiting for a meeting to begin. But that's for later. Now is for this blog.
Do any of you experience anxiety? I'm beginning to think I've lived with anxiety my whole life. I remember, as a little girl, being so incredibly anxious for the first day of school. And not anxious in a good way. More like, completely and totally terrified. However, I do not recall experiencing anxiety on a daily basis as I do at age 37. Geez, isn't life supposed to get better the older we get? WTF?
My anxiety is a bit ridiculous, really. It isn't about anything worthy. It isn't even about my past; all the bad I've done; my alcoholism; It isn't about what people think of me; It isn't about what's even happening to me right now (gossip-mongers!). It's simply......anxiety. Constant.
It's an all-consuming ginormous wave that envelopes my whole being. I feel it beginning in my chest and my stomach. If I don't quell it immediately with self-talk of "What the fuck are you anxious about? You have plenty of time TOMORROW to worry about shit. Live in today and enjoy today!" then it will eventually take over my entire body.
What helps? Well, drinking, for one. LOL. Ahhh, the good 'ol days when I convinced myself that it was so. The reality of the situation, however, was that the drinking only made the anxiety 1,000 times worse. No. Drinking doesn't help.
How about drugs? And by drugs, I mean prescribed medication, you hokies. I've considered it. I've seriously considered it. The problem is, I'm fearful of them now. Rehab was great, but it taught me something-- Xanax is not my friend. However much I want it to be my friend, it is not. I can see myself now....pop a pill immediately in the morning to stop the anxiety as fast as it begins, one in the afternoon...and never, ever stop. I was never a pill-popper. I never experienced a pill good enough that did what alcohol could do. But xanax comes close. My GP prescribed them to me about two weeks prior to rehab. I took a total of 2 and dissolved the rest upon my return from rehab. Boy, that was stupid. No, I don't think pills will do the trick.
The trick, ummmm, I mean the solution, is in my head. I need to figure out a way to deal with, address, the thoughts & anxiety in my head. Why do I think about such stupid shit? It's mostly about work....what I've done already and what still needs to be done and what can I think to do later? Who the fuck cares? I do, apparently. I do so much that it interferes with my sleep, my physical health, certainly my mental health, and my intellectual functioning. If I don't have early alzheimer's, then something else is seriously wrong. Just call me Alice. My mind isn't what it used to be. Also, my mind's not what it used to be.
What I've found that helps is to get up, get moving, get doing. If I'm going to be sitting at home thinking about all the shit I still need to do the next day, I might as well just do it. Or at the very least, write it down on my To-Do list and be done with it until the next day.
Ahhhh, if it were only that easy.
I think I worry so much about work and that kind of shit because I'm so incredibly insecure and completely lack self-confidence. This is all a show, folks, if you haven't figured it out yet. I do not have my shit together nor do I think I'm worth a shit. Literally. Not worth a shit. So when I do something at work, like, set up & network 6 computers, I'm constantly thinking I've fucked something up and everyone's going to see me for the fool I really am. I'm constantly worried I've done something wrong. Anything. And while I say to other people, "This isn't brain surgery....this isn't life or death....it's o.k. to make a mistake" it isn't for me. It's not o.k. because I don't want people to see the real me. They'll run away in fright. Or they'll see me as I see me-- worthless.
My friend, T, gave me a great framed quote for Christmas. I have it placed perfectly so when I'm sitting on my couch, which is all the time, I can look directly at it. I'm not looking at it right now because I'm at work but it says:
YOU ARE
incredible
awesome
confident
nice
etc
etc
etc
LOVED
It brought tears to my eyes when she gave it to me. She may not actually think ALL of those things about me (who would, right?) but she thought enough of me to buy it for me. And that gives me hope. Hope that one day I will believe those things about me, too, and in turn, this damn anxiety will disappear.
There was one time in rehab when a girl asked me how I was doing and I said, "fine". She said, "that didn't sound very convincing. How are you, really?" And I started tearing up. She then wanted a damn hug. And that broke the goddamn dam. She said "You need to let it out" and boy did I, but that's not the point of this story. The point is -- people ask me all the time, "how are you" and I always lie and say "Fabulous". I'm not fabulous. I'm not anywhere near fabulous. I can't even see fabulous. And all I want is for someone to really & truly say:
I've wanted to blog several times but I gotta say -- I've spent so much time at work, on computers, that by the time I get home or have a day off, I don't want a damn thing to do with one of these garflunkin' contraptions! And, to be perfectly honest, my paranoia reached a peak level. I was told not to do anything on my work computer-- anything but work, that is, because they could be monitoring me. Puh-leeeze. These people couldn't find the nose on their faces. Plus, I have a brand new computer and I don't think they've had the time or the inclination to figure out how to monitor me....yet.
So, here I am at work, on my new computer, waiting for a meeting to begin. But that's for later. Now is for this blog.
Do any of you experience anxiety? I'm beginning to think I've lived with anxiety my whole life. I remember, as a little girl, being so incredibly anxious for the first day of school. And not anxious in a good way. More like, completely and totally terrified. However, I do not recall experiencing anxiety on a daily basis as I do at age 37. Geez, isn't life supposed to get better the older we get? WTF?
My anxiety is a bit ridiculous, really. It isn't about anything worthy. It isn't even about my past; all the bad I've done; my alcoholism; It isn't about what people think of me; It isn't about what's even happening to me right now (gossip-mongers!). It's simply......anxiety. Constant.
It's an all-consuming ginormous wave that envelopes my whole being. I feel it beginning in my chest and my stomach. If I don't quell it immediately with self-talk of "What the fuck are you anxious about? You have plenty of time TOMORROW to worry about shit. Live in today and enjoy today!" then it will eventually take over my entire body.
What helps? Well, drinking, for one. LOL. Ahhh, the good 'ol days when I convinced myself that it was so. The reality of the situation, however, was that the drinking only made the anxiety 1,000 times worse. No. Drinking doesn't help.
How about drugs? And by drugs, I mean prescribed medication, you hokies. I've considered it. I've seriously considered it. The problem is, I'm fearful of them now. Rehab was great, but it taught me something-- Xanax is not my friend. However much I want it to be my friend, it is not. I can see myself now....pop a pill immediately in the morning to stop the anxiety as fast as it begins, one in the afternoon...and never, ever stop. I was never a pill-popper. I never experienced a pill good enough that did what alcohol could do. But xanax comes close. My GP prescribed them to me about two weeks prior to rehab. I took a total of 2 and dissolved the rest upon my return from rehab. Boy, that was stupid. No, I don't think pills will do the trick.
The trick, ummmm, I mean the solution, is in my head. I need to figure out a way to deal with, address, the thoughts & anxiety in my head. Why do I think about such stupid shit? It's mostly about work....what I've done already and what still needs to be done and what can I think to do later? Who the fuck cares? I do, apparently. I do so much that it interferes with my sleep, my physical health, certainly my mental health, and my intellectual functioning. If I don't have early alzheimer's, then something else is seriously wrong. Just call me Alice. My mind isn't what it used to be. Also, my mind's not what it used to be.
What I've found that helps is to get up, get moving, get doing. If I'm going to be sitting at home thinking about all the shit I still need to do the next day, I might as well just do it. Or at the very least, write it down on my To-Do list and be done with it until the next day.
Ahhhh, if it were only that easy.
I think I worry so much about work and that kind of shit because I'm so incredibly insecure and completely lack self-confidence. This is all a show, folks, if you haven't figured it out yet. I do not have my shit together nor do I think I'm worth a shit. Literally. Not worth a shit. So when I do something at work, like, set up & network 6 computers, I'm constantly thinking I've fucked something up and everyone's going to see me for the fool I really am. I'm constantly worried I've done something wrong. Anything. And while I say to other people, "This isn't brain surgery....this isn't life or death....it's o.k. to make a mistake" it isn't for me. It's not o.k. because I don't want people to see the real me. They'll run away in fright. Or they'll see me as I see me-- worthless.
My friend, T, gave me a great framed quote for Christmas. I have it placed perfectly so when I'm sitting on my couch, which is all the time, I can look directly at it. I'm not looking at it right now because I'm at work but it says:
YOU ARE
incredible
awesome
confident
nice
etc
etc
etc
LOVED
It brought tears to my eyes when she gave it to me. She may not actually think ALL of those things about me (who would, right?) but she thought enough of me to buy it for me. And that gives me hope. Hope that one day I will believe those things about me, too, and in turn, this damn anxiety will disappear.
There was one time in rehab when a girl asked me how I was doing and I said, "fine". She said, "that didn't sound very convincing. How are you, really?" And I started tearing up. She then wanted a damn hug. And that broke the goddamn dam. She said "You need to let it out" and boy did I, but that's not the point of this story. The point is -- people ask me all the time, "how are you" and I always lie and say "Fabulous". I'm not fabulous. I'm not anywhere near fabulous. I can't even see fabulous. And all I want is for someone to really & truly say:
that's bullshit; how are you, really
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