It’s been a long while since posting publicly. I’ve been busy with . . .
Continuing to regularly attend therapy and all that entails.
Struggling to navigate the abysmal mental healthcare options in this country. And particularly in the state in which I live.
Worrying about money. A lot. Especially in terms of feeling like there are no real options available to me for treatment.
Learning what self-care looks like and why it’s so important.
Refusing to be completely limited by the options I can afford (which aren’t many) and pursuing other options as I can. This typically entails lots of google searching and cobbling together natural and/or low cost ideas.
Trying medication that didn’t work and now forcing myself to not be disheartened. Or afraid of trying something different.
Feeling a bit more hopeful about the future, even as I still struggle with the past. Even as I still have to work at accepting that my future isn’t going to look much the way I envisioned it.
Trying to work on self-discipline. More on that when I actually acheive some.
My anxiety has, in many ways, worsened. Apparently that’s a thing that frequently occurs as depression gets better. That’s also a thing that blows.
It really, in the beginning, centered around my writing. But my words just wouldn’t come. After tackling so many scary truths from my past through my writing, I began to feel, once I finished writing about them, as if I had nothing left to say.
As if perhaps my past was all that defined me.
I felt no creative pull. At all.
And then, in December, after a very special person spent time schooling me on creativity and the ways in which we fill our creative wells, I randomly used my kid’s Crayola watercolors to paint the image above.
It was a quiet few moments.
Free from anxiety.
And I’ve not stopped since. Though I have moved on from Crayolas.
So I’m looking forward to being a bit brave again. And exploring creativity and mental illness and the ways in which women (particularly mothers) feel free, or not, to express themselves.
It feels like an avalanche. That’s what I told my best friend last night. It’s like an avalanche and when it happens, it buries me.
When it happens, it feels as if there beneath a pile of snow, a piece of myself dies. That there’s no getting out from under it all. I give up beneath the weight and whatever finally emerges is a colorless ghost of what remains below.
I’m trying not to think in those terms anymore. I told her I really want to try to instead imagine that as soon as the avalanche runs its course, I begin scraping away. And maybe my fingers leave streaks of blood across the white of the snow and ice. But I emerge, whole, ready to keep trudging along and fight my way to the top. Holding tight to all the things that make me who I am, no matter how far away the top always seems.
I’d never described shame in these terms before.
Mainly because it isn’t something I ever talk about. With her or anyone else. Even in therapy.
My therapist knows it is something I struggle with. But I’ve never shared details about the things that invite that avalanche. The desires and emotions that feel like screams against a snowy, fragile mountainside.
I don’t know how it got to this point. I only know that radical acceptance feels like the only answer.
I support you. I want you to have that. That sounds wonderful for you.
I told my husband once that those are the only words I want to hear. When I share some part of myself with someone, those are the only words I want to hear in return. Anything less, anything different, and I’m awash. I’m rolling backwards down that mountainside.
Buried once again.
I’m the girl in a corner somewhere being screamed at, spittle flying because the many ways I’m a disappointment, and a failure, and a slut, and a cunt, can’t even be described in any manner that’s calm. They have to be shouted with a vitriol that’s physical and dripping with disgust.
Those words, that screaming, never happen in any way in my life now. Nobody treats me that way now.
I climb halfway up a slippery, frozen mountainside just to admit something I desire. Something that isn’t what society may say is normal.
I finally voice it. Not in shouts, but in whispers.
I support you. I want you to have that. That sounds wonderful for you.
If that isn’t the echo that answers my whisper, if those words aren’t on the wind that rolls back in reply, it begins.
An avalanche of shame that buries me anew.
I’m trying to imagine that as soon as the avalanche runs its course, I begin scraping away. And maybe my fingers leave streaks of blood across the white of the snow and ice. But I emerge, whole, ready to keep trudging along and fight my way to the top.
Holding tight to all the things that make me who I am, no matter how far away the top always seems.
I’m trying to keep whispering. No matter what rolls back down the mountainside.
But that isn’t always easy, especially at times when your body is rebelling. When it’s doing things that don’t feel good. That you feel you have no control over.
I’m in a dark room right now. Everything hurts. I want to sit at my computer to type this out, but I can’t physically bring myself to do so and emotionally . . . the small screen of my phone feels safer somehow.
I want to pay attention though. I want to fight this. Anxiety is wearing me down. I can’t manage it anymore. Control of it slips further and further away, like a feral animal through a gate in the night.
So this is what my anxiety feels like. This is me paying attention and putting it to words. This is my experience. It may not be someone else’s. But keep it in mind the next time someone says they have anxiety and you think they look fine.
I start pretty okay. I had a meeting to attend this evening and I expected it to be pretty low key. I felt a low level of nervousness, just in regards to getting the kids where they all needed to be, making sure everyone would have dinner, and then getting myself out the door in time.
At the meeting, shit went sideways. Nothing awful. The outcome of the meeting was not affected at all. But dismissive language was used.
My eyes welled up. My breathing felt tight.
All because I knew I was going to speak. There was no way I would sit there and not speak up.
I used a break in the meeting to step outside. I sat in my car in silence. And I wrote out a two minute speech.
The meeting resumed and I gave my speech.
By the time I got back to my seat, I felt lightheaded. As soon as the meeting was over, I left. Quietly, but immediately. Halfway to my car I felt tears on my cheeks.
I wasn’t upset.
The speech went really well and I was proud of what I’d said.
Tears are just how all of the pent up anxiety finally starts to release. Everything I didn’t allow anyone else to see. Like a pressure cooker finally releasing some of its steam.
There isn’t anywhere else for it to go. It finds its way into two tear drops that drag themselves from my soul, their hind legs paralyzed, in a bid for relief.
By the time I get home, just ten minutes later, my head is aching. My shoulders are in pain.
By the time I get in bed, two hours later, I have a full blown migraine. The back of my neck is sore from the pain radiating out of shoulders. My lower back feels like I’ve spent the day moving into a new home.
And I’m silent.
I don’t make it known. I may mention I have a migraine as I pop ibuprofen. Other than that, I try not to make a big deal of it. As if ignoring it might make it go away.
Tomorrow I’ll be exhausted. Physically wrung out from the emotional turmoil.
Which always perplexes me. I spend the day in awe of my body and its reaction.
How can I experience so much physical fallout from something nobody else can see?
He patched and painted the ceiling in the dining room after I took a step in the attic without the knowlege that one must only step on the beams.
One year, our Christmas tree just would not stay up. Until he screwed the stand to the floor. Right through the carpet.
I’ve watched him open up computers, fiddle around, button them back up and suddenly they work again. But once they’re loaded up, he’s got no use for them.
He has six children. Six times (Daddy, fix thistimes the number of toys each child has owned and/or touched and/or played with) plus (the number of friends who have visited our house times all the toys they’ve broken while here or brought because the toy was broken and they wanted him to fix it) equals roughly a metric fuck-ton of broken.
No child has ever walked away without a working toy and a hug.
He’s fixed tons of motorcycles, including that one I wanted to try. That little Sportster a woman rode. So I said, “Hey I bet I could ride that! Let me walk it into the garage!”
He stood back. I hopped on, kicked up the kickstand, took one step forward and then just keeled over to the side, unable to hold up the weight of the bike.
He fixed that, too.
Cars. Appliances. Skinned knees. Bruised egos.
He’s fixed all that.
The one thing I love the most, I can’t fix.
He’s said that to me a lot over the last three years. With a sigh and a sense of regret so thick I sometimes can’t breathe in the same room with it.
It’s not your job to.
That’s always my response. With a sigh and a sense of shame so thick I feel my throat closing.
Only I can fix me. We both know that.
But I’m no mechanic.
I flounder, searching for things that will work. Things I can manage. Things that will stick.
Therapy and vitamins. BDSM and yoga. Old friends and new. Reading and writing.
Changing how I view myself and the world around me. Changing how I confront the things that make me uncomfortable. Changing my life and how I want to live it.
That’s a lot of change to try and understand, let alone embrace.
He can’t fix me.
But every time he hugs me and tells me he’s proud . . .
Every time he sits with his discomfort while I flit about in the breeze . . .
Every time he lands a kiss on my forehead and a good girl in my ear . . .
Every time he supports and encourages . . .
He helps put a piece back in place.
He’s a mechanic who loves nothing more than when things are fixed.