Speaking Up

 I don't know what's wrong with me anymore. I mean, I do. I have a diagnosis. Two different forms of anxiety. Panic disorder. OCD. Borderline agoraphobia. New meds that make me feel like I'm in a fog. At least, I think it's the meds. Maybe it's just the mental illnesses. I don't fucking know. I hate it.

I can't even pinpoint when I started spiraling anymore. Was it late August? Mid-September? I don't know. My mind is jumbled. My mind is broken. My mind is sad.

I wish I could explain how deep in hell I feel like I am. I wish I could explain why the most random things trigger my fight, flight, or freeze reflexes. I wish I could explain why I've stopped talking, why I've stopped reaching out. Sometimes I feel like everyone has their own bullshit, far worse than my stupid shit. Sometimes I feel that people won't care. I've been shown enough in my life that because I'm not a certain way, because I'm not a certain type, that I really just don't matter. I've had people brush me off when I talk about my problems, people that I have tried to be there for when it matters. Maybe that latter feeling is all in my head, too. My friends and family are good people. They're just not mind readers.

I'm tired. I'm tired of the life I'm living. I'm tired of fighting every day to have some semblance of control and normalcy. I'm tired of school, and my god, does that pain me to type that. I LOVE school. I love learning. I don't love it right now when I feel like I'm being pulled in a million different directions and my brain is spiraling into madness because some bullshit triggered my OCD. I have a million different things to do. The holidays are upon us. I have projects up the ass. I keep missing Spanish meetings because my anxiety ramps up. My only saving graces are that I'm doing well enough that I shouldn't completely bomb out of everything. I hope.

I just want one day, one hour, even one minute of feeling like I did a few months ago. Before all of this. Before I turned into a giant bag of nerves that gets twanged by the tiniest thing. Before I felt like the world was going to end every day. Before the fear of dying showed up to haunt the times I have to go somewhere.

I've tried a lot of things to get through these days. Self-help books didn't help. Meds are barely helping. Trying to brush it off and say that it is all in my head doesn't help and just makes me feel like I'm a useless bag of crap that can't deal with anything.

I'm honestly at a loss. I have no idea what to do anymore. I'm hoping that I'll just snap out of it, but no, it is never that easy. Maybe it will fade like it has done sometimes in the past. Maybe I'll just die of old age still living with this shit making my every waking moment hell. No wonder I go to bed so early. It's the only way to let go.

I have an appointment with my psych on Tuesday, and it may be time to change up my meds again. Maybe I just need more time with my therapist, who is, of course, leaving from the place where I see him. Which of course means I will have another task to do by trying to find a new therapist that I mesh with. Fun times. I'm tired already.

And that will end this post. 

Goodbye, Crap Band

Tomorrow I am having my Lap Band removed. For those of you that have followed along at home, you know this has been an ongoing fight with this piece of crap for nearly a decade now, beginning with a serious malfunction a mere three months after having it placed.

This was never the thing for me. My body was telling me so from the very beginning, yet I stubbornly clung to the hope that this would be the magic "something" that I needed to be thin and beautiful. Spoiler alert: it was not, and while I no longer want that thin and beautiful ideal, I would like to be healthy.

Since the last major incident with this piece of shit plastic, I've felt like I have a ticking time bomb in my body. Every time food gets stuck, every time the reflux flares up, every time I have pain in my left side where the port is, I would wonder if that was it for me and my stomach. I've seen what it can do (reflux, fucked up esophagus, gangrenous stomach, DEATH), but I still kept it.

It almost feels like an abusive relationship (absolutely no offense meant to anyone who has dealt with legit abusive relationships). I know what this thing is doing to my body. I know it isn't helping me anymore (if it ever did help me in the first place). I know that right now I feel like I can't exist without it, but that's a lie. I lived thirty years without it. I even lost weight on my own. Yet there is that inner voice telling me that even though this thing is useless, I'll go back to what I was before, that I don't have the strength or willpower to do it alone. That I'll be a failure for the rest of what remains of my life, if I even live that long while being so grossly obese.

These thoughts are tiring and wrong, and I know they stem from being afraid of gaining all of the weight I did lose (100 lbs) back. I'm still not at a healthy weight. I want to be. I want to live my life and be a good example for my son. I know keeping something that is actively hurting me isn't a good example at all, but I'm so afraid to part with it. It's stupid. I could die from it, but I also feel like it's the only thing keeping me in check, even if it isn't.

Tomorrow it will all be a moot point. After I heal up, I'll have the option of getting another surgery to help with my weight, but I'm quite obviously reluctant to move forward on that. I guess time will tell whether or not I can succeed in losing weight on my own or if I'll need yet another helping hand because I'm weak. I want to be strong. I want to be healthy without needing to get my guts rearranged. That's all I want.

Well, that and surviving the surgery. That would be a plus, too.

A Year

It was a year ago today that we got hit with the news of my brother-in-law's untimely death, which subsequently triggered the whole move back to California.

It probably goes without saying that this has not been an easy year.

My son is not the same person. Whatever joy he took in learning was pretty much wrung out of him last summer (most of the people who read here know why). He's turned into a very withdrawn and quiet kid, and it's only rarely that we can pull him out of his darkness. He is in group therapy now, but I fear that it is not enough, and I worry about him constantly. I'm hoping that this upcoming trip to Chicago will give him closure for the home that he lost since he never got to say goodbye last summer.

I will not speak for my husband, but I will say that he has also changed, and that our marriage is rocky. I'll leave it at that because he's not here to okay anything I write about him or us (my son okayed the above paragraph about himself).

I feel like I've aged a million years in these past twelve months. I've lost so much of myself. I fake happy. Sometimes I feel no emotions, except pure rage (which doesn't really work in my case because all I do is get super pissed off and cry because I can't murder someone). Sure, I have a job. I'm damned good at it too, when certain shitlords leave me alone (another story for another day). I've thought about going to school again. I've thought about a million and one ways to just get my life together and do what I want to do.

But I can't.

I know I have depression. I can function, but I'm just going through the motions. I generally only show real emotion about my son. He is why I go on. I suppose I should seek help for this, but I'm always so exhausted and feel stretched so thin by life that even thinking about piling on therapy sessions for myself makes me tired.

I know his death is not my tragedy to exploit and use as a crutch, especially when I used to rage about all of the shit he would pull. Today though has just dredged up a whole host of actual feelings for me, which is why I needed to write.

I feel sadness for him dying. He was a jerk sometimes, but I also know how truly loved he was by his friends and family. The huge memorials and page dedicated to him are a testament to that. The funeral last year shows how valued he was in the music world. The memory of my son's face when I told him what had happened is one that I'll never be able to erase from my mind because that was his only uncle, and they were actually close on some levels.

I feel anger. What the fuck happened? Was he just so tired that he fell asleep? Was it something else (god, I don't want to dwell on that option)? Why the hell did this happen to him?

I feel guilt. Guilt for the way I talked about him. Guilt for being angry at the situation he left us in. Guilt for not trying to understand him better. Why do I feel these things? Why does it matter?

I never planned on moving back to California. I certainly never in my whole fucking life planned to live with my in-laws. Yet here we are. We survived year one. Barely.

I hope the next year goes better.

Sweet Home Chicago

I was 26 when we moved to this area, with a little more than a year of marriage under my belt and a 15-month-old in tow. I still felt like such a baby, afraid of her own shadow. Scared of the booming thunderstorms, because we never experienced those in my area of California. Scared of living and experiencing life, of exploring an alien city. A big city, with a bad reputation. It was okay for the first year because I was still sheltered and we were living in a suburb in Indiana.

Then we moved to the city proper.

I cannot begin to tell you of the many things I was uncertain about. I was scared of the crowds and the buildings and just everything. I was scared in general because of anxiety and depression. I was stressed out all of the time because I wanted my home state, where I could hit the beach or go see family or just be around the familiar. I was so alone, trying to make a good marriage and raise a kid. It was overwhelming.

Slowly, slowly, I realized that I was only killing myself by being scared of everything, by not enjoying what this city was. Yes, Chicago has many many flaws, but what it has to offer is more than I could have ever hoped for.

I began to get involved with city life. We visited museums, we walked, we explored the vast array of neighborhoods. We mingled with the locals (to this day, I maintain that Chicagoans are some of the friendliest people in the world), we went to Cubs games (and befriended fellow fans). We tried new foods, things we'd never be able to try in California. I was hired for one of the best jobs I ever had and worked with some of the best people I had ever met. I renewed my passion for the arts, from going to the opera with my son to getting a membership to the Art Institute so I could bask in the glory of some of the greatest works of art ever (and snark on it, because that's just me).

We built a life here.

Our son grew up here.

East Hyde Park, Chicago. This neighborhood and all of the friendly familiar faces I know are a part of me, of us, now. This city is in our blood. It forced me to grow up and be independent and learn more than I have ever learned before. For eleven years, we have called Chicago home, and tomorrow I will no longer be able to say that.

Work In Progress

That describes me.

After almost three months, I have finished my anxiety/phobia workbook.

So what does that mean?

Well, it means that I have read it all (even the spiritual shit, which I'll get into in a bit), did the written exercises (with the exception of my goals, which I will finish this week), implemented the coping mechanisms that were suggested into my daily life, and am now working on various other physical and mental parts of myself.

Does this mean I am cured?

No fucking way. I have a loooooooong way to go still. I still battle myself and my phobias and anxieties on the regular. Maybe not every day, but they are there. However! I am much more prepared for flareups of the hellbeast that inhabits my mind. I am also majorly struggling with is my self-esteem and self-image, which leads me to not taking care of myself physically. I still keep rolling on though, and someday I will catch on and get with it. Not perfectly, but moving in the right direction.

So what changed?

Quite a few things. I know how to handle anxiety better. I do deep breathing exercises. I do muscle relaxation before I go to bed. I read my Personal Bill of Rights and Daily Affirmations every morning for motivation. I have learned how to handle my mood swings better, and I think my family can attest to this. I rarely lash out like I was doing, and I choose my words carefully when things get heated. I try to stay calmer and less on edge than I was, but if I do lose control, I don't let it eat at me. I write about it, figure out what happened, and act accordingly (apologies, talking out why I did this and why I reacted this way, etc). I've also started meditating, but I don't know that is working out because I just started yesterday (it was the last chapter in the book, so yeah).

What was the hardest part of this journey through a self-help book?

Dealing with the memories that came up. Flat out. I have had a lot of unpleasantness in my life, and having those memories that I've tried to suppress come up was a lot of heartache. There were two exercises that helped with this a lot, even though they hurt like hell to do. One was getting in touch with my inner child. I think having to do that broke down a lot of the wall that was keeping everything in because that little girl was still hurt by the actions of others, but she was trying to be brave and adult.

The second exercise was writing letters to the people that hurt me in various ways. Granted, there were only three, but it was pretty extreme. They will never be sent, but a LOT of my anger and hatred came out in writing them. After the initial feelings, I felt better, and can now see these people for who they are. I pity them.

So what about the spirituality?

This is still a very sensitive area for me. I wrote about this in my personal diary last night, so here is part of that entry: "I think I've always wanted to explore my spirituality further, but organized religion has turned me off of even that. I know they are two separate issues, but it's hard to get past that mental thing of religion=spirituality, since that is what I grew up with. There are certain times of the year where I feel so close to a breakthrough on the higher power issue. It's so fleeting though. I wish I could describe that feeling better or hold on to it longer than a few days."

That's kind of where I am, and I really wish I could describe that fleeting feeling in more detail.

I did download a meditation app (you know shit is serious when I'm downloading apps), and it's FREEEEEEEE and covers various types of meditation, religion, spirituality without religion, and wisdom from various regions of the world. It's actually pretty cool for being free, and I think you can pay a one time fee if you want to download stuff to listen to offline. However, I'm never unplugged, so I'm good.

So now what?

I keep working on myself, loving myself, taking care of myself, and if things don't go perfectly, I will not beat myself up. Life happens. That is my mantra.

Life. Fucking. Happens.

The End

Just of this month of blogging. I feel like I copped out a lot, partially because I was sick, but mostly because I'm just a boring person. My life is quiet. I guess that can be considered a blessing. Maybe.

Anyway, I'm not making promises to write more because it never turns out well. If I get the writing itch, I'll pound out something. I doubt it will be with any regularity, because I don't roll like that. Too much laziness and apathy.

So until next time

Tomorrow is Halloween, which means I'll probably blog early so we can go wade through the crowds tomorrow night. Whee.

I don't really have much to talk about tonight. Shit has been going down all day in the real world, but I really feel like I don't need to recap it, since everyone knows what's up. It's been equal parts glorious and gross.

Anyway, I'm off to watch Supergirl.