Tag Archives: anxiety

I swam with mer-people

Ok, so they were seals but someone a long time ago probably thought they were mermaids and that’s good enough for the purposes of this posts.

I’m not going to lie, I was super excited about this. By super excited, I mean that I was swee-ing all the way to the seals. Also, I just wrote sqeals which is kind of a pun.

I didn’t start panicking until I was in the middle of the ocean which I take as a success (although clearly my self preservation instincts are rusty). Of course I chose to snorkel for the first time in the middle of the ocean with wild animals BUT IF I DIE, I DIE. Snorkeling reminds me kind of hyperventilating which is where the panic came in, but I overcame and kind of just let go. The ocean took me and I actually enjoyed seeing the seals dance around me. The waves were a bit choppy and I swallowed a large volume of salt water, but I had a lot of fun.

My husband, in the other hand, did not feel the same. This feeling was most aptly expressed in the large volume of vomit he expressed at the end. The marine has no sea legs.

Here are my sad photos of the seals.

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Can I just start telling people I don’t want to talk to them because their entire being makes me anxious?

Have you ever met someone that literally makes your internal anxiety organ twitch? Not a slight twitch either – like a full on muscle spasm?

I meet people like that sometimes and I feel as though I should have a universal pass that says:

Picture1
my calling card

Personally, I’d like to think they’d be so caught off guard my clear lack of understanding of human anatomy that they’d wouldn’t notice as I try to melt into the closest wall.  But, they might believe the anxio-brachial organ exists.  Does it sound official enough? Someone let me know.

While we are at it,  invisibility is really something I have to work on.  Every once in a blue moon, I have days where I wake up and say, “You know what! I feel fancy today.  I would like to be noticed.” Without fail, two hours later someone does that exact thing.  Except the exact thing is a man on the street groping you.  The universe basically said ‘Fuck you” and I went back to hiding in my house.  Or under my desk.  Or in my bed.  Or hiding behind a food stand, because I saw someone from work and my first instinct is to run in the other direction.  My survival instincts are clearly intact even if they are usually flawed in logic.  I have a great penchant for hiding from people I don’t want to see, but then I ignore a bladder infection for three days for no reason and don’t tell anyone.  When I kick the bucket, it’s going to be for ignoring something strange and some person will find my body 6 days later.  The autopsy will show something mundane and everyone will be confused and suspect fowl play.  Flowers of Lys, I say (GoT reference).

I’m not sure how I spun that paragraph to end with me dead, but oh well.  The entire point of this post which I’ve done a great job deviating from is that some people make the anxio-meter go up 100 points and I’d like a pass in dealing with them.  Inevitably, I fumble and they freak out because usually they are people in some kind of position of power (shocking, I know) and then I spend three hours trying figure out how to ask them a question or re-type an email 85 times.

You know who I really need those cards for, though.  Those people in the mall who want to stop and talk to you about your skin.  Also, god. Anyone in a mall stand who accosts you instead of following the WELL KNOWN RULE THAT NO ONE WANTS YOUR HELP THEY JUST WANT TO SHOP QUIETLY WITH THE LEAST AMOUNT OF SOCIAL INTERACTION POSSIBLE.  Wait, is that just me?

 

 

Fuck me, I need therapy

Again.

If you are anything like me, I know you’ve had that thought. Your perfectly respectable (also perfectly fucking annoying) mental illness is acting up again and you get to a point, after you’ve cried 12 times in one day, had vicious mood swings, and have the anxiety shits for three days, where you are contemplating handing over $175 for 50 minutes to someone you love but can’t afford.

I’m sitting here with her email address up, wondering if I should take the plunge. Deep down I know what she will say. In fact, I can name them:

1. You’ve gotten married, moved, and basically have no job. That’s a lot of personal stress.

2. Do you have a routine? (In case you are wondering, no I don’t because I’m a fucking child and I’m floundering in some level of personal crisis.

3. Are you taking your meds appropriately? No, because once again clearly I can’t be trusted with my own well being.

4. Are you eating? Yes, I’d like to eat a gallon of ruffles chips right now, but this motherfucker resisted.

5. Are you pregnant? No. Not unless my unborn child is a ninja. (No, really. I checked because I’ve been convinced I’m losing my fragile little mind. Yes, my ass actually took a test out of sheer desperate in a weird parking lot bathroom).

6. This is a lot of transition and change for you to deal with. Do you have a support system? I can’t really bring my anxiety and depression with me to dinner. Unless they were wine bottles named anxiety and depression, then I could do that. I’m trying with people. I generally kind of suck at peopling. I’m trying with people. I generally kind of suck at the social scene. If I’m trashed, I’m wonderful but I don’t think that’s a great way to handle things that make my brain shake.

7. Are you going outside? Yes. I have to walk everywhere. Yayyyyy, physical activity.

8. What’s acting up? Well, I’ve had five anxiety attacks in four weeks (did you know there is a differenxe between an anxiety attack and a panic attack? I did not. I’ve been using the wrong vocab all this time). Then the depression sucks the air out of this windbag and promotes pathetic amounts of slouching.

9. Do you think this has anything to do with returning to a similiar country as the one you were physically attacked in 2012? Probably, but I wish it were more obvious. I try not to let it stop me from doing stuff. Then this guy touched me unnecessarily last week (because stroking my side is a great way to flirt with a random pedestrian) and I just turned around and walked back home. We got stopped by the police and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. So, maybe its acting up more than I’d like to admit to myself. I don’t want it to act up. That’s the thing about someone using a metal pole to hit a home run with your head, it doesn’t really matter if you want it to act up or not. It just does. The other night I was at a function and it was outside so it was pretty dark. The shadows reminded me of people running across the highway in Nigeria and for some reason I couldn’t handle them.

10. How’s this effecting your marriage? It makes me hard to deal with. It’s exhausting. I feel guilty. I’m trying to bury it in the backyard but then the bitch floods.

That’s probably covers a lot of questions she would ask. She’d probably tell me to not be so hard on myself which is generally not my greatest talent.

I guess the thing that makes it worse is feeling like I need to pretend to be ok. Generally, people want to hear that you’re good and life is instagram level fun and move on. I understand that. But, life is messy, people are complex, and joining yourself with another human is an ongoing series of unfortunate events with little peaks of nice-nice.

I guess I don’t have to pretend, but at the same time no one wants to be the debbie downer in a conversation. I mean, I don’t even want to feel like this so no one wants to hear my shit.

Also, I’m pretty sure there is no Wi-Fi on this flight which will severly impact the next ten hours of my life.

Update: I survived.

Wake up

Tw: suicide

If you’ll do me the honor of putting on Wake up by NF while you read this, it’ll set the mood.

I’m sitting at the feet of the Nelson Mandela statue right now listening to this song on repeat.

Someone good committed suicide recently. Someone so kind. Someone too fucking good for this world. And I’m so goddamn torn up about it, that I can’t even form sentences.

She was one of many who were plagued by monsters. The kind that attack your mind and make everything so dark that you can’t find your way out. She fought them to death.

It’s so easy to write off suicide as weak. It’s so easy to say “they should of decided to live.” It’s so easy to shame those who suffer from mental illness. It’s so easy to forget the people who are different than us. It’s so easy to judge another’s suffering by ambiguous standards. It’s so easy to write a shitty blog post about suicide.

I’m so tired of being embarrassed and ashamed that sometimes I can’t keep my depression and anxiety locked away. I’m so tired of running away when the panic sets in. I’m so tired of hearing the excuses about mental illness. I’m so tired of hating myself. I’m tired of fighting.

I want people to wake up. I want communities to stop pretending they don’t play a part in suicide. I want people to not give up on us. I want you to stop excluding someone your friends call weird. I want people to stop walking away when they don’t understand a panic attack. I want you to go after the kid crying at work. I want you to ask how are you and not be afraid of the answer. I want you to reach out to someone you know and ask if they are ok. I WANT YOU TO ASK HOW TO HELP SOMEONE SUFFERING.

All it takes is one action. One moment. To change a person’s life.

I know what you are thinking. Families feel the strain of mental illness. Husbands and wives watch the person they love become a shell and they don’t know what to do. Sisters and brothers get tired of checking on their sibling. Friends are tired of the person turning down their invites. Sometimes they just want this disease to go away.

I get it. We get it. We need to stand up with our pain. We need to scream “here it fucking is. I carry this monster with me and I am not ashamed.” We need to ask for help. We need to get help. We need weapons to keep fighting. We need to get up when a hole in the ground seems like a great idea. We need to stop believing we are worthless because it’s not true. We

I want you to know what ever monsters that you carry with you, they are not bigger than you. You keep on fighting. This world is not better without you. Put down that knife and back away from the fucking ledge because we need you here. We need you.

So many of us have felt that temptation. So many of us planned it. So many of us almost did. So many of us tried.

I’ve been on that bridge, friend. I’ve wanted to watch all my pain fall with me. It takes everything to pull yourself back from the edge. Don’t let those monsters take you. They don’t deserve your life.

The Spin Instructor

I’ve recently decided to go to spin classes as an alternate form of exercise and except for causing a sore vag from the seat – I have to admit that its pretty ok. (I’m not sorry for admitting that. My vagina is a tender beast)

Last night, I have to admit I developed a mild crush on my instructor for to reasons:

1. His playlist was fire (delicious South African beats, Lady Gaga, Whitney, a remake of “You don’t own me” and ABBA).

2. He vogued and made us boogie on our bikes. He probably could have said “TWERK BITCH,” and I would have tried.

The majority of the class did not have as much fun as I did. I will cop to getting down on my bike and singing really, really loudly. Also, sweating like it was my damn job.

I have pretty intense anxiety sometimes and doing things with my body publicly is more likely to send me spiraling into panic than be fun. However, this time around I felt good and for one hour I stopped caring so much.

I almost asked for his playlist, but that was a bridge too far last night. All in all it was a great 60 minutes.

Until I got home and realized that I left the hose on refilling the pool and almost flooded the yard a smidge. Oops.

I tried to cure my perpetual anxiety with hot yoga and I almost died

Also, I know that anxiety isn’t particularly curable, but let’s just pretend.

If you have ever woken up with an invisible body sitting on your chest, then you know that you will spend an innumerable amount of time TRYING TO GET THAT FUCKER OFF YOU.

So, I decided to go to hot yoga for the first time since 2013. I remember the heat being great for pretending that I was sweating out my feelings and stuff.

And breathing. Zen. All that good shit, right? I went to the class in shorts surrounded by posh yoginis and their obligatory yoga gear. I took off my shirt because I didnt want to spend the class fighting with it falling over my head because it was too big and I suck at being prepared.

Everything started out fine. I couldn’t really breathe. My chest hurt. But it was fine.

Then I started sweating like I was in the goddamn desert in a parka. I had to go to the bathroom to wipe the sweat out of my eyes. I had no grip on my mat BECAUSE WHY WOULDN’T I REMEMBER TO BRING A TOWEL SO THAT I WOULDN’T SWIMMING THROUGH A POOL OF SWEAT. That’s right. I was swimming in sweat. The teacher had to get me a towel because I was fucking up her class with my ineptitude.

Then when I finally could grip my mat. I couldn’t see straight anymore and was pretty close to vomiting. You know that feeling when you haven’t had caffeine and your body is raging against you because HELLO ADDICTION. No? Well, ok. My stomach was violently close to expelling acid because I didn’t eat.

So. I walked out 50 minutes in to a 90 minute class. I left my mat (I am sorry I knoe its bad form) and walked to the grocery store to get something to stop me from fainting. And, I am ok with that.

There was a time I would have kept going and made myself sick, but you know what? It’s not worth it.

Sometimes quitting is ok. It’s really not necessary to go full excorist vomit in a yoga class I paid for.

I spent the rest of the day with the heaviness in my chest until I started arguing about current events with hot husband. Go figure.

Two Truths and a Lie

It seems like an ongoing theme in my life that the truth isn’t really that important to other people. But, it’s important to me.

Some of the most shitty parts of my life vice getting slapped in the head with a metal pole and the violent depression that followed revolves around lies.

I’m not sure what it is about the difference between honesty and dishonesty that makes me feel unhinged but there’s nothing like a well timed lie and the eventual discovery to break my sanity into a million pieces.

I go through the seven stages of grief every single time like it won’t happen again.

And spoiler alert, it always happens again. I’m not sure why I never see it coming because its like a bullet train that’s about to hit me in the face.

Good therapy will tell you that people don’t change and the only person you can control is yourself. But, people don’t change, right? So, what the shit am I supposed to do when faced with this existential crisis again?

If I’m honest, this has been a problem with all the guys I dated except one. That one, to my knowledge, was unfledgingly honest and at that particular age I was too clingy.

A few years ago, I thought I worked really hard not to be clingy and insecure but then I found out about internet sexting and how that can ruin ones self esteem. I won’t tell you all is well and that it never creeps up on me like my period exploding at 4 am. It does and it hurts almost as much as the first time I was cheated on physically.

It must be me, right? I’m hard to be honest with. I don’t have good reactions to the truth. As another former lover would say “you didn’t want me to do xyz anyway so I didn’t tell you the truth.” This person was right. I didn’t want xyz to happen. And then it did. Over and over again.

Does anyone ever check up on old lies like they are friends? Is that just me? If we are trying to delve deep in my psyche, I guess I like hurting myself. I try not to sit around and do this because its bad for my mental health and the words obsessive and “stalker” get thrown around but I’m tired of hiding the fact that this hurts. And, lets be honest. Y’all do it too.

So, it hurts. It makes me feel unhinged. It may be dramatic and seem petty, but you know what?

I have a lot of fucking feelings and a lot of faults. And the shit that hurts the most is never going away, so all that’s left is to put my brain back together and keep trucking.

Because there is one thing I know for a fact. My life isn’t ever going to get easier. I just have to deal with the hard punches as they come and keep getting up. Eventually, I will get stronger or I will die.

Folding laundry

Things I fixate on while depressed:

1. Your eyebrows. Skeptical arches don’t make themselves (maybe).

2. Keeping your closet clean. I’m up to two weeks. Granted the drawers are a mess but everything is put away.

3. Folding laundry (a necessary evil for keeping your closet clean).

4. Online browsing for a marine corps birthday ball dress. Its sad how many hours I’ve spent on this. 

5. Contemplating my shoe collection. I have a minor addiction.

6. Trying to get at least 10000 steps a day and resorting to reading and walking to motivate myself. 

7. Fixating on wedding photos for several hours and then experiencing a facebook tag mania. 

8. Reading books in series too fast and finish 11 outlander books in three months without realizing you got to the last book then grieve that you have to live without the characters until the 12th book comes out.

9. Rewatch random parts of beauty and the beast several times. 

10. Worry about the shampoo you are using excessively and spend a weird amount of time in the hair care aisle of the store.

11. Name all of the stray dogs near the embassy. Develop relationships even though you can’t take any one of them home because you have two dogs.

12. Stay up late stalking family for photos and information for your massive family tree.

And this is why I can’t be responsible for things

Also why I’d probably survive pretty much any massively shitty situation.

Once upon a time I decided to leave my house on a Sunday in search of a monastery to take photos of. 

I like pretty stuff and I dont mind driving a resonible amount of time to look at it. So, I drove to Curchi Monastery. This is what I found.




Also, I found these dogs and they were cute.

Whilst listening to the name of thrones sound track I drove him (btw you should totally listen to it because its magical). I kept thinking to myself “god it would suck if my car broke right now.”

I stopped at the grocery store and got myself a covrigi (#delicious)

I should have known the day was going south when I had trouble counting my money at the grocery store. I don’t know why, but I feel as though it should have been a clue.

I returned to my car and it was doing the thing where it starts and then tuckers out. Usually this happens in the cold but it wasnt particularly cold yesterday. Except this time, the car kept turning off.

Unfortunately, my survival mode kicked in and my brain was yelling very loudly to go the fuck home right now. So I hit the gas and tried to keep my rpms above zero so the car would stay on. The car did not stay on. I pissed off at least for people and almost died at least twice. I finally got to my garage but the car wouldn’t stay running for me to turn into my parking space. Probably a combination of not wanting to ask anyone for help, severe anxiety, and adrenaline helped me decide that I needed to push my car into its space. 

I moved a car in neutral at least five feet while turning it. I’m pretty sure the sounds I was making were close to the sounds you make when you’re reach constipated but don’t want to give up on your poop dreams. 

I’m getting my car fixed tomorrow although it’s seemingly running ok at the moment. Here is what I have learned from this situation:

1. I suck at car stuff and it turns me into an hyperventilating, crazy hulk beast. But just overseas. In America, it’s easier. 

2. Leaving the house was a mistake, but I have to make myself do it anyway. It helps me grow…as a person…or something…

3. Asking for help will always be fucking dreadful

4. You’d be surprised at how much crazy shit you can deal with. And, survive. (This sounds overdramatic – I mean in general not really for this particular situation)

5. A book about my life would be aptly titled “Misadventures: how do I get out of this situation without dying?”

Creativity vs Depression

I’m currently between two extremes:

  1. Massive Creative Mania
  2. Kinda want to wrap myself in depression’s blanket 

I’m sure it would help if I slept like a normal person. Don’t get me wrong, my sleep issues don’t have me up at all hours like they did in 2012-2013.  Mostly, I have trouble shutting down my brain to get to sleep, staying asleep, and then I have insane dreams that either leave me vastly confused about WTF is going on in my brain or upset about the emotional conflict that my brain made up.

Sidenote: I once thought there was a medication that stopped dreams. There is not.

I could deal with the sleep thing if I had benadryl – but I’m all out until my amazon order (Go to the store, you say.  They don’t have it here) comes in. Which is fine, I can hack it until then. Probably.

I feel like I am stuck between two extremes: wanting to do everything and wanting to do nothing.  The internal arguments between the Lindsay’s are particularly interesting and go something like this:

Artistic L: I NEED A GRAPHIC DESIGN APP. 
Depressed L: I’m tired
Artistic L: WE SHOULD WRITE THIS STORY
Depressed L: I want to sleep
Artistic L: AND HERE IS ANOTHER IDEA FOR OUR WRITING 
Depressed L: are you always this loud?
Anxiety: I have to pee 

How do you manage the extremes?  And well the anxiety doesn’t know what to do, so we are currently in the midst of a mental cold war.

And because the creative one is on hyperdrive – I created the below as a compromise.

BeFunky Design2.jpg