Anxiety

I am so anxious all the time. I just deleted 600 emails that had accumulated in my inbox because I was afraid to check my email. Do you realize how awful that sounds? What was I afraid was in there? An oogy boogy monster waiting to eat my brain? A gigantic shiny crustacean - a decapod at that?

I am in a constant state of concern and fear that one word I say or think is going to fuck up my entire life. Let's talk about this. I hate phone calls. I go over and over and over and over (did I mention and over yet?) What I've said, what I've thought, how it could impact who I am talking to --

There are maybe 8 people (being generous here) that I am not terrified to be on the phone with. I haven't gone back to school because I'm afraid to finish my FAFSA. I'm afraid I'll break things if I try to fix them. It is so exhausting.

So what do I do? Do I try to swallow it all and just bootstrap it and hide the fact that I am one pluck away from breaking my strings because I am wound so tightly? Do I keep meditating and talking to my Buddha and hope that I can talk myself through? I meditate every night (not afraid to talk to my Buddha on the phone) in the hopes that when I wake up, I'll be calm enough to make a phone call or go into the store or not avert my eyes when someone smiles at me. But lately, I'm crumbling.

Crumbling.

Father's Day Post

I wanna say Happy Father's Day to father figureheads.

Y'all know my story with my dad - a man who had interest in my sister and brother but never in me. I worked through a lot of the abandonment that I experienced because of my belief I was worth abandoning. It was a hell of a kick in the teeth when, at almost 30, I realized I had worked hard to be abandoned because I thought I was worthless. But I digress.

I invited my dad to my wedding in 2010.

You can see my dad in the background, there. White shirt, khaki pants, striped tie. He was there in the capacity of my father, nothing more. My brother gave me away. There was a good reason for that. To this day, I cannot talk on the phone with my dad without him being drunk or without arguing with him and it is better for my mental health to not talk to him at all. Building bridges has been attempted. Crossing the old rickety one, falling apart from misuse, was a struggle, but I tried. When I got to the other side, I found a man that insists on reminding me that he simply has no ability or want to love me as much as he loves my siblings. That's it. There's no more.

Part of me wants to call him. Part of me wants to say happy father's day to the man who is my biological father, without whom I wouldn't have Reneé and Matthew (arguably the best siblings ever). But I know it's not worth it. It's just not.

I had men that were /sort of/ in my life that showed me what dads were supposed to be like by interacting with their own kids. I'm not gonna tag them because it makes me anxious but their dads were clear reminders that mine wasn't doing the right thing.

Then we have men like Alan Matthews [William Russ (Boy Meets World)], Dill [Stanley Tucci (Easy A)], Mel Horowitz [Dan Hedaya (Clueless)]. It's men like them who allowed me to expand my expectation for the man I would marry and have children with. They're (a little) weird, hardworking men who love their children fiercely even if they were figments of someone's imagination. That was important to me.

I didn't have a father. I didn't have a father figure. I had men who weren't real. I had watching-from-the-sidelines-as-my-friends-interacted-with-their-dads.

I had my mom. I had a woman who was fiercely protective of us, a woman who worked her ass off to keep the roof over our heads.

But no man. It just wasn't meant to be.

Ellie is 3. Kain will be 6 months soon. The man I married is a father, not just in the figurehead sense of the term. He's a boo-boo kisser. He's a shoe-putter-onner. He's a makes-a-bottle and doesn't-call-it-"babysitting"-when-he-watches-his-own-children kind of guy. He's the kind of father I prayed for as a kid back when I thought God was listening. He's a "let's-give-them-a-great-Christmas" kind of father and a "Well-let's-go-see-what-you-saw" kind of father. He's even a great father to our fur baby.

So Happy Father's Day to the uncles, the grand-dads, the family friends. Happy father's day to the imaginary and the real, the Thomas Wayne and the 2nd-grade-best-friend's dad (I remember you). Happy father's day to the step-dads and the uncles-by-marriage and the men who love and protect children that weren't theirs. Happy father's day to the teachers who are like dads to kids who don't have them -- I remember you, too.

And Happy Father's day to my husband, who is the best father a girl could ask for for her children. Turns out the Universe was listening and took its dear sweet time.

Today

Today I am not serene. It has been about 3 days since I felt a genuine emotion around people other than the kids. The kids are happiness all the time. They are the embodiment of joy and light and sunshine and right now, I'm a bottomless pit. I am the abyss.
I can only hope they don't see my abyss when they look at me.

I don't want anyone to touch me. Or look at me. Or come near me. I can't. I just cannot.
I know that none of it is true. I know I'm not awful. I know I'm not a steaming pile of shit. But that doesn't stop my brain from telling me that and it doesn't stop me from listening.
I'm wandering through music. Have been for an hour now. Listening to music that is lyrics and no music -- like when people remove the music track and just leave the vocals.
It is making my heart a little lighter.

Especially if it sucks.

writing when you're depressed is a battle. You do write but all you can think is, "well, this is crap."

or, "my handwriting is awful."
"no one would read that."
"pick a better word."

But really, it has nothing to do with your writing. That little voice is an asshole

- and a liar.

So you think, "let's try green ink" -- "maybe that will help." So you try.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes you get the beginning of a blog post that seems almost publishable. 

Other times you get papers ripped out of notebooks or deleted letters off a notepad because BY GOD, THAT'S SHIT.

Sometimes you just wanna punch
yourself in the face.

But then you pick the pen up off the floor by the door where you threw it and sit back down, doing breathing those meditative breaths that sometimes help. You buckle down and you do it. You do the thing. Because you have to do the thing. 

Even if it sucks.

Especially if it sucks.

Peace

It's Thursday night. I've just watched the final 5 seconds of the AZ Wildcats game and am reminded that I just have no interest in basketball of any kind.

I got my nose pierced on the 21st. Cost $30. Husband told me he wasn't happy about me getting it and I told him that he'd get used to it like he had all my other metal. Less than an hour later and I had a needle shoved through my septum followed by a piece of metal.
That night, I videochatted with my mom who was none too happy beforehand about me getting the piercing. She either didn't notice or refused to comment. 

3/22 was my birthday. I did nothing. I slept, I woke up. That was about it. At 6 PM, I had made reservations for 10 at BJ's Brewhouse. We all were there (which was nice) and though no one else commented on it, my little brother did. He'd been watching my Snapchat stories and little messages about wanting it done. He said it looked good. ^.^ 
I found myself being a little frustrated that, even if they didn't like it, they could at least acknowledge it. I recognize that this is part of me needing the validation of those around me and I also recognize that I love it. I think it looks damn adorable. And I need to understand that there are people in my life who will never support some of the things I do. That's not a reflection of me.

Today, I meditated because I couldn't sleep. I walked down a familiar cobblestone road, dressed in the yellow sundress of my dreams, feet in sandals. I walked and walked between the German-style architecture of the houses, until there were less houses and the people dwindled. I walked until I reached a curb, beyond which lay nothing but miles and miles and miles of field. I slipped my shoes off and stepped over the curb and began to walk, my feet comfortable in the green grass that always seems to grow there. 
Off in the distance, I saw it -- the weeping willow that had been there for as long as I'd been meditating there, and I quickened my pace as it became closer. The warm and gentle breeze blew through my dress, my hair, against my legs, and I felt at home in this spring clearing. When I arrived at the tree, under the thick foliage of the tree rested my big floppy hat and my copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. That's where I'm most peaceful - under that tree. Reading Harry Potter.

Where are you most peaceful?

Depression 2017

I was speaking with a close friend earlier this evening and the topic of mental disorders came up. [[I suffer from clinical depression.]] We discussed how many young girls (teenagers, young adults) romanticize the disorders we legitimately suffer from. In a (characteristic) rant, I said the following.

Imagine you've got an enemy. You hate this enemy more than anyone else on the face of the planet. You are told that you have to be with this enemy. You're not allowed to kill them and you have to take care of them -- hold them, clean them, make sure they're safe. But your hatred for them seethes every time you know you have to do something for them. Now imagine this enemy is yourself.

Some days, you don't care what happens to you. Some days, you know that, if something were to happen to take your life, you wouldn't stop it. You'd step into the way. Sometimes the hate is a welcome change from feeling nothing.

Tell me you want that. Tell me you want to walk out through your front door and feel the first legitimate warmth you've felt in days. You don't even feel like you are running at normal people temperature. You're practically dead.

I'm better than I've been the last couple of weeks. I didn't help myself by sitting here quietly, losing myself in the internet, losing myself in music. I don't have that luxury now. I have an almost 3 year old. I have an almost 3 month old. I have a husband who works graveyards and needs to sleep during the day. I don't have the luxury of wallowing. If there is such a thing as functional depression, that's what I've got.

I helped myself by communicating. I'm a little rusty at it, but I did well, I think. I talked to my husband. I told him what I was feeling. Some of the people in the #bloggesstribe helped me, asking how I was. Good looking out. I'm glad you guys were there. I know this post is sort of everywhere -- I'm working on making my brain go in order. Maybe, though, it's not supposed to. Things to think about.