Emotional exhaustion

Anxiety attacks are so depleting. They take so much raw energy, so much emotion, but afterwards, even if there has been no resolution to the problem(s) you were stressed out about, you're so exhausted from the anxiety attack itself that it's typically easier to rest then.

Or at least that's been my experience with them.

I am supposed to be gone right now. Driving Josh to the airport, sending him off on the first business trip he's had to take in two years, but instead I'm sitting home, trying to keep my knee from swelling up even more, and wishing that anxiety was a curable disease...and that I was cured.

What actually set me off is not the fact that he was leaving, though, I'm okay with that; what I'm not okay with is the idea of having to drive to and from Little Rock (I've only been once, Josh drove and we just went to Whole Foods and back) alone. I'm good with directions, and have driven all over the place, from South Texas to Pittsburgh, and everywhere in between, but usually not alone. Plus, my knee is really messed up, worse than I initially thought it was, and being in a car that long would have been terribly uncomfortable.

I feel bad about it, but in a few ways it is more convenient this way. Less gas, less wear on the car, and I don't have to be worried about picking him up, and flight delays, and what not. He'll just drive himself home when he gets in.

I won't be stuck without a car, though, my parents are coming up later today, and they'll stay until Thursday...so I'll be alone (with the animals) until this afternoon, then again on Thursday for a few more hours. No big deal. Even if they weren't coming, I don't think I would have minded being car-less for a few days, not like I'm the type to run around and do stuff alone.

My appointment with the orthopedic specialist isn't until the 25th of this month, but if things get too much worse I may end up back at the regular doctors office before then. It's not really that it's painful, in fact the only time it really hurts is when I twist it to the side, it's just uncomfortable. It feels tight, almost like it needs to pop, but it's popped multiple times and that never seems to relieve any of the pressure. The only way I can describe it is like a rubber band that's stretched too far. It also kind of feels like my thigh muscle is pushing on my knee. It's gross, and weird, and I'm tired of it.

But despite all of that I am really looking forward to spending some time with my parents this week! Hopefully I'll be able to do something other than just sit around all week, my mom and I have a wonderful tradition of shopping that I can't imagine us not participating in any time we're together. ;)

We also have to go to ReStore, I have a few bags to donate, and my mom said she was bringing a few bags of clothes that someone gave her so that I could look through and see if anything struck my fancy, and if not we'd just donate all that too. I haven't done anything else since I hemmed up those shorts last week, there's nowhere for me to elevate my leg when I'm sitting at my craft table.

Josh got to DJ again on Thursday night. He could have on Friday too, but he wasn't scheduled too, so he was drinking...and he didn't want to embarrass himself. He ended up doing that anyway, mostly just because he gets ridiculous when he's drunk, but that's not nearly as bad as messing up a music set in front of a crowd of drunk people trying to dance. Then, he passed out in the car, and only woke up to tell me what a great pace I had going, and how well I was passing everyone without bumping them. (We were the only people on the road the whole way home.) I think he's been watching too much Nascar!

I'm making pancakes for my parents this week, I think I'm going to try the apple ones, so hopefully I remember to document the recipe and post it. I'm going to go finish trying to make almond butter now, and then hopefully get some rest before my parents get here!

P.S. If you're into dance music, Josh finally made a fan page on facebook...he posted a video I took the other night, and he's going to be adding some mixes soon so check it out!

Anguish

Some days I feel like such a captive in my own head. I can hear my sanity screaming at me, but for some reason it's locked behind the depression, behind the anxiety, and sadness prevails. And then, I'm even more depressed because I know that I can be happy, I know what it feels like, I had it such a short time ago and now it's slipped out of my grasp. I know it will come again, because this is the cycle that I live with, but at the same time my disease keeps on telling me that it won't. It tricks me, it lies, and it insists that this is my new reality. A life of melancholy days, and panic-filled, thought-racing nights. A life of being stuck inside because I can't bear to leave my house.

I'm sorry if this is depressing, but it helps to express my thoughts sometimes.

Other times, it's just a waste of effort.

It muddles my brain. The depression does. Or the anxiety, I don't know. I'm more easily confused, and I have these vivid memories of things that have never happened to me.

My heart aches, and my soul begins to feel like it's stretched too thin, like I've had more life than I can handle.

Which I haven't, I assure you. I want nothing more than to continue my existence, I only wish that I could do so without the fear of this. I know that without medication I'm destined to feel the full effect of every 'swing' my brain throws at me. They don't happen often, I'd say twice a year. Usually the worst one is in October, which, ironically is my favorite month...they last anywhere from a day to a week, and once I'm through it my mood will level out and stay at 'slightly depressed.'

Isn't it sad, how easily I can talk about this? I didn't used to be able to. I used to try to pretend that there was nothing wrong with me. But that actually made it worse. The more I tried to suppress my fears and anxieties, the more I focused on them, because I was so worried about them showing. Does that make sense? Kind of like if you had a bald spot in the back of your head, and rather than just let it be, you tried to hide it with a hair piece or by making a bun around that spot, but neither was comfortable, so you kept touching it, which, in turn, only drew more attention to it.

I kept it bottled inside, until I couldn't take it anymore, and then I'd have a full-blown out-of-control level ten anxiety attack. I can remember a few that I had when I lived with my parents that were just...insane. But even then, they didn't see. I'd go in my room, and scream, cry, or take it out on myself in other ways. I didn't know what was wrong with me, I didn't understand why certain things hurt my feelings so bad, or why I wasn't normal. I kept it hidden for so many years.

Then, one day, I broke down. I couldn't take it anymore. I had a horrible anxiety attack while I was on my way out the door, and I couldn't stop it. I mean, it hit me hard. I scared my parents, I know I did. They'd never seen me like that. My mom cried with me, and said she wished I had told her sooner. Eventually I calmed down enough to talk, and that's the first time I ever realized that I didn't have to be embarrassed about being sad. Sure it's deeper than your typical sadness, it's without rhyme or reason, and it has a mind all it's own sometimes, but it's nothing to be ashamed of. I didn't choose this, and I didn't do anything wrong. I haven't hurt anyone but myself.

So that helped a lot, coming to that realization. Figuring out that the people that loved me weren't going to stop just because of that. Even though sometimes it feels like it. That's part of the sickness, is having to listen to its lies, having it tell you that nobody loves you and nobody cares. Sometimes I can fight back, and sometimes I fall into it's trap, and give in to the idea that I'm alone. What sustains me in those darkest hours is my cat, Belle. Seriously. Even when I'm lost in the deepest, darkest, most solitary corner of my mind she'll find me and lick my toes or something. It was always that way. I can say with 100% honesty that if it weren't for Queenie, and the comfort she gave me, and all the times she let me cry into her fur, I wouldn't be alive today. The love of an pet is so perfect and so pure that not even depression can suppress it.

But now I'm come to terms with my reality. I'll never be over this. I could go to a doctor, and they could write me a prescription, and ask me how things make me feel, and tell me things I already know, like I should confront my triggers, and face my fears, but you know what? I don't want to. Not right now anyway.

I'm finally at a place in my life where I have come to terms with everything. Everything that has happened to me, every choice I've made, every situation that has been forced upon me, and I'm okay. I survived. I'm not always happy, and I may not be the best company at a party, and I will never participate in Black Friday, but that's me. I've accepted myself, and that was a hard thing to do, so I know that in spite of the occasional anxiety attack, or mood swing, I am making progress. In my own way, in my own time...