Anxiety's Amusement

Once upon a time there was a paradox called Missing in Sight whose anxiety was so rampant and uncontrolled that ten minutes after waking on Saturday morning,  she took her usual cocktail of a Clonazepam and a muscle relaxer to chase the anxiety away.  Meanwhile, she felt she was going insane.  She would hit her head with her hand repeatedly to chase away the crazies.  When that didn't work, the wall took the brunt of her head.

Soon her medicine assumed her, and she went to sleep for about an hour.  When she woke, the same anxiety was expectantly waiting for her, licking its lips, eager to pounce on her.  She tried to think of other ways to deal with the misery, but to no avail.  She couldn't concentrate, so she wasn't able to read or color.  She had taken medications that left her tired and drained, so she couldn't take her dog for a walk.  She couldn't be still, so watching t.v. or a movie wasn't an option.  

She felt if she could just cry then she might be able to calm down, but a tear could not be found.

Once again, she took more medication to put her to sleep so she would not have to deal with the anxiety.  This time she slept a little longer, but when the meds wore off and she woke to reality, the monster of anxiety woke with her, and she could not escape the roar of its meanness.

She tried to last it out.  She thought maybe if she put on her favorite movie then she could endure the panic; however, the movie turned rancid to her eyes.  She did not know why, but she could not tolerate her best movie.

All this while, Husband was home, but he was asleep off and on.  He didn't know what to do for Missing in Sight.  She suggested to him that he go to the store and buy beer because she knew it would take the edge off.  So off he went.

While he was gone, she took round three of meds, but this time she tripled the dosage.  The possibility of accidentally overdosing broached her mind, but she could not comprehend what this actually meant.  Childlike, she only wanted the anxiety to go away, away, away.  So she swallowed the pills and fell asleep.

Husband eventually came home with the beer and later woke her to tell her goodbye.  It was mid-afternoon, and he had to leave for work.

She fell back asleep for another hour, and when she woke she was all alone in the early evening hours.   Stunningly, it seemed her anxiety had lessened.  Her breath found its way back to her chest, the butterflies in her stomach shushed, and her heart quit slamming between her thoracic walls.  The hurricane of anxiety had weakened to a small thunderstorm.  The beer did not seemed to be needed now.

She tried to do relaxing tricks that she could not do earlier in order to keep the angst away: color; music; movies; dog.  However, she could not get rid of the residual anxiety.

She decided to drink a beer.  Then another.  And another.  She thought all the meds she had taken over the course of the day would have left her system by that time, and nothing bad, whatever that might be, would happen.

She fell asleep again.  Or more accurately, passed out.  One knows not how long she would have slept if not for the hallucinations of voices and noises that kept waking her from what felt like vivid but aggravating dreams.  

So, half awake but completely drunk, over-medicated, and anxiety's amusement, she stumbled off to bed, and fell face first into the blackness of the night, anticipating in her dreams of the anxiety that would startle her awake the very next morning.

Ramblings of a gone mind

I'm not okay. I'm feeling rather rabid and English. The words are coming from somewhere else. I don't know what to do with myself. I know what I should do, but "shoulds" are woulds that can't help themselves.

I feel like Sarah McLachlin when she sang with the Perishers a song called "Pills." She sang they weren't alright, they needed pills to get through the night, needed lies to get through the day, and she wasn't okay.

That's how I feel today. My abusers are mingling with my memory, creating a cause for alarm and exhaustion. I find no solace anywhere, except in place I'm not allowed to look: a long sleep.

The nights are terrible for me. It seems that right after dinner it's an all out panic attack for me. Nothing in my coping skills bag satisfies. I try to color, do puzzles, play a computer game, nothing compensates for my deterioriation. I dry up and crumble.

I've the perfect opportunity to act out on my eating disorder this morning. I "pray" I do not. I worked it out with D. that if I don't act out on my eating disorder till the end of the month I can get my third tattoo, and I really want that tattoo.

I can feel my younger parts gathering around. This is really difficult. I don't know where I've gone.

The Second Act

When I was in Charleston, I picked up a card that had a saying on there that means so much to me and gives me hope. It is a quote by Mary Anne Radmacher and it reads,

"Just because you bought the ticket doesn't mean you have to stay for the second act."

I love this so much. If I apply it to my life's experiences, it helps me realize I'm not a victim anymore and I can effect change in my life. Yes, I have a history of abuse, a trauma history, but I don't have to let that define what my life looks like now.

The first act of my life sucked, but I have a choice for the rest of it. I'm staging a curtain call and I'm not staying for the second half of the act. The second half of the act is where I stay stuck in my disorder and distorted thoughts. It is filled with actions of self-harm, an eating disorder, suicidal gestures, depression, mood swings, flash backs, insomnia, night sweats, nightmares, panic and anxiety attacks, etc...

So I'm leaving the theatre. Just because I bought the ticket doesn't mean I have to stay for the whole production. I'm staging a Coup d'etat. I'm finding a new production that will only bring me peace and happiness.

I hope you find a new second act, as well.

Becca