susieworld

I’m depressed. And as such, I am going to blog like a blithering idiot. This one is going to be all train of thought, baby, so get on the train or you’ll just have to take the bus and no one likes having to take the bus.

I’ve got this crazy new job that’s supposed to be “easy,” yet it’s so fucking detail-oriented – obnoxiously so – that I’m wavering between throwing in the towel or finally being the brave “yes I can” girl. And the boss who “trained” me is being quite dickish in his critiques of my work. But the “yes I can” part of me is winning, so, in the immortal words of Scarlett O’Hara, “tomorrow is another day.”  But I’m hungry and it’s too late to eat, so I have a feeling I will go hungry. And will go hungry again. As God is my witness.

This is one of those rare moments when not even my Snuggie can make me feel better.

I’m really battling this thing. This sadness that could turn into full-blown depression that could last for days and really affect my work. I mean REALLY affect my work. When I’m depressed, I can’t function. I can go through the motions, but when my heart isn’t in it, I’m useless.

On the bright side, the fact that I’m able to consciously fight this little fucker called depression means my oxy … er … antidepressants, et al. are working! Next step – see the therapist.

I’ve gone through a lot of changes recently and even when said changes are positive ones, I still struggle to adapt. So with my great new house and what could (SHOULD) become a great new job, I’m miserable and kind of freaking out. Again, here’s the bright side – I haven’t had a panic attack in TWO WHOLE DAYS!

AND I’m practicing the “one space after a period” rule, which is a tough one to get used to. All this bullshit and I’m worried about fucking punctuation!! There’s no such thing as too many exclamation points, though. Okay. There is. Five is the max. Otherwise, you’re just being a teenager and you might as well start saying “totes” for “totally,” and making sure words that end in consonants do so with a redundant repetition of that last letter. You do this, you will be a wannabe teenager foreverrrrr.

And I’ve proven my point. Fuck. I’m a wannabe teenager.

By the way, “redundant repetition” is not a redundant phrase. There is repetition that is NOT redundant. Like when you’re practicing piano or something. So get off my back, Department of Redundancy Department!

I’ve been tensing up my shoulders and clenching my jaw for weeks now. It’s exhausting being stressed out just sitting on the couch in my non-comforting Snuggie and being all tense and shit. What I wouldn’t give for a massage right now! Only it would probably be painful and therefore would add to the stress I carry in my neck, shoulders, and back.

Some might say my train of thought is still boarding at the station after reading this diatribe. They’d probably be right. The only other train I know I have a ticket for is the Express Train to Hell. I’m already making Sandusky jokes. Too soon? Hardly!

My sweet pup-pup Kona is lying on the couch beside me snoring like a flippin’ chainsaw and as tired as I am, the thought of going to bed right now just doesn’t appeal to me. Thus the blogging about nothing except depressing shit. This is the second depressing blog in a row. Time to bring back the funny! But I haven’t been inspired lately. Maybe because no one has abandoned a baby doll in the driveway of my new home.

Okay – deep, cleansing breaths. And … I’ve gone and annoyed myself. I hate it when people pull that deep breathing shit on me when I’m in a snit. FUCK YOU DEEP BREATHERS! Fuck you! Oh, and I appreciate the obviousness of that stupid “deep breaths” statement. I know! You’re supposed to breathe! It keeps you alive and shit.

Now I’m trying to determine whether or not to make this blog public. I’ve been so miserable in my writing lately, I feel a little sorry for my three blog subscribers (hi Mom!).

Maybe I’ll curl up on the couch tonight. Change of pace.

I am Anxiety Girl. Making mountains out of molehills is my secret power.

I’m having a serious panic attack right now.  Uncontrollable sobs, shaking, rocking back
and forth like I belong in a mental hospital.

All because I got a great new job and I’m not doing it perfectly.

Oh, and because I have three other jobs, at least one of which I’m seriously neglecting.

And also because now that I’m in full-blown panic mode, all my insecurities are bubbling to the top and I’m wishing I were a millionaire so I could fix my body, my hair … my mind.

But you know what?  I put on my Snuggie and somehow things seem a little better.  Not entirely better, but my Snuggie is like being wrapped in my mother’s arms right now.
Yes. My Snuggie.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still a mess. I’m still struggling to breathe.  I’m still fighting back
tears.  I’m still dreading having to return to work tomorrow and feel like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

I feel lost.  And it’s so soon after I felt like I’d finally found myself.  I finally became what I wanted to be when I grew up without having to actually grow up. A week ago, I was in bliss-land. Now everything has gone to hell.

I am Anxiety Girl.

The worst superhero ever to grace the planet.

I am useless, yet feel I would benefit greatly by having the real me be my secret identity. That way no one would know what a disaster I am right now.

Yet here I am blogging about it.

You know what I find most annoying when I’m in the middle of an attack?  People telling me to take deep breaths.  Yeah, like I don’t know panting into hyperventilation is a bad idea!

But I have my Snuggie. And my Snuggie has pockets.  I can’t imagine feeling like this without the warmth of a blanket with sleeves. A little chocolate pudding wouldn’t hurt either.

Thankfully, I don’t really give a flying fuck about people judging me for my love of the Snuggie. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it! Anyone who hates chocolate pudding hates America.

I’m starting to feel better, but I can’t credit this mental release of blogging, nor can I credit the miraculous backwards robe.  It’s the meds. They’re finally kicking in.

This will be us in a few short days.

Packing up all our stuff after nearly 5 years in one place absolutely blows. There are parts of our house that haven’t seen a swiffer in all that time and my allergies are thanking the allergy gods that they get to come out to play.

Bright side: Dave only found ONE dead rat in the garage.  But there’s evidence that his friends and family are not only alive and well, but well-fed!  This guy was a MONSTER!  He might be puny by New York standards, but I think he could have held his own in a fight.

So today I avoided all things moving related by getting drunk and watching football at the Dude Shack.  Tomorrow, moving will suck again.  The big day is Thursday, with a Friday follow-up.  Since I have a bad back (which comes in handy during times like these), I will be leaving the house I no longer care to call home and going to my parents’ house with the dog to stay out of the way.  I almost always get drunk when I’m at my parents’ house.  It helps.  My favorite drink is one my brother invented: bourbon and Bailey’s shaken and served up with a dusting of nutmeg on top.  It’s called a Family Time. One or two of those and suddenly dealing with family isn’t so bad!

Another reason moving sucks – we will be mostly moved in by Thursday night, but we don’t get our cable until Friday.

Oh, I am in a MOOD!  Which is interesting because I never seem to be able to reflect my moods through my online self.  I can be weeping uncontrollably, but still manage to post something light-hearted on Facebook.  Hell, I can’t even seem to BLOG in any way other than happy.  Today, I plan to change that.

Because I’m not happy right now.  I should be positively jubilant because I got an amazing volunteeer job as the social media coordinator for a local non-profit.  If I can help someone with 140 characters or fewer, it pays off in dividends that surpass any amount of money.  Technically, I am jubilant about this new opportunity.  But my glee is at war with my PMS and PMS is winning.

I woke up feeling the highest of highs. I was getting ready for the interview with Vision Literacy – which, by the way, you need to “like” on Facebook and follow on Twitter (@visionliteracy) – and feeling so confident that I’d charm the pants off of them that any sense of stress, worry or insecurity flew straight out the window.  Then I came home with a new job and ideas brimming and was still happy.  Then … I just stopped being happy.  Then everything suddenly seemed rotten.

I consider myself a “tortured artist.”  Really, what talented professional is really good at what they do without being really messed up in one way or another?  I fall into the “totally mental” category.  Full disclosure?  I’m hypo-manic-depressive.  It sounds bad, but it’s actually bi-polar lite.  And I’ve learned to live with the diagnosis, but I’m still learning to live with the effects it has on my daily life.  Like how I can go from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows in a matter of hours.  Sometimes even minutes.

Today’s issue: I’m uncomfortable.  Yeah – first world pain.  I know.  Poor me.  But what sounds petty and minor somehow becomes overwhelming and major in my head.  And when I’m in this state, it’s really hard to get out of my head.  Rationalizing doesn’t work until the mood goes away.  I can’t find any perspective.  Right now, the fact that people are dying of AIDS by the thousands in Africa doesn’t even hold a candle to the fact that I’m uncomfortable.  How sad is that??  I am “forced” to telecommute for my jobs and therefore work primarily from the relative “comfort” of my living room couch.  And right now, I HATE THAT!  Sitting around all day is just awful.

Here was my thought process earlier tonight:

I can’t get comfortable.
My butt hurts.
My back hurts.
I’m bored.
I’m swamped.
I need to get out of the house.
I can’t wait to get home.
I’m exhausted.
I’m wide awake.
I want to go to bed.
I don’t want to stay in bed.
I want to smoke.
But why did I just light this cigarette?
I want to have a drink.
But this drink doesn’t taste good to me right now.
I could go on forever.
Or not.

I hope I’m not alone.  I feel like I am.  I know millions of people suffer depression and anxiety like I do, but I feel like I’m the only one who suffers from it in my own particular way.  Which is a scary thought.

And now you know way more about me than you ever wanted to know.  I hope you still respect me in the morning.  Because add my insomnia to all this and I’ll be seeing the morning soon enough and your respect is important to me.