Thursday, August 27, 2015

On being depressed and being in love (2)

So maybe my strategy was wrong, maybe my plan was flawed, maybe the guy was wrong (ding ding ding we have a winner in the most boring lottery ever, come up the stage to claim your prize or continue to lounge in sweat pants). 

Being depressed and being in love is hard enough the first time. Where do I focus my what why when how? Here is a tip for the young and naive and silly and brave explorer of these artic waters of the soul - love is not losing. Love is, especially, not losing your voice. Speak! Shout! Cry, scream, cry, beat your chest, yell, bellow, cry cry cry. Remember what the vibration of your vocal cords feels like, so you can remember anything at all besides what their palm and their skin and their hair and their kisses taste like. Because other people turn to ash, eventually, either by your doing or their doing or by your minds doing and then you will have nothing and be a mute.

2 years I wasted not writing. So when the police find my body, or if they had found my body, if I had been successful - a better brighter stronger girl with sharper tools - they would have no clue as to the events, imaginary and otherwise (what's the word - real?), that led to my untimely perfectly scheduled demise. And now that I have missed my train to the Great Whatever Else, I too have no clue what was happening in my mind. How am I supposed to stop history from repeating itself when no one bothered to write anything down for future generations?

So here, now, I am getting back on the metaphorical horse, ready to gush out the blood that is, I have found through scientific experiments and multiple runs with fixed and fluid variables, very definitely there in my veins. My attempts, however, to find out if my organs are really cradled by a greater omentum, have been thwarted by the limitations of the blade I chose. But I'm digressing and digesting and getting fat and sinning. Back on track.

So yes, back in the saddle, after the last equestrian adventure led me to desperately try to fling myself off a mad running speeding jumping horse and forcing the damn thing to buck me off but then it, being a beast, reigned up and shattered my legs or my pelvis or something there in the lower two quadrants of my symmetrical human form, shattered the bones in 60 or 70 places and little fragments pierced the muscles and the muscles turned to jelly and the skin could no longer be skin, at most be Japanese paper, and can you imagine the hospital bills?

But! Through the miracle of prayer and coffee, here I am. Ready for round two. All suited up and ready to go. What happened to being a Dragon Hearted Lady? The DHL club will definitely excommunicate me after this tryst, which I want to be more than a tryst. My four chambered heart is meant to efficiently pump blood and no chambers are intended to house feelings but I fear some informal settlers have, well, settled. This inefficiency will surely lead to a lack of proper blood flow and my orthostatic hypotension will get so bad the blood will pool at my feet and my calves downwards will turn a shocking! Gasp! Purple! And they'll amputate them and the DHL club, having accepted me back after my last folly only because of the magnificent way I got rid of that stupid boy and ended that stupid thing, will definitely expel me from their ranks now!

Don't leave me legless and clawless and clanless. In fact, for the first time in a long time, I haven't wanted to be alone, so maybe, if it's at all possible, don't leave me at all.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Digested by the cold

 Forget spiders - here's a real thriller horror movie special! Here is comes, are you ready kiddos? The truth! The cold hard truth. But that's not all! Oh no, no, if you've paid the entrance fee and the toll then you my dear love, are getting your money's worth. There's nothing terrible about the truth, otherwise science and math courses would be R rated. 

Here's the whole thing, the Gordy details, the big picture: it is the most frightening thing to have the truth line up with your anxieties.

Yes! Remember that old player, that old fool, that individual once thought to be in retirement but was in actuality training to get bigger better and strong? Remember him? I do. And what does fear have to do with anxiety? Everything, my dear, my darling, my Watson, old chap! Anxiety/fear/frost urn starts in your toes. Or your fingertips. Or the ends of your ears. Extremities, that's where the pain starts. Perhaps the sickness has been sitting in your belly this whole time and now it's taken long cross-body road trips to exotic places where nails and wax grow. But yes, it starts there. Why? My anxiety ridden comrades and peers, you know as well as I that once you are sure that everyone hates you and no one wants you there and your presence is a burden and no one wants you no one wants you no one wants you there, then your bodily awareness is heightened to Everest-ian heights. 

This is air you are not meant to displace, area you are not meant to occupy, you are blocking visible light when it has a purpose and you do not. So you grow small, you hunch your shoulders, you breathe in deep. You shrink in every way, you think smaller, you shut the fuck up. You feel sea sick when you catch your own stupid reflection, why oh why did they polish these car windows so well? 

This is where Anxiety, enter stage right good friend, comes in to help in its I'll natured well meant way. Start at the ends, fold inwards. Like a long carpet or a blanket or a scarf or a ridiculous piece of paper or a streamer, do I have to keep listing more or do you understand me? Fold inwards, until you hit joints. Bend there, continue to compact, shrink, shrink, push yourself against a wall, inch your way to the door, no one will notice when you leave, except maybe they will but obviously all they will do is exhale, finally, that sigh of relief that has been building in their stomach since they first saw your ugly mug. By this point, you should be small and aerodynamic enough to fly home on the back of a breeze or a bird. Go home, crawl into bed, or just stand by the door or collapse onto cold tiles and let everything explode. Unravel! Unravel yourself with a violent explosion of terrible feelings!

Welcome home, let's review all you did and said that was wrong and annoying and why everyone 100% hates you. Just like you do.

This is what happens with anxiety. This is why I take took enjoy so many little pills. This is the routine of self hate that plants me into loam and prays nothing but a shell grows out. The rest is used as fertilizer. Or used to feed worms.

Here is the horrible part - when someone tells you your fears were right. When you think you were having a good time but really they hated every second, every trip, every loop, every word you dared escape the cage of your teeth. When kisses were bad business contracts. When memories rot like fruit. When your voice, or one of the voices, in your head starts laughing and laughing and the I told you so's are on an infinite loop and there it is again! The cold is back, but this time it's not the bite of a herbivore, it's the bite of a wolf. A shark. Rows of crooked teeth ripping apart all the things and progress you though you had made. You should have been more anxious, you shouldn't have divorced yourself from its protective embrace. Anxiety keeps you from being too much. Anxiety knows that even a drop of you is too much. Anxiety keeps you locked in your room, where you deserve to be, because that way you can't bother anyone (which you surely would do the second you step out of the door and exit the shadows and hell even the Sun will want to spit on you for blocking it's rays that is how terrible you are).

So here you are now, in this present moment, this very second, the correct time and date of the now now now - here is the scene. You are on your stomach, compressing your stomach because all the gas that was in your skull as hot air has descended because your body, under the wise and knowing guidance of Anxiety p, has directed it all to your stomach to be boiled and melted and corroded away with acids. This isn't possible with gases, but it is giving you a horrible stomach ache so you lie down and apply pressure to the wound and try to keep your torso from bursting open like a party popper and you relive the last few days all the days and wonder what everything was and why you are such an idiot and you lost all feeling in your hands and your feet again and the cold is here. Again. To stay?

The familiarity of this is startling. Love me don't leave me I hate me and now!! With w new twist - you hate me too. I know you do I know it I know it I knew it you said it. What do I do with this, what type of glove must I wear to be able to handle this situation?

Maybe sometimes it's better to just lie.