I’m Trying – A Lot

What a morning. It isn’t even 10 am and I’ve already felt very overwhelmed. My anxiety is hitting me hard today. But alas, I must move forward while I have a few minutes of peace.

I was starting to blog today about some really cute items I picked up at Micheals. Then the anxiety started sinking in. I had to stop to regroup before I exploded and everyone around me became a victim.

If you have anxiety (you do not suffer from it), you know it can be hard to regroup. Luckily, I have my dog. He helps me find my center.

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Today’s focus wasn’t about my anxiety, though. It just ended up being all I could think about at the moment. What I really came here to tell you about is my top-notch, over the top, organizing skills. Here’s what I acquired at Micheals. I spent too much money, but oh, it’s so cool.

I pretty excited about my new things. Hopefully, I can get my life on track and keep up with what I pretend to be: a normal, functioning adult who loves shiny things, and her dog.

How do you keep organized?

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Something New

I joined a challenge to write everyday for the month of May. So far, on day 3, I have written once – twice if you count this very moment. During the midst of signing up for the challenge, I was accepted to write for a company called Chanillo . I submitted a query for a novel that’s been brewing in my head for over 5 years. I did not think they would accept it and I was certain I was right after waiting over a month to hear back. I was wrong. Now, I have promised to write a chapter each month, and now my novel, which would have never happened, and seemed more like fun time, is now work.

That’s good, right? I have such anxiety over the entire thing. I have started writing and had written previously for the novel (*for* as if I work for it – haha), so I am trying to organize those thoughts and write my beginning preface.

I am excited to have been accepted. Especially since I do not always think I am any good at writing as a whole. Sometimes I think I am amazing, and sometimes I think I stink. I suppose all writers feel the same way at some point.

So today marks the beginning of something that could be great. I am excited, scared, and might take up drinking copious amounts of wine to cope. (That’s like two drinks a week for me – watch out, I’m a wild one).

If you would like to check out my future endeavor, as I cannot post any writing to my blog related to the novel, you can check it out HERE. It’s upcoming, so I have not posted my first piece yet. I still have some details to work out.

Thank you all so much. This counts as my 10 minutes, right?

Day 5: Losing Control

What will I do?

What will I say?

How will I get

Through this day?

My thoughts are spinning

Much too fast

How long will the feeling

Last. It can’t last.

I feel my skin peeling

Please say it’s there

I feeling my head reeling

As I pull out my hair

My heart races faster

As it beats through my chest

My head throbs in conjunction

I wish I could rest

My eyes start to water

My throat starts to shrink

My space is getting smaller

Please help me think

It’s all spinning faster

I’m losing control…

This poem is a look into the mind of someone with anxiety. Often, I deal with panic attacks brought on by PTSD (no, I wasn’t in a war. You can get PTSD from other traumas too).

Lately, I am increasingly overwhelmed and I am triggered more easily. I write to find solace and to bring awareness.

Thank you for reading.

It’s Time to Play

When you have anxiety, like myself, the world seems too large. There’s no way to control it. If you could, you know, somehow, you’d be better. If you could just get a grasp. But you can’t, so everything spirals. Your life, your mind, and your emotions. Everyday is a gamble. Will you be okay? Will the world let you be okay?

It’s often crippling.

I find myself not being able to accomplish things I could before without hesitation.

I honestly don’t know what to do. I’m so lost on the subject, it becomes harder to describe. But somehow, I make it. Either through sheer will or the means to cope. Perhaps it’s both.

I write you this today because I promised a poem a day. However, it’s not that I can’t commit, it’s that I built up too much anxiety about it and now I can’t. Perhaps I’ll find my muse tomorrow.

Until then, may the anxiety subside. May it mingle with the monsters, demons, and the depressed inside my head. While they’re busy talking, I’ll trap them in a dungeon, praying they never escape. Alas, they are crafty, and when one escapes, they all want to play.

An Ugly Game

It’s cold. An unbearable chill. Ceasing my existence. I can’t breath. I feel my muscles clenching, trying to create warmth; failing. Water flows from my eyeballs, freezing on my cheeks upon impact. It isn’t me who is crying about my situation, it’s my body. My emotions are frozen. Locked into my soul which is escaping; the only thing smart and brave enough to set itself free. Minutes pass like hours as the sun sets and the black clouds crawl across the sky. The wind increases. The Earth falls silent. The last tear falls, reaching the corners of my mouth. A fighter, unlike myself. I am cold until nature warms the soil. By then, it will be too late.

It seems amazing how one sentence can form into a group or a even a thousand groups of words. One sentence can nag at me for hours until I set it free, or I don’t. When I do not, the guilt sets in and I tell myself I could be writing with all my free time. Instead, I look at my phone for hours; submitting my self to the lazy side of life. It’s easy. Easier than trying, than working, than giving myself a chance.

I fall victim, but I am not a victim. I am the criminal. I am the one who sabotages. I hold myself for ransom. The price is high, nothing I can afford, so I torture myself to compensate for not getting what I want.

It’s an ugly game. I play it everyday.

It’s a habit now. Nothing changes when we secretly want it to stay the same.

I’m trying my hardest to break my habit. I remind myself of what I could be doing. I am trying to change the way I think. It isn’t easy. I suppose it never is.

I am good, in my own way. I have had my share of praises and failures. I am okay with this. I try to remember all the positives. Oddly, it’s the positives that scare me. I am stricken with the “what ifs” of success.

When I stop, I ask myself why. What stops me from being driven? The answer is simple and yet complex. Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer, and if I did, I would stop myself from answering.

I write this week about anxiety, failure, success, and the drive to get everything I want, if only I would let myself grow.

Anxiety is what keeps me cold, frozen in my own cycle of self-destruction. I am my own criminal in storm created by my own self-doubt, my own anxiety.

I thought of the first sentence today because I was, in fact, cold. It led me to my own self-realization. A story that transformed.

My only way out is to write. An ironic twist in my own hands of fate.

Anxiety – My Ultimate Demise

It happens every time. I cry, I feel something, and I write. It’s just that I am so fucking stressed. I am not coping well and I really do not know what to do. So here I am, contemplating all that I am. My finances, my job, my assists, my life. I am not alone. I know this. There are some who are much less fortunate than me. I have a place to stay. I have people that care. I have a job. It’s one of the most unstable jobs I’ve ever had next to dancing on a pole, but I do have a job.

It’s what’s next that I can’t stand. I hate it because I have no idea what “it” is.

I ponder. I probably ponder too much. Overthinking will be my demise. It’s why I can’t finish projects. It stands in the way of my success and welcomes failure with open arms. “Hello OverActive Brain. What shall we burn today?”

There is something I need to do and I stop myself from doing it because it exposes too much – an oozing open wound I am ferociously trying to heal. It is a project, an idea inspired by a new friend and idle talk. It needs to grow, but it also need to flourish. My brain will not let it. After all the inspiration leaves, I’ll be left with pondering of what could have been.

If you were ever curious about what anxiety must be like, this is it. Read this. Read between the lines. Open yourself to interpretation. Anxiety hinders my every being. I often can overcome, but anxiety will never let me succeed. It will let me settle. I’ll write metaphorically about my life and what it could have been. It will never subside to let out who I really am. I will forever be trapped by the constraints of my mind. Tortured by my own grief.

If this is how it is supposed to be, perhaps I can just give in and learn how to cope.

Perhaps one of my loyal readers has some advice.

A Little Taste 

When I have time, I write small portions of a book taking space in my head. It is in first person and it is meant to look like an authors account of true events, or rather my life story. When I put it all together, it will be about a woman who struggles to cope with mental illness in a world that constantly judges. She copes in other ways too, but that’s the voices talking.

Enjoy.

When I was young, I would question my existence. I would ponder the meaning of why. Why did we bother to do anything if we were just going to die in the end? What was the point? Why try?
I managed to press through the thoughts. I sought out other ideas, hobbies, and allowed myself to live a little.
Once in a while, the thoughts come back.

When I was younger, I wasn’t aware of the state I put myself in when questioning why I bother to live. What a sight it must have been for others to see me sad; so suddenly.

I’m better at hiding it now. I work, I form relationships, I seek some sort of happiness. It looms, the agony, the dread. But I’m better at pushing through – sometimes. Lately, it hovers longer than I’d like. Often, it clings and I can’t shake it, wash it, peel back its decaying skin. It hangs like the air on a humid day.

I become stuck. I stick to my thoughts. They control my fighting mind; the part of my mind that resists the constant question – why are you still here? Why hasn’t anyone found you in a pool of blood?

I’m not sure, but my resisting mind wants to know why these demons keep lurking around? What is their purpose? Why did they choose me?
When you think of yourself, others don’t find themselves into the equation. Depression, for me is a one way street. Ahh, but that isn’t really true because the anxiety in me only cares about others, and the looming psychopath in me wants to murder every soul I see.
Mental illness isn’t cute anymore. It never was.

I grew up in a time where it was a growing trend of weirdos who dressed in black and were always sad. They made depression somehow glamorous and soon nearly everyone I knew wore eyeliner and combed their hair over one eye. But what about the people who were trying to act normal because they fought real demons? Not ones that pretended to just so they could fight the establishment and in return draw attention to themselves because no one at home gave a shit.
I had parents who gave a shit, they just didn’t know they had to. To them, I was normal. I did normal things, had normal friends, and had a normal mind.
I actually wanted to be normal. Instead, I fought to live. My mind wanted my soul and it almost won, more than a few times. I prayed to die and hoped I wouldn’t make it past 25. In fact, I was certain I wouldn’t live past then. I was so sure, I started doing things to speed along the process. It never happened. When 25 came, I cried until I nearly went into a psychosis. I took some pills to wash away the pain, and I woke in a heavier dispair. I was with someone then. Someone who saw my crazy. They seemed to embrace it and I’ll never know and never want to know why.
At this point, I gave in. I stayed with this person and just became someone I wasn’t – normal. I thought I should so I could at least stop the voices. I had to stop the demons.
But they were still there. In fact they came on full force. I started taking meds. It was a tragic sight. I changed. The voices stopped. The demons stopped licking the gray matter, but the claws never retracted.
I started living. I went to therapy. I was normal. But we’re not really normal, are we? We just turn into zombies.

I made cakes, made friends, cooked dinner, and went to parties. I was a wife. Sometimes I was really good. Sometimes I really sucked.

The demons played sometimes. They broke the med spell and when they played, the voices were worse than before. I would cry until I lost parts of me that I’ll never see again. I broke. After I broke, I broke again and again until the meds were gone and I started to sabbatoge my existence. If I was miserable, so was everyone else. No one was safe.
My unstable life made the voices more active. I had boughs of hysteria,as the old school doctors would say, more often than boughs of sanity. I longed to be institutionalized. I joked about it. That’s what you do. You joke about how crazy you are so you can deflect your problems. People laugh with you and it reinforces the behavior until even you start to believe the lies. They are just jokes, you tell yourself. You’re not crazy.
So you live your life. Like normal people do, but your thoughts are more demented. So you hang around people who are almost the same. It makes you feel better about yourself.
They don’t know the truth. No one knows the truth. When you confide in someone, they disregard you and just say things that they think will make you feel better because in reality you’ve made them feel uncomfortable and now they don’t know how to act around you and you find your list of friends getting smaller and smaller.
Don’t worry, you have the voices.
I do. The demons are nice as well. I enjoy their powerful hold. Their tight, crippling grip of despair. In fact, I’ve grown so accustomed to their presence I’m not sure I’d know how to be without them -which actually scares me to the core.