I'm a mess. Much of my life is a mess. I'm spending so much energy distracting myself from my messes that I barely have enough energy left to breathe. I feel like I'm caught in a mass of tangled yarn.
I'm reading obsessively, including books that I'm not normally interested in, as long as the books are light entertainment. And when I read, I skip over more and more of the text to just get to the main plot points. I'm not taking much enjoyment from the books. Books with greater emotional or mental content get set aside. I just purchased a new Tawna Fenske book and haven't been able to enjoy it. I love Tawna's work, but I'm anticipating the emotional and romantic complications and getting anxious about them. Anxious about fictional characters, people!
I'm not watching any TV series with my housemates anymore. Everything they watch has character arcs: I become invested in the characters and get stressed out when their lives are difficult. In general I've always had difficulty detaching from movies and TV, but it's a lot worse now.
There are people in my life I haven't contacted in months, some of them in over a year, and not because I don't like them. I don't read blogs much at all. I don't know why I've dropped contact with most people: I have no idea how doing so connects with how I'm feeling.
Right now, I'm in the middle of a two-week experiment proposed by my psych. For two weeks, I'm not going to try to go to bed earlier. I've been staying up until 3 am, but wanting to go to bed around 10 pm. I spend mental and emotional energy chastising myself for staying up so late. So for these two weeks, I'm just going to let myself stay up as late as I want to and sleep as late as I want to. No judgements.
As a corollary of this experiment, I'm setting aside all shoulds and should-nots. No judgement. No restrictions. Want to eat ice cream? Sure. As much as I want. Be a slug on the couch? Sure, as usual, but this time no judgements. Do it because I want to.
When I manage to quiet the shoulds and should-nots, I feel less stressed, more peaceful. It does take effort to quiet them. In addition, my housemates do NOT like this experiment. They think it's a bad idea. They disapprove. They disagree with my psych. Even though it's only for two weeks and I wasn't making any progress doing things the other way!
Showing posts with label non-functional. Show all posts
Showing posts with label non-functional. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
From a Place of Fear
While lying in bed, trying to make myself get out of bed, I spent some time musing about why I am at such a low place in my life. I have less than $3000 in the bank. I still need to find work. I generally stay in bed until noon or 1. I take a shower about every 5 days or so (I often lose track). I haven't finished my initial read-through on my novel; I read over half of it about a week ago and haven't touched it since. I don't exercise. I don't go for walks. My diet is crap.
Why? I, who have done so many different things in my life and who have made major changes and gone on to success, am stuck and passive. I am afraid. It all comes down to fear.
Detailing each individual fear connected to each individual lack is no longer useful: I believe it's all fused into one solid, darkly shining ball of fear and either it has overwhelmed me past my ability to cope or I have surrendered to it or both. Even that doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that virtually everything I do comes from or passes through a place of fear; fear controls me.
Inside, I want someone to save me. I want someone to take my hand and lead me out of bed early in the morning, lead me through exercise, make sure I eat fruit and vegetables, sit with me while I go through my novel, help me look for work (actually, I want someone to either hand me a job or tell me exactly the right work I should be doing right now), and make sure I go to bed early enough at night.
I don't think I've ever been this passive before in my life, no matter what trials and traumas I've faced. I feel ashamed.
I want to be active. I want to be in control of my own life. I want to make my choices from a positive place. I want to be strong and happy and healthy. I want abundance in all good things. I want to have enough money for all that I need and want, including enough so I can live on my own again, independently and comfortably. This doesn't seem like too much to want.
Why? I, who have done so many different things in my life and who have made major changes and gone on to success, am stuck and passive. I am afraid. It all comes down to fear.
Detailing each individual fear connected to each individual lack is no longer useful: I believe it's all fused into one solid, darkly shining ball of fear and either it has overwhelmed me past my ability to cope or I have surrendered to it or both. Even that doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that virtually everything I do comes from or passes through a place of fear; fear controls me.
Inside, I want someone to save me. I want someone to take my hand and lead me out of bed early in the morning, lead me through exercise, make sure I eat fruit and vegetables, sit with me while I go through my novel, help me look for work (actually, I want someone to either hand me a job or tell me exactly the right work I should be doing right now), and make sure I go to bed early enough at night.
I don't think I've ever been this passive before in my life, no matter what trials and traumas I've faced. I feel ashamed.
I want to be active. I want to be in control of my own life. I want to make my choices from a positive place. I want to be strong and happy and healthy. I want abundance in all good things. I want to have enough money for all that I need and want, including enough so I can live on my own again, independently and comfortably. This doesn't seem like too much to want.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Epic
Gods, I'm still swimming through murk. Maybe I need to write or immerse myself in an epic fantasy where the heroine has to fight her way through unbelievable darkness before breaking into and winning the light. I am still in Mirkwood, or Mordor or something. I don't have a magical ring or a fellowship or a Gandalf. All I have is my little, barely functioning, broken self. I do have friends, but they aren't on this journey with me and I don't know how they can help.
What tools do I have? My ability to write: this blog, my novel, my journal, anything else that comes to mind. My ability to draw: sketch, color, illustrate whatever I see or think of. Cognitive therapy skills: I'm not sure how to use them on this, but this uncertainty could simply be a symptom of the depression, not letting me see how to use a powerful tool. Exercise: which I haven't been doing but which could change my brain chemistry at least for 15 minutes at a time. Medication: I really don't want to meddle with my meds right now.
What other resources do I have? I'm persistent like a kid sister. I'm brave, when I remember to be or don't notice. I'm stronger than I think. I'm smart, or used to be at any rate. I'm imaginative, creative, and articulate, which are the swords that cut in both directions. I have an intelligent and creative therapist. I have a stable home.
What are my hindrances? Years of being depressed and anxious. Years of being sedentary to the point of motionlessness. The helplessness that comes from long-term unemployment. Lethargy. Fear. Crumbling self-confidence. Years of giving in to the depression, lethargy, and shyness. The habit of hiding. I'm so the broken hero!
In an epic, I'd have to overcome all my personal hindrances, while battling the monsters as well, to get through the dark places and win the day. The unemployment is like the thousand-foot cataract: I have no control over the people who decide whether or not to pursue me after reading my resume. I can try to paddle to shore before the water falls over the cliff; I can grab onto a passing giant bird; I can hastily manufacture a parachute. Or I can simply go over the edge in my bark canoe and hope I don't drown or smash against the rocks at the bottom.
I like metaphors. I know this sort of thing doesn't work for everyone, but my imagination has in the past helped me through difficulties in my life. Maybe my not using it much for too many years has contributed to this morass I currently inhabit.
Perhaps I have my magic sword, my wand, my string of charms, my book of spells. Now I just need to figure out how to use it, whatever it is.
What tools do I have? My ability to write: this blog, my novel, my journal, anything else that comes to mind. My ability to draw: sketch, color, illustrate whatever I see or think of. Cognitive therapy skills: I'm not sure how to use them on this, but this uncertainty could simply be a symptom of the depression, not letting me see how to use a powerful tool. Exercise: which I haven't been doing but which could change my brain chemistry at least for 15 minutes at a time. Medication: I really don't want to meddle with my meds right now.
What other resources do I have? I'm persistent like a kid sister. I'm brave, when I remember to be or don't notice. I'm stronger than I think. I'm smart, or used to be at any rate. I'm imaginative, creative, and articulate, which are the swords that cut in both directions. I have an intelligent and creative therapist. I have a stable home.
What are my hindrances? Years of being depressed and anxious. Years of being sedentary to the point of motionlessness. The helplessness that comes from long-term unemployment. Lethargy. Fear. Crumbling self-confidence. Years of giving in to the depression, lethargy, and shyness. The habit of hiding. I'm so the broken hero!
In an epic, I'd have to overcome all my personal hindrances, while battling the monsters as well, to get through the dark places and win the day. The unemployment is like the thousand-foot cataract: I have no control over the people who decide whether or not to pursue me after reading my resume. I can try to paddle to shore before the water falls over the cliff; I can grab onto a passing giant bird; I can hastily manufacture a parachute. Or I can simply go over the edge in my bark canoe and hope I don't drown or smash against the rocks at the bottom.
I like metaphors. I know this sort of thing doesn't work for everyone, but my imagination has in the past helped me through difficulties in my life. Maybe my not using it much for too many years has contributed to this morass I currently inhabit.
Perhaps I have my magic sword, my wand, my string of charms, my book of spells. Now I just need to figure out how to use it, whatever it is.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Damn, Damn, Damn Depression!
I'm sunk in the stupid pit again. Why? Hell if I know. And it's not just depression, although that is an overriding emotion. I'm crabby and antisocial. I'm terrifically stressed and anxious, to the tune of taking an extra 1 mg of Xanax each of the last two days. (So far today I haven't taken any extra.) I took a four-hour nap yesterday and still slept for 9.5 hours last night … and still didn't want to get up this morning.
I'm really tired of being "the sick one", the one people have to ask "how are you doing today?" I have no idea what I'm doing wrong or what I'm not doing right that keeps dumping me back into this debilitating space. "Functional" might as well be at the top of the highest glacier on Mt. Rainier, it seems to impossible to reach.
You can't get there from here.
I'm trying. But I've been sleeping so late (thanks to this great melatonin-based supplement my psych recommended) that I feel if I don't get up NOW then the day is fucking OVER, so I haven't been journaling or trying to meditate or visualize. And when I do try to meditate or visualize, I haven't been able to achieve the levels I was at back before I tried the Abilify (which I've been off of all this month).
In therapy yesterday, Michele asked why I feel I have to get up and start my day as soon as I wake up. What will happen if I put it off for another half an hour while I journal or meditate or something? If I stay in bed even later, I feel as if the entire day is over, wasted. I feel like a complete failure for the day. I feel judged and judging.
We also talked about writing. And drawing. About how I used to do them all the time virtually every day, from the time I was quite young. How somewhere in my 20s, I stopped doing them much and they became fraught with difficulties and issues. And yet, I need to do them. Writing and drawing are parts of me that need attention. When I do them I feel better. I feel like myself.
I'm really tired of being "the sick one", the one people have to ask "how are you doing today?" I have no idea what I'm doing wrong or what I'm not doing right that keeps dumping me back into this debilitating space. "Functional" might as well be at the top of the highest glacier on Mt. Rainier, it seems to impossible to reach.
You can't get there from here.
I'm trying. But I've been sleeping so late (thanks to this great melatonin-based supplement my psych recommended) that I feel if I don't get up NOW then the day is fucking OVER, so I haven't been journaling or trying to meditate or visualize. And when I do try to meditate or visualize, I haven't been able to achieve the levels I was at back before I tried the Abilify (which I've been off of all this month).
In therapy yesterday, Michele asked why I feel I have to get up and start my day as soon as I wake up. What will happen if I put it off for another half an hour while I journal or meditate or something? If I stay in bed even later, I feel as if the entire day is over, wasted. I feel like a complete failure for the day. I feel judged and judging.
We also talked about writing. And drawing. About how I used to do them all the time virtually every day, from the time I was quite young. How somewhere in my 20s, I stopped doing them much and they became fraught with difficulties and issues. And yet, I need to do them. Writing and drawing are parts of me that need attention. When I do them I feel better. I feel like myself.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
How Do You Do?
Doing: it's what I'm not and haven't been for a long while. I used to, a lot, and I need to again. I've just got to get over this speed bump that looms like a twenty-foot granite wall. I just need a way over. Or around.
I have a sign saying "Action" on my bathroom mirror, per the instructions of my good friend Bob. Most mornings I am now getting at least pretend-dressed (yoga pants and a sweater) before I come downstairs. And some days I even put on regular shoes to help put me in the mindset of activity, per another good friend.
I'm still mostly inert.
I did go for a walk around the neighborhood with the housemates today. It took Griffin to push us into it. I used to be able to push myself. Hell, oftentimes a walk would simply sing its siren song and I'd feel compelled to follow, to walk along the verge or the walking path to a park or a school or simply around the neighborhood. When did I become so solidly still? How did I turn to stone?
I think it mostly started with a devastating depression in my mid-30s that just about cut me off at the knees. With help, I clambered out of that hole and began working my way up to full functioning. Then, in 2000, I was hit with a bad case of vertigo of unknown origin (also known as "idiopathic") that allowed me to work only 20 hours a week or so. (Insurance did not accept anything my rack of doctors said and declared me "not disabled" — stupid things.) While I did that work, I also attended a program in scientific illustration. That's all I was able to do (including my homework); the rest of the time I was stuck on the couch, exhausted from feeling like I was always in motion.
Again, I eventually got over the vertigo (after about 18 months). I had moved to the beach by the time it passed and I started walking on the beach most days. I found work and walked around the estuary at our work campus most days. I still walked on the beach. When I moved to Houston, I walked in the park. When I was on the road, I walked whenever I could.
I have a sign saying "Action" on my bathroom mirror, per the instructions of my good friend Bob. Most mornings I am now getting at least pretend-dressed (yoga pants and a sweater) before I come downstairs. And some days I even put on regular shoes to help put me in the mindset of activity, per another good friend.
I'm still mostly inert.
I did go for a walk around the neighborhood with the housemates today. It took Griffin to push us into it. I used to be able to push myself. Hell, oftentimes a walk would simply sing its siren song and I'd feel compelled to follow, to walk along the verge or the walking path to a park or a school or simply around the neighborhood. When did I become so solidly still? How did I turn to stone?
I think it mostly started with a devastating depression in my mid-30s that just about cut me off at the knees. With help, I clambered out of that hole and began working my way up to full functioning. Then, in 2000, I was hit with a bad case of vertigo of unknown origin (also known as "idiopathic") that allowed me to work only 20 hours a week or so. (Insurance did not accept anything my rack of doctors said and declared me "not disabled" — stupid things.) While I did that work, I also attended a program in scientific illustration. That's all I was able to do (including my homework); the rest of the time I was stuck on the couch, exhausted from feeling like I was always in motion.
Again, I eventually got over the vertigo (after about 18 months). I had moved to the beach by the time it passed and I started walking on the beach most days. I found work and walked around the estuary at our work campus most days. I still walked on the beach. When I moved to Houston, I walked in the park. When I was on the road, I walked whenever I could.
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