anxiety, Identity, Living, Mental Health

Damn the Weather, Man

That’s a very precariously placed comma.

I don’t wish eternal damnation upon all meteorologists, nor do I have the authority. However, as an anxiety-sufferer who already has enough on her plate, weather reports add another element of doom and gloom.

Perhaps if I didn’t live in New England at the ever-encroaching tail-end of winter . . .

from realbodywork.com

Perhaps if the cold clime didn’t make my already shriveled trapezius muscles jerk ever upward . . .

Perhaps if I woke up in the morning, looked at the thermometer and decided on my wardrobe at that moment on current conditions . . .

Perhaps if I could notice the gentle unfolding of the season with my own eyes rather than through the lens of radar screens and predetermined dates on the calendar . . .

Maybe, then, I wouldn’t be psychologically distraught at the impending snow storm we’re about to get.

I wouldn’t be worried about the fresh shoots that I’d unearthed beneath their layer of winter leaves. I wouldn’t bemoan the loss of soft earth between my fingers that I’d felt just this weekend. I wouldn’t begrudgingly look at the lightweight fleece jacket hanging forlornly on the doorknob.

I wouldn’t feel trapped. I wouldn’t feel like I was experiencing a relapse into unforgiving ways. I wouldn’t be nervously anticipating the loss of something I’d only barely gotten a grip on.

Driving home and noticing shutters pulled tight against the windows of a historical building that I swear I’d never noticed shut before, I actually thought of banishing all weather reports from my existence. If I didn’t know I was supposed to be battening down the hatches, I might delight in the snow. At the very least, I’d adjust accordingly when I woke up that morning by pulling on my knee socks and down coat. I wouldn’t obsess. I wouldn’t worry. I might actually live in the moment.

And that, dear people, is really what this is all about, isn’t it? It never really was about weather reports. That’s my irrational psyche’s way of pulling attention away from what is really at the heart of the matter. If I can blame the weather man for my obsessive tendencies, then I don’t have to take the onus on myself. That I can’t live in the moment. That I can’t still the whirling dervish in my mind and so must look to external forces, such as a lovely spring day, to calm me. Or, in their absence, to name as the reason for my failures.

If only the sun were shining, my heart would be light.

If only spring had truly sprung, my mood would refresh.

If only I had no prior knowledge, I wouldn’t obsess and worry.

If only it were that easy.

(Though weather reports and the attendant technology do pull us out of synch with the natural rhythms of the earth and our surroundings. 😉 )

anxiety, Poetry

To Your Corners

I want definition.

I want nice, neat little boxes.

If not black and white, then broad black borders to contain the colors within.

Classification. Order.

I don’t want things to merge, to blend, to intermingle.

I want to draw a line between thoughts and feelings.

I want to shut off that part of me responsible for irrational.

I don’t want to be able just to identify it, but send it packing.

There’s a difference between knowing and feeling.

I can know it all I want. I have to be able to feel it.

anxiety, Children, Mental Illness

Vantage Point

An exploding moment.

One that stretches out inexorably like a slow motion sequence in film.

When tragedy occurs at breakneck speed, but your body cannot catch up; cannot speed up to stop it.

My four year-old teetered on the edge of a boulder that stretched in a line of them on the causeway. My mind was already fast-forwarding to the next scene, the one where her battered and broken body lay below or plunged into the icy depths of water beyond.

My voice exploded from my lungs in a staccato screech more piercing than that of the gulls above.

“Michael, the baby, the baby, she’s going to go over the edge, get the baby!”

Stuck to that spot by fear, I didn’t spring forward; I shook my arms, I stamped my feet. I screamed for her father to do it.

He saved her, while reprimanding me for just standing there. If I were going to have such a violent reaction to it, surely I’d do something about it . . .

In the instant replay, she hadn’t been teetering on the edge. She’d been dancing on the top, but not close to falling below. From my vantage point, it looked like she’d surely fall away from me.

From my vantage point.

My nine year-old watched me in the moments that followed. I caught her studying me. Sizing me up. Not like a cruel critic, but as if she might be wondering just what my vantage point was. What would make me screech like holy hell at a threat that no one else perceived. Like she’d just had her first cognizant look at her mother’s mental illness.

I felt shamed. I felt like she’d seen the ugly underbelly that, between my disguises and her naivete, I’d managed to hide until now. That now she had seen the irrational powers that ruled me.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think I should explain it away – and didn’t have the words even if I thought I should. I returned her gaze and pulled her into a hug.

A little while later, I watched her as she stood at the shoreline, hands dug deep into her pockets, jeans tucked expertly into her boots. She is becoming a young woman. Yet, in the wake of the waves crashing upon the shore, she looked so small.

And I thought – is that why we come to the ocean? To be reminded of how small we are? How insignificant in the face of the universe? Comforting to think that our worries are but grains of sand. But suffocating to think of the press of dangers and concerns able to crush us out in one single second.

Which vantage point will my daughter take? Will she recoil from the threat around every corner, refusing to turn and meet it? Or will she refuse to be frozen by fear and tackle her problems head on? Will she see my struggles as problems or failings on my part? Or will she see that I soldiered on in spite of them?

This screenplay is an on-going saga. If only I had the control.

anxiety, Depression, Identity, Mental Health, postpartum depression, Recovery

I Pledge Awareness . . . to the Cause

“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”

art by Piper Macenzie

It’s not everyday that I can proudly wear the badge of my illness, but the badge above — this badge I’d slap on my forehead and parade around town.

A Canvas of the Minds is an amazing website dedicated to an amazing cause: spreading awareness of and eradicating the stigma of mental illness. A team of talented authors share knowledge, personal struggle and triumph, and, perhaps most importantly, a reflective surface to show us we’re not alone. It is a team to which I am extremely proud to say I will soon be contributing!

When my water broke at the end of my third pregnancy, it released the flood waters of postpartum depression. What I didn’t know was what else was dammed up behind that. ‘Regular old’ depression, I suppose, and most definitely, anxiety. In some ways, my life has never been better since this deluge; in others, it’s sucked eggs – big, nasty, rotten ones.

But awareness makes a huge difference in all lives – those struggling to achieve mental health and those alongside them.

So bravo, A Canvas of the Minds! And bravo to all of you out there fighting the good fight.

To everyone: please consider taking the ‘Blog for Mental Health’ pledge yourself. Do it for yourself or in support of those you love . . .

anxiety, Identity, Living

Desperately Seeking a Daytimer

Second rewarm of my tea this morning. Second start to holiday vacation for my kids thanks to a snowstorm. Second application of warm socks and boots for the youngest who managed to lose her left one in a fall.

Final and total, complete agitation.

I rose to the insistent plying of my youngest to make her ‘brefkast’. A detour into her sister’s room to find her playing on her iPad kept her there and left me alone with my laptop. Instead of writing the three posts I should be or researching and revising the short story I should be, I putted around with email, online statuses, and reading blogs and comments other people had written.

I’m about as mushy as this 4-8 inches of snow will be once the temperature soars to a balmy 48 degrees on Monday.

How many pains in the asses do we have to feel before we become a cranky ass?

I’ve gone too long without a routine, this I know. The four to five days following Christmas where we ambled out for a hike once we actually got dressed, ate whenever we wanted, and cuddled in actual or electronic firelight were divine. I sorely needed them. But one day of waking early, rushing to the bus stop, running errands, etc. etc, etc, and then back to that loosey-goosey schedule was not enough. As much as I hate working to a clock, leaving me to structure my own days is a little like playing with that actual fire.

Plus, as excited as I am about some new ventures coming down the pike, they’re new and therefore anxiety-inducing. Will I succeed? Will I have enough time to complete my new tasks in addition to my existing ones? Will I be able to create enough quality content for three blogs? (Rob and Ruby, if you’re reading . . . of course, I can! 😉 ) Perfectionism is the enemy, but if I’m putting my name to it, it best be good. Nothing like self-induced panic and pressure.

We’re in that in-between state where the merriment of the holidays is no more, but it’s unclear what this new year will be. Unknown strikes fear into the heart of the fear-a-phobe.

Which I suppose is why I sorely need a schedule. One trivial, nitpicky way to get some tiny semblance of control over the whirling dervish that is now – my thoughts, my responsibilities, my needs, my children, my irrational, unfounded worries. That should be one hell of a calendar.

anxiety, Identity

Getting to Point A by Starting with ZZZZZZs

It occurred to me last night, as I drove in a dream-like state from sheer exhaustion, that the dreams we experience in REM sleep and those that our soul manufactures for our future do, indeed, intersect.

In the land of greeting cards and self-actualization, dreams are lofty ideals. A higher state of being to which we aspire. Some goal, which in the practical nature of the ‘real world’ seems too good to be true, unattainable. If we could do anything with our lives, it is our dreams we would live. Some bliss-inducing, talent-utilizing best form of our lives. The realization of our truest potential.

In the land of our subconscious, dreams are bizarre alternate realities. Different worlds where I tour Jamaica with Ziggy Marley, but don’t leave the restaurant until I collect the empty glass spice jars from the table that came from my kitchen. Where another woman literally tries to insert herself between me and my husband. Where I’m forever late to work, in danger of missing the bus, grossly under-dressed for some huge milestone in my life.

Ironically, the only way we remember dreams is when our sleep is interrupted. The whole story, the important details would be lost if the alarm or an insistent child didn’t come calling. And usually that’s perfectly all right. More beneficial. All those anxieties that would eat me alive – or that at least would gang up with those that torment me in my waking hours – are processed by my subconscious so I don’t have to worry about them later. I’ve always been one for multi-tasking; if my brain can tick a few worries off the list while I sleep, fantabulous.

If my subconscious can harness its power into removing some of my anxiety while I sleep, I will be more able to achieve my waking dreams. More at peace, calmer, even-keeled, ready to step up rather than be dragged down. The physical processes of sleep prepare our mind and psyche to focus on achieving that other sort of dream – the ones that don’t even occur in our wildest dreams.

So while one sort of dream seems unattainable, the other bizarre, one begets the other. Our subconscious and our soul working in concert to give us true vision.

I would LOVE to have dinner with you – if you bring the spice!

anxiety, Identity, Living

Lowest Common Denominator

We’re taught to see the big picture. The interrelationship of all things. This keeps us all on the same page, united in our humanity, celebrating our differences in their similarities. It helps us make meaning and induces awe. I get it. I value it.

But this mindset is antithetical to a ‘one day at a time’ mentality; a live in the moment attitude; that ever-present push for mindfulness.

Especially for an anxiety-ridden person such as myself.

How can I not ‘sweat the small stuff’, when it adds up to a whole mess of stuff? Each tiny bit of tedium I must attend to throughout the day fills up the entire day. I cannot shut off the mechanism in my mind that fits each peg into its hole in the mosaic of my life.

X leads to Y then to Z and every consonant clamors in dissonance. I can’t hear the letter for the alphabet.

I’ll always be an English major, though I graduated a number of years ago. I’ll always be a book reviewer. An English/Language Arts teacher. A writer. A critical reader. A literary theorist. All this is type-set into my skin. I eat, sleep, and breathe words, letters; their combinations, their phraseology.

I am forever searching for ways to form patterns, find themes, stack layer upon layer of meaning.

But what about when I need to reduce? To distill an idea down to its purest form? Base. Primitive. The smallest atom of an idea. I need to reverse operations. How do I learn to do that?

“The proper, wise balancing
of one’s whole life may depend upon the
feasibility of a cup of tea at an unusual hour.”
― Arnold Bennett, How to Live on 24 Hours a Day

anxiety, Living, parenting

Allergic Christmas-itis

I’m allergic to Christmas trees.

I may have inherited my father’s nasal repulsion to the pine pinnacle of the holiday season. There is, in fact, a very high likelihood of that, as I start sneezing as soon as I sit near it.

But that’s not the only form of allergic reaction there is.

The other kind begins round about the time the plastic totes of Christmas decorations pile up in the living room. Upon their appearance, the kids descend in a maelstrom of grabby fingers and fists like the clutching, covetous old sinner himself. But it’s me that’s more like Scrooge in my demeanor. I can’t handle the tissue paper strewn, the fragile ornaments bounced, the stockings splayed when they are not to be hung by the chimney at all right now – never mind with care. They wanted to trim the tree three days ago; their father and I have to attach tiny twinkle lights to the end of each tree branch with a slight gap in tiny twisted wires before even one ornament can be hung.

If we manage to fend them off long enough to get the lights on, once the first ornament is lifted, all bets are off. Look at this one, Mommy. When did I get this one? Is this yours? Daddy’s? Can I put this one up? Do you have a hook? Is this one okay here? Ooh, pretty.

Half of these comments are in response to a family heirloom made of blown glass teetering on the brink of extinction. It’s like they tag-team you: one grabbing the fuzzy, innocent lamb so the other can grab the cut-glass crystal pendant while your back is turned. Wait, what. No, not that one. Don’t do that. Mommy will do that one. Stop. Don’t touch. Daaaaaaaaadddyyyyyy!

My husband actually got me on video last year mid-rant as I tried to control the chaos. It didn’t work and it didn’t make for fun family movies. This year was slightly better. We put the tree in its stand one day (after smearing the ceiling with pine sap and chopping the perfectly tapered spire from the top so it would fit); did the lights and ornaments the next. The plan was to light a fire, put on Christmas carols, and take our time. The kids ended up nagging us for the better part of the day while we attended to family business and I still ended up twitching.

At one point, as I stared down into my four-story ornament organizer, I actually contemplated dropping small squares of paper into each compartment so I would remember where each ornament belonged upon dismantling of the tree. That’s when I figured I was probably taking things too far.

a. I am way too concerned about the level of organization for my out-of-season decorations.
b. That means I probably have too many decorations.
c. That also ~~means~~ proves that I’m a control freak.
d. And anal-retentive, type A . . . .
e. By fitting things, stuff, multiple objects into compact little boxes to contain them, I’m trying to establish some sort of order on a time/situation/season when I apparently feel overwhelmed.
f. My head is so full of stuff nowadays (several years now) that it can’t hold it anymore/together.

Instead of singing along to the soothing sounds of Bing Crosby’s crooning, I want to stab an ice pick in my eye. Instead of reliving the memories of each ornament and the story it tells, I’m making horrible memories for my children as I snap at them. It’s too much all at once. And there’s that expectation of being so flippin’ merry. There’s the pressure to recreate Currier and Ives. Instead of taking it slow and easy, everything needs to be a production with the stage set and the characters in play.

Do you ever feel like this during the holidays!?

So, yes, I’m allergic to my Christmas tree. Yes, I hate trimming the tree. Don’t send the spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future to my door; I’d probably just yell at them for pawing the ornaments anyway.

anxiety, Living

Hold on Loosely

I dropped some balls.

Not all of them. In fact, there were some added ones more involved than the usual ones. I’ve been getting a lot accomplished, doing a lot. But it’s hard to see the progress when some of the more essential tasks have fallen by the wayside.

Sleep. Sinus health. Writing. Clean dishes.

It seems like the mania that accompanies summer weekends has followed me into fall and beyond. And chock full days are not conducive to sleep, when late nights are the only chance for a quiet respite. And hay fever season compounded by a deviated septum and lack of rest, forcing of fluids, and neti-pot usage is just nasty.

The treadmill I’m on seems to have unrolled and stretched to the horizon like a ribbon of roadway.

I need to say no. I need to relax. I need to prioritize.

But, aside from the mundane daily requirements, a lot of what we’ve been doing is fun.

I was bone-tired by the end of last week and the attendant bunkbed mania that ensued. And I’m still digging out of the misplaced objects and displaced duties that occurred as a result. My chi is not where it needs to be. And it snowed for the first time today and my husband is leaving for a business trip. And I’m a worry-wort who does not take things one at a time.

But I stayed in my pjs till early afternoon yesterday and wrote an exciting short story in its entirety. I’m catching up on laundry and the pile of dishes in the sink is not as high as it was. Only one half of throat hurts now and I’m not drowning in mucus. My daughters are thrilled with their three-quarters of the way done big top bedroom. And tight squeezes from beloved family members feel even better when your body is battered and broken.

After all, the object of juggling is not to hold all the balls at the same time, but to rotate and transfer them, holding each one only lightly at a time

anxiety, Depression, Living

Mired in the Meantime

In the inbetween time,
the meantime
when you wait for the pain to stop,
the congestion to clear,
something to pass.
Long periods of indecision
followed by a flurry of panicked action.
Exhaustive measures
after exhausting nothingness.
The miserable day isn’t helping –
a logy stasis trapped in time.

Meanwhile, the next generation is languishing.
The one you thought was safe.
The one you thought could pull from those before and after her.
She is trapped in her own middle space.

And you can’t pull either one of you out.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: anxiety