My therapist suggested I try a “fun little experiment” where I cut out all alcohol on the week days and log how it affects my mood and exhaustion levels.
So now I find myself staring at the stocked bar in my kitchen on a Friday morning, wondering if holidays still count as week days. Or if ANY Fridays still count as weekdays. I mean it’s FRIDAY. That’s basically the weekend. Even if it’s morning.
And that’s when I realize that this is no “fun little experiment.”
It’s an intervention.
Eric: “I feel like I’ve really cramped up your apartment. Is it making you anxious?”
Me: “What?! No, babe…”
Eric: “You realize I’m pretty much fully moving in tomorrow, right?”
99% of me: “I know, I’m so excited!”
1% of me:
This morning I woke up with an incredible sense of purpose, and vowed that I was going to check at least five things off my never-ending to do list. I had the energy, I had the drive, and I had a rare, large block of free time after work to accomplish it all. Today was the day!
And then– because I guess the universe hates me– suddenly, out of NOWHERE, on the day I FINALLY have the chance to be super productive, this totally crazy thing happened where I yawned and instead did nothing.
I can’t win.
Me: “I’ve been thinking about lowering my meds again soon. I’m way less anxious these days.”
Therapist: “Good.”
Me: “Good that I want to lower them? Or good that I feel less anxious?”
Therapist: “Good that you feel less anxious.”
Me: “So you don’t agree I should lower them?”
Therapist: “I didn’t say that.”
Me: “But you didn’t agree.”
Therapist: “I didn’t know you were seeking my agreement.”
Me: “Well…I don’t like it when you have NO reaction to an idea I’ve presented.”
Therapist: “Why is that?”
Me: “BECAUSE IT MAKES ME FEEL ANXIOUS!”
(long pause)
Me: “Yeah let’s keep the meds where they are.”
Therapist: “You’ve been saying for a while now that you might want a career change. It seems you haven’t felt very fulfilled at your current job.”
Me: “Right.”
Therapist: “And you said you were going to take some time, explore some options, talk to a few people, do some research, and come up with a plan.”
Me: “Right.”
Therapist: “So, you did that?”
Me: “Yes I did!”
Therapist: “And you have a plan?”
Me: “Yes, in fact I do!
Therapist: “I mean besides ‘get pregnant and quit.'”
Me: “Oh. Then no.”
If Sarah Palin is going to blame her son’s PTSD on Obama, then I’m going to blame my anxiety disorder on Sarah Palin.
Does your world salad come with a side of Ranch? Give me SOMETHING, lady. I DON’T UNDERSTAND THE THINGS YOU ARE SAYING.
NOTHING. MAKES. SENSE.
You owe me a lifetime supply of Xanax.
Eric says I read too many heavy, serious books about mental illness, and that maybe this contributes to my anxiety and hypochondria. So this time I chose one where, yes, the main character DOES have bipolar disorder– BUT he lives a super full, productive life, has a job he loves, is married to the love of his life, has a baby on the way, and takes really good care of himself. While it’s tough for him and his family to grapple with his bipolar disorder, and he often gets knocked down, he always finds his way back, and it’s actually a really inspiring take on living with mental illness.
His wife dies, though.
Of cancer.
BECAUSE WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE OF CANCER.
If you are someone who is prone to anxiety, do yourself a favor and do NOT purchase scarlet red body wash. I promise that if you do, you will look down at the bottom of the shower while soaping yourself and be CERTAIN that you are bleeding from at least one organ. EVERY. SINGLE. FUCKING. TIME.
It does wake me up, though.
A few months ago a girl moved into my building– young, a teacher, seemingly normal and cool. Someone I would actually hang out with. We spoke in the lobby for a bit, exchanged apartment numbers, and said we’d see each other soon. I haven’t run into her since– until just now, in the elevator.
Girl: “Hey! How have you been?!”
Me: “Not much!”
And then our friendship ended.
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