Acidic Anxiety

I’ve been a bundle of nerves all day. Mentally absent. I hear what goes on around me but I don’t…comprehend it. I can feel myself reaching that point where one thing, the tiniest little whisper of a breeze or a feather dropping on me…Might just push me over the edge. It is not illogical. It is hard learned experience. I can do so much and then…Crash, crash, burn.

Around two pm when I reached hour four of dish time, even though technically, I couldn’t bring myself to actually leave the shop. R wanted a lunch companion and that’s what he got. Except I refused to fetch lunch because it was an unfamiliar place crowded every day and today…I just couldn’t do it. I’d like to say I chose not to, but the bottom line is…I literally could not force myself to do something as simple as fetch a lunch from a restaurant.
It makes sense in one respect. I’ve got the school carnival thing tonight for my kid and already the stomach is in pretzels and churning with acid. The closest analogy I have to explain the anxiety induced stomach aches is…Ever watch someone pour coca cola on corroded car battery cables…And it foams and sizzles ad “eats” away at the corrosion…Well, that’s how my stomach feels 80% of the time. Antacids don’t do anything, not even the prescription ones. I drink milk. I picture stops signs. I breathe.
To no avail.
My anxiety has chosen to manifest itself physically and by all accounts, this is an inherent quality in the females on my maternal side. Breaking out in hives was the common thing with my mom and her mom. My sister gets stomach aches and throws up.
I just get slammed with a plethora of acidic panic responses. It’s awesome. NOT.

The closer it gets to time to go, the more trepidation I feel. I know it will be fine, no one is out to physically harm me, the world won’t end if I do freak out and projectile vomit on people…
Guess what?
Anxiety doesn’t give a rat’s ass about logic. It wouldn’t be a disorder if simple logic solved it.
And I know I am supposed to feel shitty because I see all the people around me and their lives are moving on and improving and some even had/have mental issues. So apparently if they can all shake it off, I am in the wrong. I don’t think positive enough. My distorted thoughts and nerve impulses are somehow a figment of my imagination or byproduct of pessimism.
It’s very difficult to keep relating to people like that because you know they’re buying into the “I’m cured” spiel and maybe it’s true for some. And those are the worst because the DO judge you for being negative and not rising above it as they did.
In some ways, “reformed” mentally ill people are worse than people simply ignorant of mental illness. Kind of like how former smokes become self righteous holier than thou types towards those who continue to smoke.
Supportiveness. That’s all I want, all I ask for. I don’t want to be enabled. Just…empathized with. Same as I can empathize with others.

I’ll get that right about the time they genetically engineer a pegasporkacorn.

For now I am tense (in spite of my daily full dose of Xanax) and the low mood has just kept tugging me under all day. I can tell I’m heading for crash crash burn land. Same as last week when I pushed myself so hard I ended up in panxietyland, too scared to even leave the house.
But bless her heart, my kid asked, “Mommy, do you really want to go tonight? Because we don’t have to…”
And the fact she could be so empathetic toward my discomfort makes me want to be ten feet tall and bulletproof and do normal things that make her happy. (Ask me later after she causes a public spectacle beside I told her “no” to something.)

I will TRY.
And that is a hell of a lot more than what I see a lot of people claiming disability do. I am making the effort. Just haven’t stuck the landing yet. And I’m not quite ready to give up on myself yet.
I am making progress on several fronts, even as I drown in the depressive ooze.
I’m down, but far from out.

I just don’t think I have the energy to shower and clean up for this shindig. I will slather on Skin So Soft, which wards off all stench, double dose the pits with antisweatypowderysmellystuff and…
I’m not good at bolstering my confidence.
But if it goes horribly awry…I will not hesitate to grab a Mangorita to bring me down off the ledge.
Fuck guilt.
I am TRYING.

Clown shoes.

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4 Responses to “Acidic Anxiety”

  1. Take the stomach out the the pretzels, put the pretzels in the stomach and all will be well. Or not. As for those cured people… Let’s look down our noses at them, raise a supercilious eyebrow and sneer. Then we should inform them that their cure was entirely dependent on their condition being something like situational depression, mild cyclothymia or hives. Fuckem. I’m really sorry about the anxiety, but I hear you…my last two days before today were spent trembling behind closed curtains – and not in the fun sense of that statement. My phone ringing makes my heart leap. And so on. All I’m really trying to say here, is that you’re not a freak.

  2. You are never alone. You are doing the best you can and you deserve a “You’re a Badass” for doing that. Mangoritas all around! Only I’ll be the bitch and turn my nose up at it 😉

    • morgueticiaatoms Says:

      The sad thing is I prefer whiskey and coke or cake vodka and yet it’s the 7% wussy alcohol that makes me feel a good mellow. I am, FUBAR because used to I didn’t touch malt beverages of any sort.
      Old age…sigh. Working the pegaspornacorn rodeo circuit all these years definitely taken a toll.

      • I’d much rather have really good scotch myself. Angry orchard makes my super chatty. Ugh. I blame the crossed wiring for it all. Damn the rodeo circuits…

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