Release.

17 02 2015

Dear Sabrina,
You, my friend, have a lot on your plate. You are overwhelmed and stretched too thin. You’re exhausted and ill. You’re in pain. So take it slow, and keep it simple! You were doing really well there, for a while, with the whole letting-yourself-off-the-hook thing, especially when it came to tidiness and housework and everyday BS! What happened? True, you moved into your inlaws giant, cold house, against your will and wishes, because you HAD to when Eric lost his job. Again. And so now, you cohabit with a woman who’s found that old hook you discarded months ago, polished it up a little, and jammed it in, right about at the third rib or so to hang you back up. But WHO GIVES A SHIT IF SHE’S PISSED EVERYDAY ABOUT EVERYTHING! You’ll never change this, or her. You’ll never please her, Eric will never please her, SHE WILL NEVER BE PLEASED, Sabrina. And she and they will never listen, like, LISTEN-listen, and the only form of communication in this house will always be via a door: how loudly it’s slammed. Their disfunction isn’t your disfunction, Sabrina. Don’t take it on as your own. Just take deep breaths, remember that you’re smart and funny and brilliantly witty, and let it go. Tackle your to-do lists in order of what YOU feel is important, not the order of importance dictated by the other people miserably bouncing around this giant house. Be kind, courteous, and do your best to respect the shared space. If they had true love, compassion and empathy in their hearts, they would understand that the lump in your right breast takes priority over the kitchen counters being schmucky. Make that mammo appointment, sweet self! And they’d get it that the abnormal PAP is more worrisome than the girls’ bedroom staying picked up to impossible standards 24-7. Schedule your follow-up PAP, sweet self! They should totally know that chronic fatigue, constant pain, and impossibly uncomfortable constipation keeps you from being able to scrub the bathroom more than twice a week. Make your gastro appointment, sweet self! Sabrina, you have permission to remove the hook, once again, from your side and bat it away. Focus on what you CAN. Focus on finding comfort, joy, grace and gifts. Focus on breathing deeper, stretching longer, walking further and standing straighter. Focus on hugging and kissing and tickling and hand-holding. Focus on making appointments with specialists and getting the kids to the eye doctor and your husband to the dentist and the family to the chiropractor. Focus on staying as happy, healthy and full of life as you possibly can. The people surrounding you are full of their own miseries, and the less miserable you become, Sabrina, the more miserable they will want to make you. They want your company. They don’t want to accept responsibility for their own bubbles, so they’re gonna try to pop yours. Protect your sweet girls and your sweet self from this, Sabrina. Your life depends on it.
Love ALWAYS, your Sweet Self.💋❌⭕️❌⭕️

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People who need people.

7 04 2014

There’s something about a rainy Monday morning that turns me into a soppy, contemplative, ugly-crying, junk food-craving mess. Especially a rainy Monday morning following a hot mess of a weekend. (You know.)

We all acknowledge that I’m headed toward break-down, right? I’m in my Coming-To-Jesus moment. So close to the tipping point.

I have a very best friend who’s also having her Moment, and maybe it’s because of her and her pain and her need for real, true help, that I’m looking so hard at my own face in the mirror this morning. Her crisis is fairly monumental. Mine is not yet. But her wake-up call should be fair warning to me. I should accept this gift of someone else’s alarm and get out of bed before my own alarm starts screaming in my ears.

I had a panic attack yesterday. My first in years and years. It’s no real surprise. I’ve been in a retrograde as of late , revisiting aspects of my past life, both good and bad. My late teens and early twenties were such a tangled rat’s nest of coming into my own and losing parts of my soul. I was so full of promise, full of motivation, a bright shining star of drive and curiosity. People thought I was going places. People believed in me and took chances on me. I dutifully did my best to make them proud. I worked hard, lusted after learning and set myself up to gain as many new experiences and branch out into as many networks as I could.

Unfortunately, I was also in a whole lot of physical pain, a whole lot of the time (and didn’t know why of course,) and physical pain can easily fade into emotional and psychological pain, until they are one and the same. I started having panic attacks, and I figured out that drinking alcohol would temporarily stop a panic attack, so I did a bunch of drinking. I needed it. Couldn’t make it through without it. I went to some terrible psychiatrists, went on all sorts of pharmaceuticals that made me fat and zitty and emotionless and sleepless and numb, but nothing did the trick like beer. Lots and lots of beer. (Good, fancy beer of course. Then you can call it a hobby and say you like learning about how beers are brewed or some bullshit like that. I’ve now given up that facade and drink wine from a box. Because I’m poor.)

Between the immense pain I was almost always feeling, and staying either drunk or hungover, I spent my early twenties inching further and further away from all that promise of great things to come, and found myself falling into irrelevance and obscurity and without the network of support I worked so hard to create. Depression took over everything.

I’ve been close to putting the fire out over the years since, but I’m still dancing around, stomping out flares, never quite able to stop the smoldering. I’ve had some wonderful moments, and beautiful children, and a supportive partner, lovely sunshiny days with sand in my toes, big smiles on my face, happy moments with laughter and joy. But underneath it all has been that annoying depression pit blowing smoke in my face, no matter which side of it I stand on.

I’ve lost control (as I have over the years from time to time) and too many flames have popped up in too many places and I’m over my head. It’s either get some help dowsing the flames, or burn.

For whatever reason this happens to people, my way of coping has been to rebel or something? Have a mid-life (third-life?) crisis kind of thing? I’m so overwhelmed with scary thoughts and anger, that I’ve wanted to disconnect from Right Now. And be in another place and another time. Like my back-thens. When things were hopeful and fun and there was still a good enough amount of serotonin pumping from my brain. I’ve started eating meat again, digging out dusty old CDs, contemplating crop-tops for this summer. Putting myself back in my 21s. But I forgot about the ugly flip side: The panic attack, I’m floating off the face of the earth and can’t breath and will surely die or stay permanently out of my mind side of my 21s.

It sucks.

I tried to eat brunch with one of my most favorite trusted people yesterday. As we sat on our bar stools and decided which fancy DC version of snobby eggs and meat we wanted, the panic hit me. Boom. Out of nowhere. Just like that.

Hello, old friend. It’s been years! Where have you been? Mucking around the darkest recesses of my psyche? Oh? What’s it like down there? Why don’t you tell me all about it while I sit in this brunchy place-to-be-seen and pretend to be interested in turkey hash and lox on a salad! How about we hold hands, spin around and get dizzy together! What’s that? You want me to hold my breath and see how long I last before passing out? Ok! Uh-oh! There you went and took my perception of reality again, you tricky panic you! I better find a way to make it into the bathroom and stare in the mirror for a few minutes to remind myself of who I am and what I’m really doing right now! But then, how will I ever manage to walk all the way back to my seat ALL BY MYSELF? Maybe all these people in the restaurant know you’re here. Maybe they can see you. Yep. Definitely they can see you. And hear you. You’re not staying invisible enough! We should leave. It’ll be better if we’re alone. Except then you might kill me! Ugh. What do I do? The thought of us staying here together seems impossible! But the thought of us being somewhere else together seems awful too! You’re so high-maintenance, panic. I hate you.

I had to make my friend leave brunch early because I really, honestly thought I might just fall right off the bar stool and make a fool of myself.

I also was having a really, really hard time not losing my fucking mind and screaming and crying and begging to be taken to a hospital and knocked out so I could just wake up on the other side of it, in a psych ward, with gallons of Xanax. Can you imagine!?! The lady with perfectly smoothed hair and pretty coral lipstick, in her boyfriend jeans and booties and latest thrift score of a gorgeous Banana Republic silk trench, just dropping then and there, grabbing the server by his shirt and screaming “Take me to a hospital! I’m going insane! The monsters are eating me!!!!” foaming at the mouth, black mascara making blobby raccoon circles around wide, crazy eyes… I almost wish it had gone down Iike that. It seems so dramatic and interesting.But no, when panicking, I must always maintain the picture of calm and happy on the outside, and somehow I do it well. (The picture below is actually me at that brunch. While I spun out of control. Can’t you tell? The other picture is the night before. If only I knew what was coming.)

Eventually the panic caused some nausea, I did some throwing up, saw some blood of course, and the physical pain took over and drowned out the panic.

So that’s one way to cope.

What are we all going to do with me?

So yeah. Before this shit gets out of control again… I gotta find something to grip onto and pull myself together. I have importance, and my brain knows to tell myself that, but my heart is having a hard time believing it. It seems easier on me and everyone else to just fall apart and be done with it, because I forget that I matter to people. People, like my kids. My husband. My parents. My friends. There are actually people and things in this world who need me, like my dear friend who’s in the midst of her own falling apart and deserves my shoulder to lean on. Plus, I have some plans for what’s to come next, and they’re fairly important plans.

So could someone get on over here with a fire hose? Sheesh. I’m exhausted.

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