I’ve got anxiety issues. I’m a bit high-strung. I tend to worry a great deal. I have trouble turning my brain off. I suffer from frequent heartburn. I often have a difficult time falling asleep at night. Sometimes I have small panic attacks.
Okay fine. I lose my shit on a daily basis, people. Fine, I said it. Are you happy? Yeah, of course you are. Assholes.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You aren’t assholes. You are nice people, who will probably leave me encouraging comments like “Hang in there!” and “Maybe you should visit your doctor?” and “Your mom” (Kurt).
It’s just that, well, I feel like I might be reaching my breaking point emotionally. What’s funny is that people who don’t know me really well would never know I’m stressed out because I’m always pleasant and laughing. But the people who do know me really well? They see how fakey my smile is and that when I think no one is looking, I’m all frowny and crazy eyed. They can tell I’m not sleeping well because of the dark circles under said crazy eyes and how I mumble to myself and sigh a lot and generally look unwell.
I thought I was doing a pretty good job of hiding it from everyone besides Captain Carl. He has special insight into my soul and lady parts, so I can’t get anything past him. I gave up on that a few years ago. But I was pretty sure that most everyone else thought I was my old sunny self. Until graduation weekend, when all of my family and the Captain’s family descended on our house. I think I heard “Are you doing okay?” and “Are you feeling well?” and “You must be tired” about 50 times that day. Then my sister pulled me aside and was all “I went on antidepressants last month and I’ve never felt better.” and I was all “That’s awesome!” and she was all *pointed stare* and I was all “What?” and she was all “Never. Better.” and I was all “Oh, ummm…great?” and she was all “Seriously.” and I was all "...the fuck?" and she was all "You need meds, bish". And my parents were especially concerned. I picked up on that after my Dad gave me the “Try to find happiness in every day” speech twice in as many hours. And on their way out, my Mom slipped some money into my hand and whispered “Get yourself a pedi-mani or whatever they call it and feel better, honey.”
They are all right. I AM tired. I’m NOT feeling well. And some days, I’m definitely NOT okay. (not every day though…I really do have a lot of good days. But this post isn’t about that. It’s about me whining and feeling sorry for myself, so shut up.)
The thing is, I’m afraid to go to the doctor. It’s overwhelming to even think about schedule an appointment to ask what I should do about my totally whacked out anxiety and inability to just chill the fuck out. And yes, I know that overwhelmed feeling is reason enough to do it. Gah, I’m a mess.
But here’s the good thing. My husband, bless his squishy sweet heart, never tires of trying to help me. He hates that I'm always stressed out. He hates that I have nightmares much too often. He hates that I come home from work and immediately start cleaning the house. I don’t even change out of my work clothes some days because my anxiety level is so high that I don’t want to stop moving moving moving, even though I’m exhausted. I’m in the kitchen, wiping counters and throwing out junk mail and cleaning out the vegetable drawer in my heels. Sometimes I even forget to take my purse of my shoulder before I start. For reals. Crazy, right? And yet, the Captain sticks with it and every day tells me to “Sit your ass down and relax, damn it”. Some days it works, some days not so much.
I think he could sense after graduation that I was making a beeline towards crazytown. So last weekend, he piled me and my camera and my 5 pairs of yoga pants and my 12 pairs of flip flops into the car, drove me 4 hours away and plopped me down at a resort in the middle of nowhere. Our room was on the second floor of a building in the woods. We had to be transported to it via golf cart on gravel trails lit only by solar lights. Our view was leaves and tree trunks. There were rocking chairs on our deck and bug spray next to the cushy robes in our closet. There were no sounds except the wind and the birds. They left wine and chocolates on our bedside table. It was heaven.
This trip was technically a business venture for the Captain. He had meetings all day Saturday in the resort’s conference room, so I was left to my own devices. It was awesome. I spent the morning walking through the meadows on nature trails. I was the only person out there and I felt a million miles away from my life. I took pictures of butterflies and flowers. A deer popped up out of the tall grass no farther than 10 feet away from me, followed by her fawn. Fucking Bambi, ya’ll. The path eventually led me to a pond where dozens of dragonflies were swarming. I began to feel the anxiety and stress slowly loosen it’s grip on me and I began to relax. I sat down under a tree and cried for awhile, just because I wanted to. I even sang out loud. “Oh what a beautiful morning”. Best solo sung in a field by a crazy woman ever. I wish I had brought the wine with me. Then I went back to my room, showered, ate lunch and got a massage (hells to the yeah). Then I joined Captain Carl for drinks and dinner. I slept like a baby and had morning sex on Sunday.
I need to move to this place. Meds and therapy would not be necessary. All I need is a treehouse and a meadow filled with Disney animals and I’m all good. But alas, I had to come home last night. Back to a world filled with jobs and bills and dirty litter boxes and renters and teenage boys. You know…real life. I’m easing back in slowly today. I downloaded the entire soundtrack to Oklahoma and am currently humming along with “Surrey with a fringe on top” and envisioning Captain Carl as Curly. I do love a man in a cowboy hat.
On Becoming My Grandmother
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