Several months ago, I wrote a post entitled A Visit From an Old Enemy, and it was more or less summarizing the fact that my anxiety disorder had been under control for nearly a year, but that I was having sudden anxiety worrying about the upcoming minor surgery my little C was about to undergo.
The Enemy: my anxiety, my madness, hasn’t just come to visit, it’s moved in, I swear it. Just parked it there, right in the middle of my living room. What an arse-hole. Unwelcome houseguests are the worst. They take up space, sap all your time and energy…and my little home doesn’t feel like a hearth when my leg’s a jigglin’ and my mind’s racing, wondering how I can please It, how I can placate It so that It doesn’t rear it’s ugly head and destroy my home or myself or my poor husband’s resilience. And how do I please the bastard?
By numbing myself.
And how do I numb myself?
With nothing that is healthy, I can assure you of that.
And I fight it, yes readers, I fight and fight and fight, but I wonder (perhaps too often) how much more I can endure.
And even when I am calm, either with a brief respite by taking Xanax, or if, by some miracle, my brain has managed to calm itself, I always feel uneasy, just knowing that It’s there, skirting the edges, flitting around the living room, waiting until it can move in again and get cozy with me on the sofa, and seize control.
I don’t know if this is environmental, or genetic (damn my crazy ancestors!) or if I just simply drew the short stick in this life, but I’m so, so tired. Of it all.
I want my house back.
I want my life back.
I hate being anxious, EEEEEWWW!
I'm still angry about the whole Teletubby situation. Poor Poe.
Oh, and on another completely different note (shutup, it's my blog, I can go from subject to subject just as I please) here is the sweetest pic of my sick little C with his guard dog, Scout.