Untitled

You see, I would have given this post a clever title if I could have thought of one. But I’m too mentally spent to worry about it right now. Besides, “Untitled” is all mysterious and whatnot so it should drive some hits from the curious/nosy. And you know I’m all about the blog hits.

But that’s not what this is about. This is about me. As usual. And before you say anything, here’s something to think about while you read – this is how I feel better..writing it out. Some people put it in a journal/diary no one can see. Some people bottle it up. Some people tell a friend or a family member or a therapist – which reminds me, I need to get on finding a new one of those because I haven’t seen mine in a year.

That said, continue on at your own risk. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I’m in one of those weird moods I can’t explain. It’s not sad, it’s not mad, it’s….I don’t know. It’s anxiety at its finest and most annoying. Because it ain’t depression, no way.

For those of you perhaps confused at the moment, know that right now, I am just about the happiest I’ve ever been. There are a lot of good things going on. There are a lot of good things to look forward to in the coming days, weeks, months, year. I have family, friends, a job, my health (knock on wood) and relatively nothing to complain about.

But you know I’m going to complain a little bit.

90 percent of my anxiety/depression comes from a place where I never feel like I’m good enough. At anything. Even though I know it’s not true. I know I’m good at stuff. I know I wouldn’t be where I am today if I wasn’t.

And I’ll be good. For a while. A long while. But then one little thing happens. Trivial, usually, and it makes me question myself and my talents and automatically assume the worst will happen.

I’m keeping it vague because I have a personal rule about this blog. If you want to know it, I’ll tell you, outside of the Internet. But suffice it to say that for as much as I put out there for you all to read, there’s specifics I keep to myself.

In re-reading what I’ve wrote so far, it seems confusing. So sorry if I’m making it hard to follow.

The Reader’s Digest Version isn’t much shorter, but here goes.

In three months my prescription is up for the medicine I take to keep me firing on all cylinders. In three months I have to either have found a new therapist who will keep prescribing it to me or talk to my doctor about slowly weaning myself off of it. And thinking about that makes me anxious. Which to me clearly means “stay on the meds a little longer” and “get a therapist that returns phone calls.”

When I started seeing a counselor almost 2 years ago, it was largely situational. I knew exactly what to blame it on (my job at the time) and what to do about it. But then we found out about the underlying stuff that I have no idea where it comes from because I didn’t have anything out of the ordinary ever happen to me to make me feel like that.

But sometimes – and those times are getting fewer and farther between – I feel not good enough. And please don’t tell me not to feel that way. Because I’ve said the same thing to myself. And I’m trying. God, am I trying.

And it’s funny, because recently I’ve been told by several people that I’m confident. So, there’s that. At least I can feel better knowing that for all the self-doubt I’ve got, I’m really good at not projecting it to others. At least not all the time.

Because I don’t feel like that all the time. Most of the time I feel fine. But every so often, it hits me. Every so often, because I’m stressed at work, usually, or because I’ve forgotten to just stop and BREATHE, out pops the anxiety cloud. And it’s suffocating.

I wish it was as easy as quitting that way of thinking. I wish I could do what my dad suggested tonight and take it “one day at a time” instead of looking big picture and thinking “this is what I have to do tomorrow and next week and in two weeks” and so on. I’m working on it, I swear, and I’m much better than I used to be, believe it or not.

In fact, I feel like in a lot of ways, in the past couple of years, I’ve become less stressed overall. I have adopted a Hakuna Matata way of thinking on a lot of fronts, and that’s served me well. I’ve been happier. But that doesn’t mean the anxiety stops completely. I think if it did that would make me a robot. Or a cheerleader. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.

All of this is to say I’ve had a couple stressful weeks. Two, really. I’ve been home long enough to sleep and do little else and even the sleep is getting interrupted by the thoughts of all I have to do the next day. And the next.

I’m on my way out of the craziness, thank God, but then I go thinking of the future again, namely, have I learned enough about myself and how I can cope to begin the process of not being dependent on medication to be evened out? And if I’m not ready to let go of that chemical assistance, is that a bad thing?

In no way do I think it was a bad idea to ever go to a counselor, to ever start taking an anti-depressant. It is, without a doubt, the best decision I have ever made in my life. I guess it’s just now that I’m having to revisit it, to re-address it, I’m wondering – am I doing better than I was two years ago? Yes.

Am I in a better place? I think so.

Am I ever going to stop doubting myself, medicine or no medicine? Probably not.

Am I strong enough to do this on my own? I don’t know.

Note: I just re-read through all of this and it sounds like a rambling mess. So really, it’s a peek inside my mind during the past couple weeks. You’re welcome.

But getting it out feels better. I’m not gritting my teeth like I was when I started writing. I’m not thinking about anything I need to do past tomorrow.

Don’t think that I forgot that I had that public (at least on the Internet) New Year’s resolution to give myself a break this year – take it easier on myself.

I am not perfect. No one is. And no one expects me to be. So I should stop expecting it of myself. I do the best i can and everyone seems to be OK with that. Except me. But please know that I am working on it. I swear.

So please be patient with me. I’m a work in progress.