Feb. 18th, 2017

quirkytizzy: (Default)
The Xanax Anxiety Train.

I've had two anxiety attacks in the last two days, followed by a third one upon awakening this morning. This is unusual. I experience all kinds of strong emotions all the time - what I DON'T often experience is anxiety attacks. The kind that make me feel as if I've scaled a very tall cliff and am just toeing the edge, terrified a strong breeze is going to tip me over and into the void.

There's a reason my last refill lasted me almost 4 months. I just don't experience anxiety attacks often....except lately.

The Dr's appt one was very explainable. Yesterday's started as I tried to lay down for a nap. This is also explainable, at least as in the whole "I almost died here" thing goes. This morning? Not sure, but I can feel myself starting to scale the walls.

Both attacks before took HOOOURS to crawl down from. Part of this is that while I had Xanax, I did not want to take it. Didn't want to feel like I was "giving up the fight" or drugging myself to avoid uncomfortable emotions. Xanax also tends to knock me on my ass. It works quickly and effectively, but in the same way that a sledgehammer works quickly and effectively.

Which is funny, because I'm on the lowest possible dosage of Xanax at half a milligram of it. It still kicks me in the head with steel toed boots. But I know that's not what taking Xanax is for me. It's a medical treatment, for god's sake.

Jesse will do what he can. He'd hold me and talk to me, cuddle up under the blankets, say and do soothing, soft things. I'll spend an hour in bed running through all of my meditative and therapeutic self-talk tools. I even watched tv. Hours of it.

That's how you know I'm having a really difficult day - when I actually watch tv.

Usually all of that works, though. As of the last two days, I've still required medicinal help. It makes me feel weak. This morning, I'm circumventing the "You're weak and self-medicating, Teressa" thoughts and just took the Xanax, regardless of what my opinion of myself is.

It's okay to need medicine. I keep telling myself that. It's okay to need medicine.

So I've been out of the hospital for 27 days now. I am now 31 days from almost dying. Physically, my body is feeling wonderful, outside of crushing fatigue. THAT on its own is difficult. I keep telling myself that three months ago, I would have been THRILLED to have "ONLY" the fatigue to worry about. So why I can't I just be happy about that? Now that it is the only thing to deal with, I realize exactly just how prevalent and difficult that symptom is.

So now I guess is where the emotional part of the last month comes crashing in.

Yeah. Why can't I just be happy about that? I will be, someday. I know this. Jesse tells me to focus on just for today. Don't think about yesterday, don't try to plan for tomorrow, just focus on TODAY.

I used to be so good at that in early recovery in NA. Granted, that was almost 20 years ago. I was a different - and much more elastic, younger person - then. Still, there's merit in the idea of just trying to be, to exist, to be happy, just for today.

It's Saturday. The only thing I have to do today is scoop out litterboxes. And maybe binge on some iZombie and Babylon 5. Definitely watch more of "Don't Trust The B In Apartment 23". Let me pretend for a little while that I'm friends with a New York City debutante and that my life is more exciting than writing Livejournal posts and swallowing Xanax pills.

Could be worse. At least the only thing I have to deal with physically is the fatigue. I'da killed for that 3 months ago. Be happy and grateful for that, Teressa. I can be happy and grateful for that.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
The day winds down in a considerably better place than it started. A goddamn delicious salad, conversation time with Jesse, and a productive shower all add to the calm of a day spent entirely at home.

I was telling Jesse that I had this terrible urge yesterday to rid my home of everything that reminded me of death. All of my skull and skeleton figurines, the graveyard bric-a-brak, the muted fall colors of fake flowers that adorn the walls around my bed. I wanted to throw it all away and redecorate my home in enough pink and red as to make Barbie's Dreamhouse jealous.

Being as I'm an aging goth, though, ridding my home of everything creepy would require an entirely new apartment. It's just not practical. I've also been staying away from creepy videos, stories, movies, AND conversations.

And I know this as-of-late nervousness about creepy and morbid things will fade. It'll go away and I'll be happily traipsing about graveyards and buying new skeleton adorned snowglobes. And I don't reeeallly like hot pink anyways.

It's just that right now, the subject is awfully close to home. It's surprising to me. Shocking, even. I've been morbid my whole life. This? This is new. This leaves me reeling. A part of my identity has slipped and I'm not sure what to put in its place.

THAT, actually, is sort of a big thing altogether right now. A loss of identity. The regular, mid-life angst is there, but with an assload of sharp and sudden mortality-mongering thrown in there, too.

Eight months ago, I thought I knew myself. Eight months later, I'm not sure at all. I'm thirty-fucking-five. I really ought to have a better grip of what makes me ME.

I don't. All I've been doing is staring at my parts, all scattered and loose, hearing other people say that I'm more than the sum of those parts, and not at all understanding what that means.

Still, it is a good day. I'm not going to redecorate my apartment. I'm instead going to eat a delicious chicken dinner and sleep tonight, knowing that I don't need to KNOW myself to sleep.

At least tonight. That's damn good enough.

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