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With some disdain and a great deal of steel, she begins again. |
"Invalid Entry"  The leading entry was late, so I'm not sure I have to respond to it, but writing is a release for me, a necessary distraction, and I figured, why not? Look, I'm not going to be grown-up about this, the last few days have absolutely sucked, emotionally speaking. I am adrenalized and bitter, slowly verging on hopeless, and intellectually I know that none of it is real, that my body is responding out of habit to things which would mean nothing to most people, but it always feels new, this desperation, like I've never known it before and we are only now becoming acquainted. I am angry about it, but mostly with myself, because my life could be so much more than it is if only I was equipped to handle the basics, like working and driving across the city alone. I don't know why I am reacting to possibly going to school as I am, but clearly my sub-conscious is taking issue with it. I went to bed last night on the verge of a crying jag and I couldn't say anything out loud, because I'm embarrassed by the way I react to things and I don't like people to know. I write them out in here because there is a certain amount of anonymity in it, and my hope is that someone like me, who may read my words, will benefit from knowing they are not alone. Of course, reading about my terror and subsequent aimless tears is probably not going to reassure anyone. I am sorry for that. But, it's no more my responsibility than yours to fix the wrecks fo the world. I do not have the solution to this, except, maybe I do. I know all the steps through this mire of twisted logic and emotion. I know how to get you out of it, I know how to make you feel confident and safe, but I don't have any of it for me. I buckle when the symptoms begin. I immediately cower when the rush of fear begins to colour my face and pump my heart. I wish it away, beg for salvation, pray to supernatural forces, all with the hope that a miracle will happen, that I'll be able to move about my life without holding my breath and looking for a place to hide. It never happens, though. Miracles are fairly random happenings, I suppose, like winning the lottery or getting struck my lightning. No finger of God has ever pointed in my direction with the purpose of emotional liberation. This is my cross. It's getting kind of heavy. I frustrate myself a lot with this. Just when I think I'm beginning to conquer the unnecessary fears in my life, they tend to come back, almost like I've willed them to. The thing is, I really don't want this. I have learned from it, I have got the message, and now it's time for it to go. Unfortunately, it is one relentless houseguest. The one thing which seems to help me on occasion is talking about it, which is why I entered therapy years ago, and why I still advocate therapy as a very powerful tool. The problem for me is that I can't afford it right now, that I've had to let Jo know that I won't be able to talk to her for a while, and when I cut the cord, I actually felt kind of good about it. Now, though, I really , really want to talk with her, and can't, which makes me even more anxious. Now, it may seem as though I have a dependency on my therapist, but I don't think that this is true. I had a substantial break from her a few years ago and only went back when the anxiety reawakened after a two year nap. It's part of me, this thing, and I fluctuate between giving it too much respect and not respecting it at all. What she does is centre me, makes me calm down enough to re-evaluate the fear and learn to accept it. On my own, I tend to get muddled by the crazy signals my body fires off and lose the focus I worked so hard to cultivate. Sometimes, I need the sound of a kind and knowledgable voice to let my body go slack. Only then, can my head begin to pick away at the nonsense and discard it when I'm through . I have no talent for calming myself. I need the voice. So, I did the dumbest thing I could have possibly done: I tried to confide in my sister. Now, K. means well, but there is no depth to my sister. I don't mean this maliciously, even though I'm feeling plenty malicious at the moment. The truth is that she really doesn't like to think about feelings, much, unless they're hers. The feelings of other people bore her, especially if they've got nothing to do with her, and it's caused a lot of people in my life to make comments to the effect of 'I know she's your sister, but I've never really liked her, I hope that doesn't offend you.' To be honest, it rarely offends me, mostly because I know she's tough to deal with. She does have a fairly extensive group of friends, but they're mostly people just like herself, and their conversations are usually top layer kinds of exchanges. That's okay, that's who she is and I can respect that, but the thing which galls me is that she rarely tries to understand what other people are feeling, is often contemptuous when they attempt to express themselves, and despite loving her, I sometimes find myself disliking her. The confiding happened when she called me today, airy and relaxed, when she wasn't hollering at her son. She had asked if I had plans for a vacation this summer, and I sort of danced around the subject, mostly because I have no idea what next week will like, much less the summer. As I've been preoccupied with my own misery these past few days, the idea of planning a vacation seems horrifying and beyond my worth, so I tried to explain things in a way which might make sense to her. As I already mentioned, I failed. Miserably. 'I don't know if we're going anywhere. We'll have to see. M. mentioned Newfoundland, but I don't know...' 'Oh, just go. It's beautiful there,' she said. I imagined her hand waving me off. 'Well...the thing is, it might be hard, you know? Financially it's probably not viable, and emotionally...' It must be said. I cringed as soon I let the word slip out. 'What? What the hell do you mean by emotionally?', she asked, probably sneering. 'Things have been a little tough for me lately, that's all. I don't know how I'm going to adapt to school full-time, that's all.' 'You just go,' she stated flatly. 'Well, yeah, I know that, but...' 'But what? You just do it. I don't understand what you're talking about.' Sigh. 'Well, you see, the thing is that I've been dealing with panic disorder for about nine years now (a little sarcasm here), and occasionally it spikes and zaps all my good intentions. I've been a little worried, I guess, about school and all that stuff so I don't really have much room for thinking about vacations. Just trying to focus.' 'Oh, god,' she said dramatically, obviously rolling her eyes, 'Yeah, I know about the anxiety, obviously, it's just that you don't have a choice. You have to live your life.' 'Yeah, I know that,' I said stiffly. 'Then just do it already,' she hissed. 'What a shame you and Freud couldn't have had this little talk. You two could have cured the world together!'. I was not amused. 'Whatever,' she said flippantly. 'I'm just trying to say that I'm sort of feeling a little bit 'off' right now, and I'm trying to work my way through it. I'm not asking for you to solve the problem.' I was just hoping for a little compassion, maybe a little pep talk, because you're supposed to care about me. My life has been difficult because of this problem, and I'm happy you don't have to deal with it, but I do, and sometimes I feel very lonely. Sometimes I feel like no one else on the planet has ever felt this way before. I feel like I'm failing, that I'm disappointing everyone, that I can't breathe. Sometimes, I just want to know that someone else is interested in what I'm feeling, that I'm always going to have them to listen to me when I need them to. There was a very brief silence, not even long enough for her to weigh the reaction to her comments, before she switched over to another topic altogether. I felt like I'd been hit by a car and was still spinning on the side of the road. I've come to understand that there is very little sympathy for people who deal with invisible maladies. Sympathy comes between shit and syphillis in the dictionary. I know that the only way out of this is through me and my will to move past it, but I get stuck. I have trouble confronting my fears because I've not yet accepted that doing so will feel better than avoiding them. I wasn't looking for a warm response from her anymore than I do anyone who hears or reads my troubles. I suppose I was hoping that by saying things out loud I wouldn't feel so alone in this. All of the swirling doubts and running adrenaline gets to be too big for this head of mine at times. Sometimes, letting some of it out helps. But, she's not the person for it. She never will be, just not in her to understand. It wouldn't have helped to bring up the long, teary conversations we had after her miscarriage where I tried to soften things, to make her understand that none of it was her doing, that she always had me to talk to when the sadness got to be too much. She might have appreciated the effort, but would never be able to see what I feel as any kind of comparison to that. She would have said that losing a baby is not the same thing as feeling dizzy and unbalanced. Maybe not, I'd say, but I have lost every opportunity that has come my way. I have lost countless summer days and nights by hiding in the house under the covers. I have lost a trip to Europe, several friendships, an education, many promotions, unstrung laughter, visits with people I care about and every bit of my freedom. I have gained endless nights of aimless tears, paralyzing self-doubt, embarrassment, shame, a reputation for being introverted, bitterness and some very uncomfortable physical reactions. I have lost nine years of my life to this, and I'll never get them back. No, it's not the same thing. Not even close. What astounds me is that I even bothered to talk about it. What exactly was the point of it, anyway? Rambling about something so personal and weak, exposing myself like that to someone who doesn't want hear about it. I knew who she was before I started speaking. Maybe it's as simple as just wanting someone to talk to. Next time, I'll choose more wisely.    |
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