sobernoodles

I have suffered depression and anxiety on and off all my life. When I think of my childhood, I can remember vast swathes of time where I was worried about one thing and another. Worried about having to be an unwelcome addition in other people’s houses when my parents were at work. Worried about my little brother getting bullied by child minders and only me to defend him. No one to talk to. Worried about not having secret places in my bedroom because my room was never a private space. Worried that I didn’t fit in at school, with anyone, even my friendship group, and likewise at university, later on. Worried about being misrepresented by people who were supposed to have my back. Worried about my capacity for blistering anger.

Worried about being beaten and humiliated by my first husband if I stepped out of line. Which I always seemed to do. Worried about being crap at housework, because I was supposed to be good at it. . .

I don’t feel worried with my lovely second husband. He is the love of my life. I trust him with everything. He doesn’t generate worry in me. Worries are just ordinary stuff like getting enough shopping in for the weekend, or the toothpaste squidges on the side of the sink, or a bin getting too full. I don’t worry about not fitting or coming home to find him not there, or him turning on me out of the blue, or playing head fuck games because he enjoys it. He likes the fact that I am me, even though I puzzle him. He would never hurt me, I know that with absolute conviction. I am lucky, although I had to wait a long time for my soul mate.

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Where it stops nobody knows

Mind you, I’ve been dealing with [clinical depression] since I can remember which technically qualifies me as someone with “early onset major depressive disorder.” That sounds downrightOscar-worthy. But the fact is that– like being poor or double jointed or Canadian– I just didn’t know there was any other way to be. I thought everyone had an annoying chorus of negative thoughts and weekends spent in bed and a dull sense that there had been a mistake in my being born. I had fantasies of joining the unknown in my sleep– my soul and neurons and unleashed bliss could rejoin the cosmic soup which has played a cruel yet hilarious joke on the whole of humanity. I was convinced we could all experience peace and joy when the lines between “me” and “others” could finally be dismantled in death.

Why I am blabbing on like a psych patient? Because that’s what I think about. That’s what I’ve always thought about– since I was 9 or 10. I can’t really tell you the exact age, which is one really terrible quality of depression. I have virtually no long term memory of years, places, people, experiences. But I do remember how I felt.

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Alice through the Macro Lens

Life felt good, and I admit a little part of me let myself believe that I was cured. I mean, I had finally managed to secure a couple of appointments with the psych (after a nine-month fight to see one). He prescribed me a new medication, and it’s now about that time when “those kind” of meds are supposed to start kicking in.

On top of that, I’d had a productive weekend. On Saturday morning, I’d attended a workshop called the “Totality of Possibilities,” and I’ve been looking into the mirror and sending myself positive affirmations ever since. Then I tried a “Life Drawing” class for the first time ever on Saturday afternoon and discovered I’m not that bad at charcoaling naked people either. . .

But today, around lunchtime, within minutes of arriving at one of my “safer” places to visit – a drop-in community centre that I have started to attend when I just feel the need to have a cuppa, or chat, or to crochet a flower or something – my mood, without warning, dropped like a lead balloon. All of a sudden, there was no talking to me, no reasoning with me; no niceties or pleasantries could talk me round. My head became full of white noise, and I hated everyone and everything. Most of all I hated me and my life. Within the space of minutes (if not seconds), the proverbial fan was bombarded with the proverbial s–t, and I plummeted into the doldrums of irritability and blubberingness once more.

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Confessions of a Nail Tech – I am Narcissism…You May Hear Me Roar…

I was going to start a different blog to talk about this because it is fairly hard for me to discuss. I wanted it to be anonymous but I realized the reason for this is so that I didn’t have to be accountable to the many people who know me and are following me. It doesn’t happen all the time, but there are times where I go into a super self-righteous, bitch mode.(generally never at work). There are many areas of my life that I have fixed and sometimes I can’t understand why people don’t LISTEN to me….If you are ever caught in this cross-fire, I apologize now…..maybe…

See, I have had a TON of life experience. I don’t understand sometimes why people don’t listen to me more often. Now I don’t claim to know EVERYTHING, but I do claim to know A LOT….Unfortunately this doesn’t always come out loving and kind. Sometimes it comes out as a know-it-a-l-l-….Generally this side of me only comes out to immediate family members (Sorry hubby) but sometimes it can come across to family and friends as crazy narcissism.

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W.T.F. – Take the Panic Out – A new voice for a new year

It hurts.  I know.  The depletion of your self worth is temporary though.  Your baby girl feels the pain radiating from your heart and somehow is able to acknowledge your need for space.  Don’t deny her simple, deserving moments of your attention today. . .

Quit tearing yourself down.  You set the bar too high for yourself on a good day.  Today your just flirting with self sabotage.  Break out some crayons.  It won’t kill the little guy if he eats a few more and his sassy sister will be entertained in her own precious, pink and purple world of hello kitty.  Coloring makes for good conversation…even with these two crazy beings that combined have only graced this earth for 5 little years.

Cut your self some slack.  Commit to yourself that whether it is genuine joy you’re feeling or unexpected sadness, you will be authentic about the moment.  Shame is no longer holding your nerves hostage.  You shed that skin for the last time.  The Celexa is helping you to balance the end of that life…don’t fight it.

You’re getting there.  Just breathe.  Teach your daughter to breathe when frustration gets the best of her.  It will save her a lot of grief if she learns how not to implode over life’s minor screw ups early in life.  You’re doing the best you can and it’s better than expected…you know that.

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