|Source - I love the quote they put on this blog -|
"I now view Anxiety as an unwelcome visitor with no purpose other than to side swipe my self esteem."
Sunday, June 9, 2013
This week, I had the shocking realization that I am still very.. very.. very.. fragile.
That something like dumping $1,500 into car repairs quickly sends me over the edge.
The edge of anxiety.
Anxiety and I do not have a good relationship, but anxiety is always in my life.
Anxiety makes me unable to eat. It makes me nauseous with no appetite. The no appetite gets to where it will dawn on me that it’s been 3 days, and I haven’t eaten.. anything. The nausea makes it difficult to even brush my teeth. I can’t count how many times I have fought with my tooth brush, trying to brush my teeth through dry heaves, only to throw up what little stomach contents I have..in the sink. Then I have to start the whole brushing teeth fight all over again.
Anxiety makes me unable to sleep, think, or concentrate.
This week started out like every other week. Running on sheer exhaustion, just trying to get through the day, hoping to make it to the weekend.
Then started the car problems. In stepped the anxiety of how the hell I am going to pay for this? Followed by disappear and feeling completely alone and lost.
To a “normal” person car repairs is just a fact of life. To the widow in me, it is a catastrophic event.
I spent this week trying to force feed myself, trying to get my anxiety under control, trying to sleep at night, trying to not let my anxiety drown me in its smothering ways. Nothing I did worked. Everything just kept piling up in my head.
Then I had the realization of how fragile I still am. 34 months after my husband’s death, I am fragile.
The car repairs left me in a crying heap on my kitchen table. I was looking around my house thinking “this wouldn't be as hard if Seth was still alive.”
In stepped the “holy shit, I am so alone in all this it’s insane.”
I reached out to a friend, trying to find comfort, and was told “It’s not the end of the world.”
Sure, it’s not the end of the world. Not being able to pay my mortgage or having my anxiety take away my appetite is not the end of the world, but in that moment, it was the end of MY world.
Then I went off the deep end. I completely shut down.
I focused on:
- - Get up
- -Go to work
- -Get your work done
- -Try to eat without throwing up
- -Drive home
- -Shut the world out for the night
- -Go to bed
- -Rinse and repeat
When I go into complete shutdown mode, life becomes a series of moment by moment. Minute by minute. Just trying to survive without going complete ape shit on someone. You could ask me what I’m doing after work, and I would just look at you with a blank stare.. because.. well.. that’s 4 hours from now, and I can only think about this very minute. I can’t think about 240 minutes from now.
Anxiety is not my friend. Yet it’s a constant reminder of what I have been through and what I am still going through. I am dropping weight at an alarming rate, all thanks to my
not friend – anxiety. Sure, losing
some weight isn't a bad thing, but I am quickly approaching too thin, and I can’t
stop it. Anxiety won’t let up and give me my appetite back. I haven't set foot on a scale to see just how much weight I have lost due to this anxiety episode, but it's a lot.. my "skinny" clothes are falling off at this point.
I have resorted to what my counselor has always told me “With anxiety, eat whatever your body wants. Even if all you want is one candy bar a day, eat that. At least you will be eating something.”
Last night, I turned to my comfort food. The one thing I can always eat no matter how bad my anxiety is. Smothered burritos. For the first time in almost a week, I had a full belly.
I realized I have become cocky. Thinking I am no longer fragile. That “life happens” won’t send me over the edge. I was wrong. I was cocky. I have this messed up vision of what I can handle.
Maybe I need a new tattoo, on my wrist, where I see it with every hand movement I make, that says “Don’t be cocky.”
It would be a constant reminder that I will never be the same person I was before.