The Real Deal

So, here's the thing: a lot of the reason I started this blog was so that I would stop sitting on all the crap that builds up in me and start getting it out in some form. I haven't been doing that, because...well, it's hard to admit that there are days (so many days!) in which I am completely convinced that I'm going to die alone, a failure, pathetically dependent on those whose compassion outweighs their common sense. It's really really hard to talk or write about it. But the truth, I have heard, will set me free, and I know that hiding behind a facade of competence and shrinking ever more into myself is NOT the way to go. Although it sounds easier.

The truth: my anxiety has been crushing me. It has been growing and becoming more frequent and harder to contain, to the point that I can't walk over sewer grates because I know they'll fall and I'll be surrounded by something dead - or, worse, undead. I can't get to sleep on my own - I have started taking sleeping pills, and even they don't do any good unless Rob is home, the closet is closed, and there are cats in my room to keep me company. I'm scared of EVERYTHING - I can't go new places, or be around people, or eat new food, or walk alone...it's ridiculous. Logically, I do know that, and it's bizarre to remember the way I used to be, the way I think I really am somewhere deep down - sassy and confident and, you know, wrong a fair amount, but happy and in charge of me. Like when I moved to Portland from Tucson with no actual plan - no plan for money, school, living, anything - I just knew I'd figure it out. And I did. But now I'm this feeble, frightened thing, and I'm sick of myself. I feel like others must be too; I'm convinced that I'm a burden, annoying, tragically gauche, and that as soon as I'm gone, people exchange looks about me (words, you understand, not being necessary).

That, in case you're wondering, is the reason I don't generally call people to make plans: I feel that any request for interaction coming from me is an imposition - one that my friends and family (being lovely people) will indulge for my good, out of a sense of obligation or charity, but not out of actual pleasure in my company. Again, I logically know that this is not the case (at least not always), but there literally is no time in my memory that I have not felt this fear.

This constant feeling of terror is HORRIFYING. I can't function. I can't live this way.

Yesterday was a particularly bad day - I tried to go to work, came back for my coat after a couple of blocks, and fell down on my bed and sobbed for a while. I called in to work, and then went to my doctor and told her (well, bawled at her is more like it) that I needed to be back on an antidepressant and why don't we try an anti-anxiety drug too because I think I'm going crazy and what's wrong with me. And here's a big old huzzah for Dr. Lewis, who talked to me about what was wrong, and gave me tissues, a prescription, some sleep aids, and a couple of hugs. She also suggested I might try praying for guidance, and you know? Not a bad idea. The fact that I don't believe in God per se is kind of immaterial, I think, and praying certainly can't hurt anything. So today I feel better.

I just have to get through one day at a time. Each day I can make it through is a victory right now, so...I'm close to another finish line. Thank goodness.

I can do this.