Category: Mental Health

Flipping the Script

For as far back as I can remember, my parents drilled into my tiny little head that it’s rude to make people wait. This has condemned me to a lifetime of being the person who arrives ten minutes early and waits impatiently for everyone else. I was told to stay out of people’s way. This has condemned me to a lifetime of irritation with those who seem to think they’re the only people on Earth and can therefore take up as much space as they like for as long as they like.

Be quiet. Don’t touch anything. Don’t make a mess. I could go on for days.

In less than two weeks, I will no longer be on a schedule. German time does not exist in Mexico so why be in a hurry? I will not worry about my dogs barking. Everyone’s dogs bark. THAT’S THEIR JOB. I will not worry about breaking something that is absolutely replaceable. I will accept beach dust mixing with dog hair and coating every possible surface. I have to release myself from the subdivision mentality. These are the things I keep telling myself.

My current reality is quite different. I’m worried about the things I may have forgotten to worry about. No detail is too small! I’m basically walking around in a perpetually nauseated state at this point. I’m worried about whether or not I’ll be able to turn it all off when I finally arrive at my destination. Because I’m really telling myself that I have to change my entire personality in order to fucking relax.

No problem…it’s on the list.

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Countdown to an Aneurysm

My calendar is killing me right now. I am not a fan of dealing with things or people and that is literally all I am doing for the next three weeks. Who knew moving to a foreign country could be so involved?

I recently received a federal grand jury summons for December. Hate to break it to you folks but I’m not going to be around for that. Thank you in advance for your understanding.

Analysis paralysis is setting in hardcore. Big decisions are easy; the small ones not so much. I trashed all of my yearbooks and various items I’ve been dragging around with me for the past two decades. I definitely did not need to keep the stuffed koala bear my grandmother brought to the hospital when I was born. Or the stuffed shark headband I wore to a Jimmy Buffett concert circa 2003.

Anxiety and OCD. Rigid punctuality. Routine. Proper prior planning. Checklists. Chest pains. Nausea. Insomnia.

At this point, anyone who adds to my stress level is going overboard. I am not entertaining any nonsensical bullshit. I just have to get through this and if you’re not part of the solution, I can’t even with you.

Here’s one thing I do know: A month from today, I will run with my dogs on the beach. I will cultivate some motherfucking Zen if it’s the last thing I do.

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Mexico or Bust

This is not a drill. Initiating panic attack sequence in 3…2…1…

I signed paperwork to list my house yesterday. It is being photographed in less than an hour and the listing will go live tomorrow. My realtor told me if a home in my zip code and price range stays on the market longer than 10 days, there’s something wrong with the property. Way to keep a girl away from the ledge!

Moving is always stressful but I’ve done it a million times. I have never moved to a foreign country, however. I have certainly never moved two large dogs to a foreign country. My anxiety this morning is at about a 7 for the first time in several months and my therapist is out of the country until the end of September.

Last night, I moved some items which must be kept forever into a storage unit and that is what I think made it really real. I’m not entirely certain why I still have my grandmother’s roller skates in the original box but I do. They should probably go to a cousin with children but I’m the only one who grew up actually using them. I doubt anyone else in the family would want them or even understand why I have been dragging them around from state to state for the past 20 years.

I’m excited about unloading the majority of my belongings. It feels like they have begun to own me and it’s time to let all of that go. My problem is with my great-great-grandmother’s china. An engraved pewter mug that belonged to a great-great-uncle who died as a toddler. Items which had been displayed in the family museum. For whatever reason, my grandmother thought it was a good idea for me to have these things and I still agree with her after all these years. But as God is my witness, my antique knife rest collection is not going to Mexico.

There are a million decisions which will have to be made in a relatively short time frame and I’m really feeling that right now. What am I doing with the proceeds once my house sells? Will my employer allow me to work remotely? If not, where do I move my 401(k) funds? Do I fully embrace the digital nomad lifestyle? How much money do I really need to live comfortably in Baja? My dogs’ food is unavailable in Mexico so what will I feed them? Do I keep my cell phone plan? Why is Babylon Berlin unavailable on Netflix when I log in from Mexico and how do I get around that if/when a new season is released? These are pressing issues.

My strategy for today is to focus on the next item on the list. I’m breathing. I’m doing yoga. I’m acknowledging it’s normal to feel anxious about this whole process while also feeling like I want to load my dogs up into a scene from The Grapes of Wrath this very instant. Mexico or bust.

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Stop the Ride

Figuratively speaking, the world is burning and I’m just over here thinking about beach yoga. I’ve been a news and politics junkie for many years and I’m just too tired to pick a side. Have you ever tried to run in sand? I’m really pondering the best way to run on the beach with my dogs without aggravating scar tissue in my foot from The Great Pitbull Attack of 2015. Don’t worry about the Dow; Worry about my Plott Hound being terrified of the ocean.

I have no control over central bankers or their evil machinations but I can absolutely choose how to spend my days. I’m jumping off this ride because it’s expensive and it sucks. I’m taking my dogs to a small town where I will hardly have to drive. We’ll all be in better shape and I mean that in every sense of the word.

Lately, The Virtue of Selfishness by Ayn Rand has been on my mind. I’ve never really gotten into the philosophy of Objectivism but I certainly can identify with so many of Rand’s fictional characters. I’ve never lived my life the way people thought I should. Why start now when I can catch mangoes falling from the sky?

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How Do Grown-ups Make Friends?

Serious question: How do qrown-ups make friends? Captain Obvious would probably tell me not being such a raging bitch would be a good start. Okay, point taken. But then what?

As children, we made friends at school or in the neighborhood. Or at grandma’s house. Or at McDonald’s. We didn’t fucking care; we were kids! In college, we made friends in the dorms or commiserating over the greasy cafeteria pizza. Maybe we made fun of the douche canoes at the frat parties someone thought would be a good idea. Maybe we had some lame retail job and all went out and got shitfaced together afterward. I even remember dozens of faces from the bars in Wichita that I saw every week but couldn’t tell you one of their names. It didn’t matter.

When we entered the real workforce, we made friends there. I was introduced to my ex-husband by one of those people. Never mind that she turned out to be a scandalous whore who got an Airman Basic kicked out of the Air Force for adultery and her husband had to be recalled from Turkey to get her ass under control. I worked at larger companies in my twenties so it was easy to find people with common interests even when I got divorced. I had people to do things with in a strange city and really didn’t give it much thought.

But then I didn’t remarry. And I didn’t have kids. And I started working for smaller companies. And then I moved to the desert. Oh shit. Now what?

Don’t say church. I tried that in Kansas and felt like I was being pounced on and interrogated before I could even get inside the door.

Don’t say the dog park. Have you even been to a dog park lately? Those people are awful! Dog moms are just as bad as soccer moms. I hate dogs parks. My dogs hate dog parks.

Don’t say in the neighborhood. No. The last thing I want is someone ringing my doorbell unannounced and uninvited. I don’t like people knowing where I live. I especially don’t like people thinking they can just…come over.

The hair salon? The coffee shop? At yoga?

You know what? Forget it. I have dogs.

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Irascible

Irascible. Put it on my tombstone.

Sometimes, it’s just never going to work. I’ve been testy this week. For whatever reason, that reminded me of a guy I used to date who once used the word “irascible” to describe me. Hello, Captain Obvious. But it seriously took him entirely too long to figure that out. He looked great on paper. In reality, he wasn’t all that interesting and he didn’t like my dogs. Fuck that guy.

Prior to him, I dated a guy who was just looking for a placeholder. He could take me out in public and I didn’t have any drama. You know what? Fuck that guy, too.

I don’t really have a point other than this is one of those weeks when I wish I had a heavy bag hanging in my living room. I wish my hearing wasn’t so finely tuned. Every sound is like sandpaper on my last nerve.

I suppose I could be a better person. But then people wouldn’t need four-syllable words to describe me.

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Even I Have Limits

Feedback can be painful to receive but it’s important to both accept it and refuse to be paralyzed by it. I’m pretty self-aware and I definitely know my limitations. Recently, I have heard from people who think I should continue sharing my struggles with anxiety and other life stuff despite my preference of writing about dogs, food, and fashion. I have been told the way I write about things which truly suck really resonates with people. Well I am GenX af so there’s that.

I attended I Dream in Widescreen at the Fox Tucson Theatre Saturday night and went in expecting some cute short films made by college students that would probably require lots of whiskey to enjoy. The films were terrific and they were far from cute. The subject matter was quite heavy and there were a couple that really punched me in the gut. If I had known in advance, I would have gone into the theatre completely sober. Drunk me was unprepared for being confronted with the lowest point of my life.

I started a Google Doc at the end of the event to blog about that day but my phone refused to cooperate with my drunk fingers. At the time, I didn’t want to forget whatever sentences my mind found brilliant in that moment. Spoiler alert: Those sentences were not brilliant and I will not be sharing them here. I’m not even sure if I will be sharing them with my therapist.

The day in question is obviously one I will never forget but it rarely crosses my mind. My grandmother always said (completely unironically) that there’s no use crying over spilt milk and she was right. But then I read a more in-depth piece about the price people pay for surface acting and it makes sense that sometimes the shit just comes right out. My liver, hardest hit.

I’m not one to allow feelings to ruin a perfectly good buzz so I did what any grown-up would do; I went into the restroom, fixed my makeup, and got on with my night like a fucking boss.

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Doggy Dental Day

My mom calls me a helicopter parent. This is possibly because I barely even trust her to watch my dogs. I mean, there was that one time I was out of town on business and my two Rottweilers were found running down the middle of a busy road and had to be loaded into her clown car Mini Cooper tired and thirsty…but I digress.

Vet visits are always challenging for me because I have to Clark W. Griswold every single aspect of my life (and theirs, obviously).

The biggest problem is as dumb as my dogs are, they know when the morning routine is off. Good luck getting them to do their potties when I ask because the fact that I’m asking means we’re going someplace. Going someplace means they can’t think! They can’t drink! The cannot potty! They WILL NOT potty! And this time, by “they” I mean the psychotic hound who is normally my good potty girl.

Doggy Dental Day is an annual event that just really stresses me out. This is the first year that both of them are having their teeth cleaned (Sherman is still young) so I have to plan how to get them both loaded in the Jeep to come home while loopy from anesthesia. Also, I don’t trust the people in charge of their care so I worry about them all day. Helicopter parent.

I took the day off because their vet is 20 miles away, I had to drop them off at 0700, and I can’t do the working when I’m doing the worrying. I intended to come home and do stuff but now that I’m home with no one to attack the vacuum, I don’t know what to do with myself. Looks like I’ll be sitting here on the couch waiting for the call letting me know when they’ll be ready to come home. Helicopter parent.

How do people not have pets? There is no snoring, chewing, panting, or barking. It’s so quiet I can’t think. Instead, I’m just sitting here wondering if they’re okay. Did the vet tech take Lulu out to poop? Is their blood work normal? Do they miss me? Should I have asked for dental x-rays? That’s a thing, you know. Am I a bad person because I said to skip them? Sherman is having some tests done on one of his eyes. Am I a bad person because I waited to have it checked? What if it’s eye cancer? Then it’s all my fault if he dies. What if it’s a parasite and it spreads to Lulu and they both die? Helicopter parent.

This is a good time to rearrange my shoes or something. I’m sure they’re fine. But maybe I’ll just make a quick call to check on them first.

Note: To be fair, it wasn’t even my mom’s fault the Rommels escaped. That was a Kansas wind issue so she’s totally innocent. It’s just fun to give her grief.

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The Lost Weekend

Years ago, I asked my grandmother to describe the personality of an uncle who was a trombone soloist for Arthur Pryor. His exploits were somewhat legendary but I was interested in who he was as a person. She suggested I watch The Lost Weekend with Ray Milland and Jane Wyman to really know what he was like. I doubt she intended it to serve as an instruction manual but I have a long history of learning the wrong lessons.

I wasn’t okay on Friday. I don’t know why and frankly, I don’t think there needs to be a why. I felt like I needed to unplug. The human race had disappointed me and my plan to recover involved two days of whiskey and skincare. No working on my family tree, no going out in public, and possibly turning my phone off for the entire weekend. I just wanted to stay home and watch Season 2 of The OA on Netflix. If it sounds stupid but it works, it isn’t stupid.

So rather than telling myself to suck it up, I leaned in to the suck and a funny thing happened. After consuming precisely four ounces of Jameson Friday night (counting calories!), I woke up Saturday morning with a different agenda. I drank half a pot of espresso and did some yoga. I brushed the dogs and did some pilates. I drank precisely two beers (still counting calories!) and did some light lifting. Skincare products were applied. And yes, I watched a few episodes of The OA. That was weird.

Sometimes adult decisions sneak up on us when we’re not paying attention. I worked out again on Sunday. I cleaned my kitchen and both bathrooms. I cleaned out my Jeep and even put leather conditioner on the seats. More skincare products were applied. And I consumed two more beers (always counting calories!) as a reward for picking up after the dogs in the backyard.

I went into the weekend fully intending to be a self-destructive, self-pitying mess. I came out with a clean-ish house and no dietary regrets. My therapist is constantly saying “notice that” whenever I have a feeling. So I did. I noticed I had too many projects going at once and I took a break. There are some things I have been trying to force and I stopped trying, at least for the moment. And I saved my liver from impending doom…at least until the next bad day.

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Processing Anger

This afternoon I will be asked to think back to my earliest memories and find anger. Then I will watch all of the images flash through my mind until the trip down memory lane becomes one static image. At that point, I will begin processing anger. This could take a while.

My default method of handling emotions is to keep that shit in the vault. Pretend whatever happened didn’t happen. I forget certain people even exist until something or someone reminds me. Then I promptly forget again. This is something one side of my family is famous for and I inherited that ability to the point where it’s as natural as breathing.

It doesn’t take a licensed professional to see how that operating mode can backfire and feelings can manifest themselves in unexpected ways. You know…like anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, insomnia, etc. Several years ago, I had a dream I literally choked to death a person I had excommunicated from my life. And that was years after the fact. I guess I wasn’t over it.

So back to anger. Anger is kind of like sunshine in the desert. I can easily go inside and turn up the A/C but sometimes it’s nice to sit outside and just soak it all in. Sometimes, anger is the one thing that reminds me I’m still alive. It’s kind of like the chronic pain in my back and neck; I’ve dealt with it for so long that most days I forget it’s even there. Then the humidity spikes and all of a sudden, I feel every injury I’ve ever had.

There is extreme humidity in today’s forecast. I don’t want to think about the things that make me angry. I don’t want to think about losing my temper. I don’t want my dogs to wonder WTF happened when I get home from my appointment. I’m a river; I go with the flow. I’m a tree; I bend.

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