Nonsequitur Life

I trailed off mid-sentence while talking to Bob because I got distracted by the bright green light on the power supply under his desk.

This is my brain and welcome to it.

In the past few months, I’ve largely detached myself from the internet so I have little to no idea what’s going on in the world. If I didn’t have a pack of pills to count down every four weeks, I’d have absolutely no concept of where I am on a given day. I’ll spend a few minutes here and there skimming my usual haunts, and then I have to shut it down because I want to start stabbing people in the eye with rusty sporks. I get about ten posts in on Twitter and I’m done. I mark most all blog posts in my feed reader as read without even looking at the titles. I gave up on Facebook well over a year ago (oh ye gods no moar). My sanity needs the break from the unfathomable idiocy of reality.

Funny thing is, since I made the decision to NOT go back to Dr. Psych Condescending Ass and reevaluate my current need (or non-need) for mental health professionals, my anxiety levels dropped off to almost nothing. Or at least down to the normal-for-me levels that are mostly manageable with music and cuddling stuffed animals my husband. There are spikes, but it’s usually a specific cause and short-lived.

I spent the better part of…two?…years practically killing myself with stress over going back to a psychiatrist. (Trying to find one. Trying to make a phone call.) My anxiety was sky-high (and then some), which was driving my depression to dangerous levels, which was obliterating my ability to focus on ANYTHING, which was sky-rocketing my anxiety, which was…trapping me in a vicious cycle of misery and self-loathing. When I finally mustered the mental fortitude to call and make an appointment—and came down from the resulting panic attack—I thought I would feel better. I’d scaled the first hurdle. The appointment was made, going wouldn’t be a problem.

I didn’t feel better. Not in the least. I spent two months with a constant pit of suffocating dread wreaking havoc on my gut. And then it was an absolute shit-show with a TERRIBLE doctor.

I fully expected recovery from that experience to be a long one. But aside from the times when EVERY shitty experience I’ve had in my life slams down on my brain at once (Oh hey insomnia, how’s business?) I’m okay. (Compared to where I was six months ago.) And also aside from the fact that I can’t focus for shit. Which is really nothing new, but when the depression and anxiety are at low levels, the lack of focus is like a glaring, flashing neon sign right in front of my face at all times.

So I fixate…
…on absorbing music.
…on writing.
…on cuddling with stuffed animals my husband.
…on everything I should be doing, that needs to get done, that’s not getting done.

I have no idea what’s going on in the world (except the World Cup fucking christ, talk about beating dead horses and we all know how I feel about dead horses). But I haven’t stabbed anybody in the eye with a rusty spork, so…little victories.

Also…our house has become a constant game of Tonberry shenanigans.

Yesterday I opened the bathroom door to this in the hallway.

He conquered Caboose.

Because WE ARE ADULTS.

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Headphones Matt Nathanson