it’s electric

February 1, 2012


{photo credit}

Everything was too hard yesterday. Like how the dish rag was in the bottom of the sink under all the dishes that were filled with water. Uncovering it and rinsing it out and ringing it out would just be too hard so I walked away and left it all there.

By three o’clock I was so tired of my own tired with pressure behind the eyes, so I decided to be good and cheerful by making cookies. Except by making cookies I mean the pull apart kind but even then, they kept pulling apart not along the lines so there were big and small ones after baking even though they were supposed to be all one square-gone-round size.

Miles thought they were taking too long. Ten minutes from start to finish. Cookies. Done. Not too long. But I understand, I want start to finish now now now, too.

We can’t have that.

These are the small things that don’t bother me on a good day. I mean, the dish rag and the pulling apart wrong. These things bother me when my insides feel like electric butterflies. Everything is too loud and frustrating when your insides are plugged in to some unseen socket of nerve endings. And then to mother? Oh my heart. The noise and the not listening the first time and how I can’t take it. I hate that part of this so much. I just don’t want to be ruled by something ugly that makes me ugly. I’m not ugly, but when I feel this way I feel very alone and that can make a person think they’re ugly.

I can surrender and give it up and let go of control and be kind to myself and still it sneaks up

because what-a-ya-know, I’m human. A human with a body that thinks it should leave a whole lot of space for the kind of anxiety that leaves a person standing still and trying to remember how to breathe, even though she’s been thinking happy thoughts all morning and is terribly in love with her life and has faith and all that. It is anxiety that provokes depression and anger and too much self focus and I’m so exhausted.

You see. I’m in here, I’m all covered up. I thought it was sleep-deprivation and the typical postpartum stuff, but I see it over my whole life when I look back. I see a girl with electric butterflies, biting her nails and feeling on edge almost all the time.

The edge is something like a constant ache that can sometimes boil.

Ryan made The Phone Call for me and I don’t want to feel ridiculous or needy or weak. Those are lies. So I took a deep breath and said thank you and then felt relief because getting help is the opposite of weak. 

I saw myself the last time I got help, after I quit drinking. I was more even and peaceful and it took on-going help. I want to go back to myself again because it was so good to meet the real me and I am so sad that she’s always acting like someone else. This is not beating myself up. This is me beating up anxiety because it is not who I am.




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