My first reaction was utter 'this is bullshit' before stomping into the kitchen and shoving my hand into the bin of ice from the automatic ice maker and left it there until my attention fixed on sheer 'ouch'. That worked, which was nice. Then I took less than a quarter xanax to follow up, which cleared the rest out and left the comforting patina of sheer rage this shit happened again.
(Yes I am a lightweight; half a xanax kncks me out and a quarter makes me spacey. So I broke it into quarters then carefully into a powdery eighth. Unless I"m having dental surgery, I hate spacey.)
(This not strictly be best CBT practices but as I learned as a teenage cutter and then as a thirty-something with depression: when all else fails, pain or pleasure will accomplish the same thing as control-alt-delete on a computer, and as the ice was closer than my vibrator and take less time, it won.)
Of course, what I want to do is hunt down the nearest working psychologist--preferably with a degree in psychiatry but not necessary--sit them down, and explain, I get it, it's mental, we don't know because brain but listen, you don't understand, there was no earthly reason for it to show up while I'm having a strong resurgence of what feels like my constant sinus infection. It's shaped like two eggs set end to end on their narrow side like a figure eight--what does that even fucking mean? I didn't remember that part until I felt it. There were no weird warning signs--dude, I am so aware of warning signs, I am all about those fucking warning signs, I have breathing exercises and a walking rate and in inhaler and I ask for help like a sensible person, what the fuck else am I missing? WHAT AM I DOING WRONG?
I would never think like this about someone else. Since I was in my teens and first read about mental illness (in fiction), I never questioned how someone relates their experience, how they can't control it, how it just happens, how they handle it; it's indecent to imagine anyone, anywhere, could dare to sit judgment on another when it comes to that. I honestly can't fathom the hubris required to do that.
My own depression--I think in some ways, in the back of my mind, I did think I was overstating it, but I was sensible about it; fortunately, I never had my mother's or sister's life experiences to trigger it more often and get hold.
The addition of anxiety however, brought it out into the open; I am really fucking judgy of myself. What kind of hubris do you have to have to assume you're that goddamn special that you can magically work out cause/effect and stop it if you just try hard enough and obviously you're just not trying?
Most of Tuesday night I fumed about this shit and then on wednesday had the good sense to simply call down my list (my mom, lillian13) and tell them I'm feeling shaky and what's going on with you and listen. Third way to deal with this bullshit when you're not at critical that I learned the hard way: people. Not to talk about my feelings--the last thing I need is to get any farther into my head, but to balance that with the world outside it--but to hear a friendly voice and about their lives and what they're doing and how they are.
If I'd been even a little more stable, I would have taken half a ritalin and grimly started doing dishes. Physical activity is number four on my deal list, specifically useful activity I don't particularly enjoy; for reasons unclear, I get a weird ass kick from it. Coding and writing, my usual go-to, were obviously off the table; I needed out of my head, not further in.
This has been some venting of bullshit.
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