Downscaling.net

I am a little slow, so forgive me for just now, on Jan. 20, announcing my New Year’s resolution:

I resolve to become high maintenance this year.

I made a good start today. I went to see a counselor that I will refer to as Ms. Shrink. We chatted for almost an hour. I am wary of the fact that she’s an evangelical (I don’t usually mix well with that crowd) but she seems like a nice lady and talking to her was easy. Besides, if I dismiss her out of hand because of her beliefs and lifestyle, would I not be committing the type of hypocrisy my crowd accuses her crowd of doing? Yes, I think so.

Besides, Ms. Shrink thinks I have self-esteem issues. So obviously she’s a good judge of character.

Yesterday, someone I consider a friend was having a rough day. In the course of doing my job, I annoyed him. He then got very passive-aggressive with me, and I swear it would have hurt me less if he had punched me in the face. Instead of just blowing it off as him having the type of bad day we all have at times, I internalized it as proof that I am worthless, that I can’t do anything right, and that I am a failure as a friend and a manager. I cried like a little bitch.

I don’t blame my friend (OK, I did for a while, but now I have a little perspective.) I blame myself for my lack of coping skills and my inability to react in an appropriate manner. I can’t control other people. But I need Ms. Shrink (or someone like her) to help me learn to control my emotions when faced with conflict and to get my self-esteem to a place where a bump in the emotional road doesn’t wreck my day.

So, after taking a time off work to see Ms. Shrink, I went to work for a while. Then I left early to get a manicure and pedicure that I’ve rescheduled a bazillion times since Thanksgiving.

See where I am going here? I am putting my mental, emotional and physical health as a priority. Sure, to meet all my deadlines I will have to work all day Sunday, but it’s worth it to have a few stolen moments of relaxation and therapy today.

Tomorrow is my only day off this weekend. Besides the normal chores I have to do to keep my house running smoothly, I am going to the gym. Because that is something I will do just for me– for my health– emotionally, mentally and physically. Then I am going shopping for nothing in particular. Then I am going to read a book.

I have decided that 2012 is my year that I become high maintenance, and I started today.

A wise, funny and brilliant woman that I follow around the Internet once wrote that depression is a lying bastard.

Truer words have never been spoken, typed, printed, tweeted, whatever. Depression distorts reality and makes every obstacle seem miles too high and wide to overcome. Depression leads to lousy choices and dead ends, literally and figuratively.

These are things I have to remind myself every day.

I planned to spend this weekend wallowing in my own filth and despair. I planned to climb into bed and not come out. The idea of being very, very still, so still that nothing would notice me and thus nothing could hurt me, seemed like the perfect plan.

So of course I didn’t do that at all. Because I suck at making plans and sticking with them (but I excel at negative thoughts and self-deprecation, apparently.)

Bolstered by an unseasonably warm January day, my husband and I cleaned out our garage yesterday. We did the same thing with our basement furnace room last weekend. I referred to these areas of our home as our “Hoarders” starter kits. Each space contained junk that “might be useful some day.” That day, of course, would never come and even if it did, we could never have found that useful thing under all the crap.

We trashed a lot of it and organized the rest. We now look like very tidy hoarders. Total upgrade.

I’ve often read that physical exercise and a sense of accomplishment can do a lot for raising the levels of positive chemicals in the brain. Also, the lack of clutter can do a lot to ease anxiety. And in this case, it did indeed do a lot to make me feel better, probably much more than hiding under covers ever could.

These are facts that depression tries to hide from me, but depression is a lying sack of shit and not to be trusted. Ever.

Today I went shopping for nothing in particular, which is absolutely the best form of shopping, because shopping when I need something causes me anxiety.

I bought some Christmas decorations at a deep discount, which is sort of like saying the ocean went out to pick up some sea salt because it was on sale.

But if there is something wrong about getting an endorphin rush by buying really adorable stuff for 75 percent off, then I will never be right.

I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning. Because there is only so much room in our tidy, organized garage and storage space for deeply discounted Christmas decor. And there is only so long that I can keep the deceptive voice of depression drowned out by retail therapy, closet cleaning and skinny lattes at Starbucks.

I am going to need a few more coping skills.

I have been a little unwell lately.

Finger wagging felon

I am one of those idiots who thinks it’s possible to have a Martha-Stewart-inspired holiday season, complete with magazine-like decor, fabulous dishes all made from scratch, and perfect presents that will make everyone’s season bright. Yeah, I know that Martha Stewart has hundreds of minions that do all those things for her. What’s your point?

My in-laws came to visit, which was five fun-filled days of over-indulgence in food and booze and constant walking on egg shells.

Then there is work. I avoid blogging about my job, but let’s just say that December is my most difficult month of the year times 12. Totally not exaggerating.

And while all this is going on, I take lousy care of myself. Poor nutrition, lack of rest, very little mental relief or physical exercise. And after a few weeks, my rather fragile emotional balance starts to tilt. While I am busy crossing things off my to-do list, my brain chemicals start to drop. And finally, my grip on reality slips away.

That happened late Tuesday afternoon. On a day that my job required me to be at my multi-tasking best, I folded like a bad poker hand.

Let’s go on a guided tour of my mental meltdown:

Hello! This is your anxiety attack. Let’s get the party started with shortness of breath and numbness in your extremities. Feeling worried and tense? Good. Now let’s apply a little pressure with a few emails and voicemails about how disappointing you have performed on a couple of tasks.

Feeling a helpless? Maybe a little persecuted and frantic? Great!

Now, just for shits and giggles,  let’s add a heightened startle reflex. You’ll see how much this will kick up the flavor in this emotional shit stew when the office jackass unleashes a sneeze — identical volume to a shotgun blast —  just as you emerge from your office.

As fear ripples through your veins, COMMENCE UNCONTROLLABLE WEEPING!

Wonderful! OK, now go explain to a co-worker that you have just lost your collective shit and ask her to return a phone call for you because you are too unstable to speak to anyone. Embarrassed? Of course you are. Excellent.

Now that you are an unconsolable, unprofessional wreck, let’s have a parade of people march into your office to ask you questions that you can’t comprehend much less answer coherently. Here’s where the party really gets started. Start rocking back and forth in your chair, employing a coping skill that ceased working for you when you were four years old.

If everything is on schedule,  your hearing will acquire a tinny ring, you will have a metallic taste in your mouth and your head will start to spin. Finally,  your stomach will contract into a knot that a sailor would envy.

Because that? That will be the icing of frustration of this cake of emotional wreckage.

And hey, it’s ONLY TUESDAY! You will deal with the debris from this anxiety bash for three more working days. Winning!

And that’s when my soul splits in two– Emotional Me and Logical Me.

Emotional Me does all the whining, while Logical Me keeps the trains running on time. They don’t always get along well.

Emotional Me wants to stay buried under the covers in a dark room. Emotional Me can barely breathe under the weight of depression, afraid to stir the anxiety pot again. Left to her own devices, Emotional Me would sleep, watch re-runs of bad television and skip showering.

But Logical Me is a bad-ass task master and she is not letting Emotional Me wallow when there are deadlines looming.

Logical Me lets Emotional Me slide for a few hours, then Logical Me prods Emotional Me to get her ass in gear. Logical Me, being the bitch that she is, berates Emotional Me into the shower, into the car, and into the office. Deadlines are met. Crisis is averted.

And now, if you will excuse me, it’s Friday night, and Emotional Me just told Logical Me to shut the fuck up. There’s a blanket waiting for Emotional Me to climb under, and Logical Me is about to get a weekend pass.

I’m not crazy. I’m just a little unwell.

To say that I have only the barest grip on my emotions is kind of an understatement. Most days I keep my life plugging along by sheer force of will, my sanity held together by the slimmest of threads and a little duct tape.

As much as I love the holidays, the season that should be al  bright and jolly is often when the duct tape starts to peel and the thread gets stetched to its limit. There is more pressure at my office this time of year (I won’t bore you with the blah-blah-blah work stuff) and there is always the internal pressure I feel to make the holidays this beautiful, magical experience.

Now, when you have an anxiety disorder it doesn’t take an earthquake to upset your apple cart. Last year, it was a beloved Christmas ornament smashed into a million pieces.

This year, it was popcorn.

After spending the weekend decorating the house with my husband, finding a creative way to use leftover turkey, conquering a mountain of laundry, doing some office duties from home and terrorizing my cat with an ugly Christmas sweater, an afternoon of fun was in order.

So my husband and I, after braving the chaos that was the holiday decoration aisles at Lowes, headed for the movies today. We wanted to see “Martha Marcy May Marlene,” a psychological thriller that I’d heard good things about, at our favorite old theater here in Small City.

We got our usual bag of popcorn and a ginormous Diet Coke, and headed up the flight of stairs to our theater. The popcorn was filled above capacity, and I held on to the bag with a death grip as I dragged my gimpy knee up each step. We entered the small theater, and my husband chose to go up one more flight in the darkened room for the best seats.

I made it to the second step before I stumbled and spilled half the bag all over the floor.

Aaaaaaand that’s when the panic attack set in.

Now, in reality, who gives a shit about half a bag of popcorn, really? Not me. Certainly not my husband.

But, just like that shattered ornament, that bag of overflowing movie popcorn felt like a metaphor for all the things I can barely hold onto in my life. It was filled beyond it’s limit, and I was too clumsy to keep it from falling apart.

That’s what haunts me. That’s what causes the shortness of breath, the urge to run and hide, the negative thoughts that all collide into a panic attack — the overwhelming feeling of failure because I can’t make it all work out.

I am my own worst enemy, but my husband is greatest fan. He sat with me in the lobby until I calmed down, telling me that we could do whatever I wanted: go home, go back inside, pick another movie, whatever. He gave me the space to breathe and let me talk myself down from the agitation.

We finally went to the movie, my heart still racing and my hands still numb, and I hoped the film would take my mind off what happened.

DAMN!!! DO NOT see this movie if you feel anxious. Sweet Baby Jeebus, that movie is FUCKING INTENSE. And, it has a “Sopranos”-like ending that made half the theater go, “DO WHAT???” No shit. Great film, but not relaxing.

Moral of the story: Popcorn should not be a metaphor for your life, you gotta let the panic run it’s course, and “Martha Marcy May Marlene”, while a fine piece of filmmaking, is NOT a feel-good flick.

The whole healthy-eating-being-active thingy hasn’t been working out for me lately. At all.

Most mornings I don’t eat breakfast. Then I am starving by noon and eat fast food for lunch. Then I’m not very hungry when I get home so I have a cocktail. Or two. And maybe dessert.

Last night I ate a bowl of cereal at 10:30 p.m. At lunch today I ate a chicken burrito the size of my thigh. Tonight I dipped super soft, double chocolate chip cookies in French vanilla Cool Whip and shut-the-front-door that was damn tasty.

See what I mean? When I am bad, I am really bad.

And here it is, one week from the beginning of the holiday eating-drinking-baking season which, besides the summer-beach-read season, is the most wonderful time of the year.

I’m not really beating myself up too much because there has been a ginormous amount of stress lately and, well, I fully admit to not having enough coping skills in my emotional tool box. And screaming hissy fits are far less attractive than a chunky ass.

But I do need to get myself back on the healthy wagon.

Soon. ish.

I have an anxiety disorder. Nothing special, just a garden-variety, nervous, jittery, OMG-I-AM-FREAKING kind of anxiety.

Heart palpitations? Check. Hands shaky? Check.

Overwhelming feelings of OMG-I-AM-FREAKING? Double check-a-roonie.

Over the years my anxiety disorder has manifested itself in a variety of ways, but the most common is screaming-crying-fits that sometimes involve throwing things. Once the heart palpitations were so bad I ended up in a cardiovascular unit for 23 hours of sheer torture. Now when those happen, I keep it to myself.

Anyway, screaming-crying-fits-while-hurling-objects are considered unprofessional in a work environment. Apparently. I have a lot of stress at work because it’s a job. This does not make me at all unique. Most people belong to the My Job Sucks Club and, as someone on Twitter wisely pointed out to me, the club has many chapters and usually meets in bars.

So, to sum up, I have anxiety at work and I cannot cry, scream or toss things and if I let the jitters get to the point where my heart beats visibly out of my chest they haul my ass to a hospital. And going to a bar for a meeting of my anxiety-riddled peers is not a real option during the workday.

So I eat.

Food is how I self-medicate. But I may have refilled that prescription a few too many times because, I am led to believe, it has resulted in me being a wee bit chubby. Factor in the fact that food just fucking tastes good and you have a recipe for a nervous fat girl.

I was getting a handle on my emotions with real medication and I was developing new coping skills that do not involve saturated fats and sugar. I was doing fairly well. Then I just stopped. Can’t tell you why because that’s just not how it works. I just did.

Today is a bad day. My head is spinny-whirly-twirly. My blood feels lumpy as it lumbers through my veins. My mouth feels like the fluff that my dogs rip out of their stuffed animals.

An unknown caller rang my cell phone and I wanted to hide under my desk like I was being attacked by terrorists. Because when you have anxiety, NO UNKNOWN CALLER BEARS GOOD NEWS! ALL CALLS ARE BAD! BAD!

At noon I realized I had not eaten anything except a single cup of Ben & Jerry’s Americone Dream (very tasty BTW) since the ham and cheese sandwich I ate for lunch yesterday. So all I have consumed for 24 hours is sugar and caffeine. If I am not mistaken those two chemicals, especially in absence of any other nutrients, can enhance even the most mild case of the jitters.

I took the streets of my Small City looking for food, specifically a cupcake. Because, I am sure, more sugar will solve ALL my problems.

But before I plunged into a handheld, buttercream-topped pastry, I thought I should probably eat some other food. Nothing healthy, mind you, because I am a nervous fat girl and I don’t need…no…I DON’T DESERVE the nutritious food that thin, normal people eat so they can be thin and normal. No. Not me.

I went to the Small City Market and attacked a plate of salty, deep-fried Chinese takeout like it was going to attack me first. SHOCK AND AWE, people, SHOCK AND AWE!

After I inhaled approximately 1,500 calories of Asian-inspired fat and carbs and my belly was so full it was yelling “WHY???”, I left the market and headed to the cupcake store. And I stood there. And I stood there. Until someone said, “Excuse me, you weirdo,” I  just stood there.

I remained by the door, out of the way of all the thin, normal people, for a while. Then I walked away. Without a cupcake.

Because while I am sure it would be very tasty, it would not make me feel better, soothe my soul. or relieve my anxiety. Probably. It will not medicate what ails me.

I walked back to my office, cool fall breeze blowing through my hair, and remembered that tomorrow is my birthday.

I can have a cupcake tomorrow with all the calories I saved by not having one today.

And that makes the equation balance. FAT GIRL MATH, people! They don’t teach you this shit in college. You learn it in the chocolate-covered, anxiety-ridden streets!