TODAY’S BREW: made at home Hazelnut
If I’m being honest, I’ve been irritable since I woke up. Still lying in bed, I was annoyed, snapping at the husband, wishing I didn’t have to do All the Things.
Add to this the incessant battle of potty training with a child the physical equivalent of Hulk and the mental equivalent of that boss you once had that HAD to be right.
Add to this that my fertile window ended yesterday, and I know this because I track every step of my Hormonal Trail of Tears to better anticipate what will happen next.
Add to this the death of a family member that I would rather not discuss.
Add to this my physical exhaustion from the book fair I co-ran and the fact that I spent too much time outside yesterday–never a good idea for me.
I didn’t want to admit that I was going to have an anxious day. 15 days of feeling well-balanced and happy despite any little pitfalls was not a title I was willing to give up.
7pm and I have isolated myself emotionally from my loved ones. I reached out with a shaky little pathetic hand that I assume everyone understands is me needing affection when I feel vulnerable, and when it’s not recognized, BOOM! YOU’RE OUT, MOTHERFUCKER!
Then I can’t read, write, edit, move.
Then everyone’s accomplishments become my failures.
Then I see the end of the day as a bigger picture, symbolic of my waning lifetime.
Then I took my emergency anxiety pill and cried a little–not as much as usual by a long shot–and I wrote this. Because I need to get outside myself when the panic disorder rears its stupid fucking head.
It’s silly of me to think that 15 days of feeling fantastic means YAY YOU DON’T HAVE HORMONES OR A PANIC DISORDER ANYMORE! These are things I will probably always have to cope with, and I did cope with them today–albeit, fairly poorly in some respects, but I did something different, and that has to count for something. And I didn’t hide in my bedroom, sobbing and screaming. And I’m not shaking at all. And I do want to go to bed and I can’t say with amazing gusto that I want to wake up tomorrow, but I’m counting on that when I do I’ll feel better.
So today I don’t get a pretty sticker that says I had another excellent day. And that’s okay . Maybe I’ll give myself an ugly sticker. It’s not a goal, and it’s not a failure. I cannot expect absolutes–to always feel wonderful any more than I can expect to always feel stressed. But when my body and mind tell me they need a day to freak the fuck out, I’m just going to admit it.
This is step one.