I shall start off this post with the fleeting positives. I am sticking to my budget – what, me? – I am working more shifts and enjoying my job, I am doing my DBT homework in between group and one-to-one and sharing – sometimes far too much – in group. (And yes I did have an anxiety flare up because I thought I’d talked too much, to which my therapist said: “Never apologise for talking.”, and a lovely, bubbly, cup-half-full woman said: “We like hearing your voice”. See, group can be lush). My CPN thought it was odd that I’m ‘enjoying’ group but…I am?!? Does that make me stellar bonker-balls or what? Oops, I already am. Well, a recovering stellar bonker-balls. And there goes my point. Oh, yeah, I’ve been implementing the skills I’m rehashing in group, I’m keeping my drink and weed under control (screw you, whiskey), I’m seeing my gorgeous nieces more, I’m sleeping during normal hours, I’m taking my meds. I’ve even started the first edit of my novel! And yes I am starting to sound big headed. I’m not, I promise.
Anywho, I feel fairly good at the mo. Stable. Even if my anxiety is still being a little bitch and controlling a large portion of my days, like some skulking shadow from a Grimm’s tale. I’m even “low risk” on my system thingy!! [insert generic shocked meme].
BUT, and I have a big but and I cannot lie, Christmas is still scaring the living shite out of me. I want to literally press the brakes on the seasons and stop the upcoming merriment. Every day closer is just messing me up, I can’t cope with it. Every inch of the family convention or, more accurately, shitstorm is making me want to run away to some island.
Also: binging. Or overrating. Or stuffing your face with 2 magnums and a PB&J after dinner because you got the munchies. I even had a nightmare last night about eating so so so so so much and not being able to purge and then the usual feeling of upcoming death in this inexplicable way I can’t explain because it makes no sense in conjunction with reality. Ugh. I have been managing to resist the hefty need to catapult my fingers down my throat, so I let myself digest and let myself feel fat and wake up with a resulting anxiety attack the next morning. It’s so hard trying to get used to this new body.
Here’s a rather hopeful poem – I rarely write with happiness in my fingers so thought I’d share:
Saturdays Full of Threads
I potter around, gently, smoothly, bumbling along like a cotton wheel caught on a hook
I ask what this lady with the green bere is making,
a wall hanging for her late husband.
Calmly, longingly. Fat quarters of his shirts,
his life, stitched into burgundy wool rich as wine.
I feel a tug in my chest but don’t allow myself a tear, I just lovingly cut this fabric like it’s the only thing in the world worth doing.
I help children pick out glittery nets,
old couples choosing the right shade of beige,
young husbands and wives designing the camper of their dreams.
All these stories are woven like dangerous silk into my skin and, like the tattooed man, I carry them with me. In my boots and my lips and my aching knees.
I laugh with them and it fills me up, a kettle singing on an AGA, a preteen busking in a passageway, a newborn’s smile when they have gas.
These hundreds of pairs of eyes all tell me their stories as the rain pierces through our bubble wrap insulation.
And sometimes I can stay mindful with just a 2” deep circle of foam to saw in the attic.
And sometimes strangers fill me up
and I forget that I’m alone.
Apologies that It separated each line into a new paragraph.