Getting Injured

I currently have a band-aid on each thumb as I type this blog entry.  

I consider myself a careful person, really... and I wouldn't call myself clumsy per se... 

But I'll let you kids decide for yourselves.  

I started young with the accidentally-hurting-myself-in-stupid-ass-ways thing.

My mother still feels guilty about an incident where I fell out of the shopping cart.  

Dude.  

Those things are, like, designed to avoid this.  
I still don't understand how I managed such a feat without breaking my legs in order to get out... 

But I clearly remember the milk isle zooming in toward my face: 

Obviously, I survived.  I probably lost a tooth though.  

I can say that, because I was generally losing teeth during these incidents.  

Considering all the oral surgery I wound up having as an adult later, it was probably for the best that I just get the baby teeth out of the way fast anyway.

I was walking along with a straw in a drink and a loose tooth to play with (do you see where this is going?) and not ONLY did I stick my loose tooth INTO the straw for fun, but then I tripped. 

This resulted in RIPPING THE TOOTH OUT OF MY FACE while also smashing the rest of me to the ground.  

Very efficient, really.

Doorknobs often had a similar effect.  See, I was "doorknob height" and wasn't always aware of my surroundings.  
I blame inner ear issues.  

Either way,

Lost at least one that way.

By now,  you've heard tales of how often I cut my hands open while carving pumpkins, or stabbing myself in the thumbs while sewing (often straight through the nail)...

But one time, I actually learned a lesson during a sewing mishap.

You know what?  I'm not gonna illustrate this one because it still ickles me.  

I tend to stick sewing needles pretty much wherever I can, with the (often very, very wrong) assumption that it will assist in my not losing them.  

So, I'm sitting on my parent's couch, sewing stuff.  

Probably making one of these: 

So cute. 

Such pain. 

And I put the needle in the couch next to me, just slightly, thinking I'll be able to pull it out by the thread later.  

Then I couldn't find it.  

...

Yep.

Cue a few days later where I'm on the same couch, trying to get something that has fallen behind said couch, getting up to sit on my knees... on the couch. 

Right. 

Our needle friend is promptly found.  

It goes up into my thigh. 

Let me clarify... 
It's not like, poking from the side into my thigh.  It's going from the top of my knee UP into my thigh-meats, along the thigh itself. 

Oh my fuck. 

There are no words to describe the combined horror, shame, pain, disgust and so on that I experienced in this moment.  

*ahem* 

Moving on.

Did I mention I've managed to STAB myself?  

Some were small, like the x-acto knife at art school.

We were snowed in, so there was a moment of, "Whelp, glad I didn't cut off my thumb.  Wouldn't have been able to get to a hospital in time to save it.  Whoops." 

Instead, I merely jammed it into the tip of my thumb.  
There's a vein at the base of my palm that had flipped out during this process.  
This happened a decade ago and it still puffs up if I'm stressed.  

...

Probably a terrible sign.  

Still, not as bad as the time I stabbed myself in the shoulder while working retail.  

See, I was diligently cutting apart and collapsing boxes for storing them in the back.  

"The back" was basically a hallway with shelves of walls filled with random crap to sell.  

Knowing we were the only two in the store, and knowing I had gone back there, I guess my work-buddy forgot.  

She didn't see me sitting in this hallway cutting boxes with the box cutter.  

She walked into me, kicking the box away.  

This was fine except: 

I remember thinking, "Oh, that didn't happen.  I'm just holding the box cutter slightly PAST my shoulder.  Here, I'll pull it awa- ...  Oh crud."  

My coworker wanted to rush me to a hospital, but, being me...  

Nope. 

I just wanted to keep on workin'. 

I still have a scar from it, but obviously I was fine.  

Well, obviously I'm fine NOW in any case.

...

Shh.





 

 

Almost New Apartment

 It's been a month or so since a couple friends and I moved into our apartment and I never updated this thing about that move.  Sooo...  Let's start over.

 And I often see the world in very interesting and horrifying ways.

So far, I've learned that when my Knight isn't in my room with me, the world is a horrible, freezing cold place.

 In our kitchen, we have one tile that isn't quite glued down.  This hasn't been a problem, except when we forget about it and it catches one of us by surprise.  This would be easily fixable... but we just haven't.

 The other problem is the heat.  Now that Spring is upon us, it shouldn't be an issue anymore.  However...  It was.  The radiator was a pretty interesting issue, in fact.

 These things have a mind of their own when you have no key.

I'd melt from the heat and then FREEZE due to my fan that wouldn't stop.  You read that right.  It wouldn't stop.  I could control the light by the cord, but not the fan itself.  There was no switch.  

I had my buddy rip the damn thing apart.  

Beyond that though, the apartment is really nice.  We will be able to see the fireworks from our living room on the Fourth of July.  It's cozy and I have a little hallway that curves into my room.  It's all very nice.  

My art supplies have been slowly taking over the world, and in trying to push it all back, sometimes my other crap gets in the way.  This leads to some moments that are less than good. 

...

Here's hoping. 

...

...

...

And that is about the state of things.  

I've been eating pretty well, between bouts of stress.  My Knight has been cooking for me.  I'm very pleased by this and I'm thankful to have him by my side.  

Winter is Coming

And I don't have a dragon.

So, something I've been neglecting in my “I have time to get better, and I'm getting there...” is that Winter is coming. I live in an area where when Winter hits, it HITS HARD.

This is a problem for a few reasons.

One:

Winter = cold and cold = pain for me. I have a harder time drawing and painting when it's cold, and those are the things currently keeping me sort of okay. I also avoid going outside when it's cold, so the fact that I just started wanting to actually DO things with my friends is ...Well it's bad timing, really.

Two:

I certainly get my own milder style of seasonal depression. It never gets as bad as some people have it. Still, I already have this anxious, crippling, whatever-the-fuck funk cloud constantly above my head. What the Hell is this going to turn into? Or will I not even notice?

Three:

As sad as it is, I typically have a somebody around in the Winter. This is either a boyfriend or a good friend that I can cuddle up to for warmth and talk to when things are down in order to pretend it is not a season of never ending frozen night.

Well, I've got some friends for that, both new and old. This is good because I'm currently single (the longest I've been so in a long time) and my traditional cuddle buddy is on the other side of the country.  

I've even rekindled a friendship or two out of my realizing what I really wanted and missed in my life. 

My weeding out of some of the awful influences made a nice gap for the people I was too shy about to come back.

...So it's unfortunate that I'm still a loon.

I'm lonely and I want physical affection as well as time spent with people I care about... but I'm still just as freaked out about people touching me or breathing on me as I am about eating most foods, regardless of who or what is involved.

There are very few circumstances where I'll suck it up or even relax enough to forget. I'll still panic before and after, but these calm moments of not giving a shit are precious to me these days.

And then my self esteem comes in to fuck up my day.

I wonder why anyone would want to spend time with me until I convince myself that no one really does, despite the HUGE AMOUNT OF EVIDENCE to the contrary. 

 ...Even you, Sign-Pointing-Guy.  You are so not into this. 

So I picture myself as this burden, and I either shut up, afraid to say anything, or I over-share, afraid that I'll be misunderstood.

Normally, my best buddy would be getting all this crap. To a certain extent, she still does, but she is busy being an adult type person and I don't want to bother her with my insane-child shit.

...See? See, it's that logic again. The fuck.

Instead, I've been not so silently putting it on an old companion who I've dragged rather forcibly back into my life, fully aware that I'm about fifty cards short of a deck.

I find him comforting and supportive, and I know I can be the same for him.  He reminds me of who I was years ago, and also who I was in the time when he barely even knew me anymore.  

...And then I just feel guilty that he should have to put up with me at all.

Below is my depiction of the whole thing. Feel free to click on it to enlarge it in order to read my lunatic rantings.

...Right.

The man is not so much of a pushover that he couldn't just ignore me and walk the fuck away if he wanted to. None of my friends are. These are all people who actually *gasp* care about me.

Why would they?

It doesn't matter.

I should just be thankful and move on.

Mind you, in my case with him specifically, we have basically abandoned each other before on some level, though even then, it was with good intentions.  As odd as it sounds, we were trying to avoid hurting each other.  We just did it... wrong. 

Still, I now know that one phone call would have fixed it. 

I chose to assume he wanted nothing to do with me, just as he chose to assume I wouldn't miss him.  

We are the same kind of stupid.  You would think this would mean we'd each give each other the benefit of a doubt as friends.  

...

We don't. 

But, it's nice when we are just relaxed and together.  We have a history and we know each other pretty well, but we also were apart long enough that there are still things to learn.  I have other friends who would fall into this category, and they wouldn't necessarily have the added complication of my physical attraction, but on some level, I suppose I'm just thankful that I'm still capable of having said attraction to someone.  Even if it doesn't amount to anything, it's comforting to have. 

 

No expectations, just honesty and friendship, knowing we care about each other.  That's pretty freaking cool, and something I've been needing.  Being someone I've had a relationship with in the past, we also avoid that nagging "I wonder" feeling on many levels.  We already know to a certain extent, even if it didn't last very long.  There are still "what ifs" but not enough that it would hurt anything.  

This is all pretty damn cool.  

...Until I over-think it. 

...

Shit.

Of Strength, Luck and Crashing Down

I'll add illustrations to this and some passages to thin it out and make it... not as heavy.  For now, it's two AM and I just wanted to get this out there.
EDIT: Hey look!  Illustrations. 

While reading this, you will see that some things are in italics.  These were added later.  It may make for a discussion with myself, or even an argument.  You may actually read my sanity arguing with what I've become.

An appropriate quote from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is, "Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next."

I am not as strong as people think.

I don't really know what gave anyone this impression.

The fact is that when a person gets a lot of shit handed to him or her, everyone naturally assumes that person must be very brave.

This doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

The bravest person in the world could die from a bee sting or complications after a fever.  It doesn't make him or her less brave just because that person didn't survive…

So the fact that I just… kept going… shouldn't really indicate any bravery.

I didn't fight, I didn't argue, I didn't really do much except panic, hide, cry a lot, not understand and be frustrated when no one could understand me, feel alone, and pretty much hate everything, yet never ask for help above a whisper…

To never ask for help and then complain when no one assists is just plain rude.  It is no one's fault but my own.  
Yes, I did ask a few times, at random, to the wrong people.  I blindly trusted the wrong people as well, and blamed only my own judgement later on, rather than blaming the fact that I didn't try again with someone else.  I should have kept going... And now as an adult, when I ask for help, I do feel guilty.  I feel like I'm wasting everyone's time or that they must think me very stupid.  I understand in a logical sense that none of this is so terrible.  

In fact, it's not even as bad as I've already been through...  But it's affecting me and hurting me.  I'm hurting myself, and I want someone to stop me.  That isn't fair.  It's no one's job to stop me from hurting myself but my own.  
And you know what?  I am strong enough to do that.  I'm just afraid and I hate myself for being afraid of nothing.  Why would I help someone I hate?  Someone who does such stupid things...  
I'm embarrassed, and that embarrassment is crippling.  

And then I would forget and be really happy for a while. 

I wasn't brave.

I was just in denial and didn't always have much else to compare it to.

Stunned maybe.  

I survived.

This doesn't mean that I had an undying will to survive or that I pushed myself beyond the odds…

Perhaps I didn't need such a will to survive.  I didn't need to push and push and push.  Maybe a lot of people would have needed that, and I just happened to survive without it.  

It means that in all the bad luck, there were moments of good luck or at least moments of calm that were long enough to pull me through.

It means that I plain forgot to care when I reached a point where nothing mattered anymore. This isn't bravery, so much as it's a kind of depression.

And sometimes... Not always, but sometimes...  Things were not so terrible.  Sometimes things were actually quite wonderful and helped the bad not matter so very much.  Still, always the neurotic child destined to be the neurotic and shaky adult, I always had a nagging fear in the back of my mind.  

The trick was acknowledging it and then letting it sit there without it taking over everything else.  
That was the trick only because I had no idea how to let it go. 

I gave up, and then life let up a little.

I called uncle, so my situation laughed and let me go.

"Just kidding Rowyn!  Go on, off with you.  Go try to be normal now that you're shaking.  Hope no one notices."

That isn't bravery.  It isn't being strong.

My father, and many others vehemently disagree.  They say strength is just the opposite of what I feel it is.  It's having the ability to just take it all and survive.  Still, the idea that I never fought back is troubling.  The idea that I am still not fighting back, and I'm allowing myself to disintegrate into a puddle of mush resembling something I do not want is even more troubling still.

Damn it, I'm better than this!   

That being said, I was never so completely hopeless.  I just didn't have the space to think about hope one way or another.  I just dragged myself along, scraping the bottom with my toes but not quite touching my feet down to the darkest depths.   I wouldn't let myself.

I don't call this a strong will so much as being stubborn.

Which in my life, may have actually been the same thing. 

I skirted along until I washed up on shore.  I didn't search for it or find it… I accidentally tripped onto land.

And why can't I be thankful for such luck?  Do I not feel I deserve it?  

And once I was there, I had no fucking clue what to do with myself.

I had wadded for so long that my legs had atrophied, but in an attempt not to bother the people around me, I just kind of held it in.

I bottled it up and pretended I was strong and had let things go.

Again, this may be it's own kind of strength, but in the end it isn't healthy.  If I could bottle it for a while and then empty it out, sure... but I don't.  I keep it.  I keep bottles and bottles of all this terror and I keep them safe and sound in some hateful wine cellar.  I'm afraid of what I am if any bottle is emptied.  I'm afraid of what my friends would say if they saw the contents without my explanations. 

So I collect the bottles as though they are important.  I make myself believe that I need them and that they make up who I am. 

Well, they fucking do now.  But I know I'm more than this.  

…I'm not a good liar.  I never have been.

I don't let anything go.

Ever.

Everything just builds and attaches itself to other things and becomes this giant conglomerate of hate and pain and sorrow magnified a thousand times until it overshadows all that blissful denial filled joy I had once enjoyed before.

I know that the joy is there somewhere. 

Enveloped in my own stupidity and stubborn nature.

Even now in the swing of this strange semi-functional depression, I am still capable of being happy.  Every now and then, by body gets confused and fuzzes the difference between elation and terror, which is unfortunate.  Still, once I get it straightened out again, I'm very content at times.  The trick seems to then be not letting myself sink back into "This will all come crashing down again" and instead hold onto the idea that I can, in fact, be happy once in a while.  

To be content should not immediately turn to assuming I now have something great to lose, and more than that, it should not MEAN that I WILL absolutely lose that wonderful new happiness.   Provided I don't suddenly chuck the damn thing out a window for no reason, there is nothing saying that chance and fate and all that won't finally let me hold onto it.  

...So why do I throw it out, assuming I'll just lose it all anyway?  It's that stupid logic that I've argued against in relationships, so why not my own life on a day to day basis?

I am not strong.  I am a stubborn ass.

And eventually, that stubborn nature will absolutely kill me if I don't make a change soon. 

I don't have the will to fight my fears every single day.  No one does.  No one should have to.  I barely have it on good days, but I still HAVE those good days, and that means something. 

I cannot do this alone, and I know I don't have to.

I have many friends who have not only put up with my shit, but have seemed happy to do so.

Many of them have even gone through similar times.  They understand and accept me.  

So why do I feel lonely?

I'll tell you why.

Because I'm a stubborn ass.

I've decided that my life is over and that there is nothing I can do and no one can assist me.  I've decided that because I feel guilty when someone does want to help me.  I feel like I'm wasting everyone's time and that I'm not worth saving.

Stubborn and stupid, but I know better. 

And then when I DO feel better, that brings it's own guilt.  "How miserable will I make my friends and family, who are currently so happy with me, when I have a bad day again?"

Has this become a fear of success on some level?  How very sad.  I would love to be successful in many ways.  It would be a shame to sabotage myself to prove a non-existent point to no one but my own negative voice in my head.  

That being said, obviously, I'm still standing.  I haven't done anything, nor will I.  At least, I assume I won't, since I haven't yet.

I've already been through enough that could have led to such an end.

It didn't.

Out of another fear, or for someone else...?  Either way, in this case it is a good thing.

There are plenty of people who have been through more on a daily basis than I have ever gone through.

What we live through specifically doesn't matter so much as how we respond to whatever it is we have been through. 

I have not responded terribly well, and no, this is not a new thing.  I'm just not the kind of person who handles stress well... but I handle it very inwardly.

On the other hand, I went a good 26 or so years without a complete meltdown.  That's a pretty good record.  It's not like I had one big trauma that stuck out and shook me.  I've had many things happen over the years.  Each one on it's own was both terrible and something others could have just forgotten.  It depends on the person, I suppose.  

I never had time to get over each one before something else would happen.  I never let myself just sit and work through what I needed to.  Just letting go won't work.  I've tried it.  It just makes me feel like nothing mattered and nothing meant anything... When clearly it did.  

I know now that it all mattered.  Even if no one else knew that.  It still mattered.  

It's all smooshed together and therefore harder to look at clearly.  Perhaps picking each piece apart and going through them one by one would help?  

I tuck it away.

I have my moments to be sure, but how easily I give up even the things that matter most to me should matter in the "I'm not a strong person" argument here. 

I come to a wall, and I don't climb it. 

I just walk away.

I don't walk around it…

I walk away from it and continue to look back as though I couldn't have taken another route.

I'm stubborn and I'm kind of an idiot.

While I've done this in many respects, the one that really gets me still is what happened at my first college.  I never moved on.  
Art school represented my entire life to me.  I went to live my dream and be away from what was hurting me emotionally.  I had real hope.  
I got one opinion on my arm and forced myself to prove the doctor wrong.  That doctor didn't even keep me in his record.  I hurt myself for nothing, and then got kicked out.  I could have fought it.  I could have easily stayed and gotten help.  Instead, I finished my degree in a school that was not an art school and never forgave myself.  

What do I need in order to feel accomplished in this area?  What would validate my time spent there and the fact that I AM an artist, regardless of what I tell myself when I am depressed?    

I don't feel like I really exist anymore.  I'm aware that when I'm not around, there are people who miss me, so I don't mean in that sense.

Thank God.

I mean that my past is so muddled and forgotten by everyone around me…
You know...  I forget things that don't matter to me, so it makes me question how much it really mattered if everyone but me forgot.

If everyone can forget, and this means my shitty little life hasn't really been that bad… I'm just reacting incredibly poorly.

And without a past, how do I know who I am today?  What have I learned?  What HAVE I overcome?  I'm a "strong person" who has no past anyone will talk about.

But it wasn't their past.  It was mine.  It was mine to remember, respond to, interpret and grow from.  Even if it's wrong or right, it doesn't matter in that literal of a sense.  What matters is what I'm doing now with all of it and all of the meaning behind it.  

By this logic, my PTSD, my anxiety, my current health, my nightmares?  All just me responding in a stupid way and I'm not strong enough to stop it through will alone, nor am I smart enough to figure out this puzzle, nor am I brave enough to just medicate myself until I feel nothing at all anymore.

Bullshit.  Yes I am.  I'm just afraid to acknowledge that, lest I try and fail.   Failure is much easier.  I'm lazy.

I, myself, often confuse that last bit with bravery.

Ah, but if I don't want medication, even if it might help in theory, I'll just find a way to use the fact that I'm on something against myself.  I'll teeter back and forth between feeling brave for it and feeling weak.  So, lets stop that line of thinking now. 

It's just stubbornness at it's purest. 

I'm determined to get through this on my own,
to get back to how I was…
Which wasn't really all that different and may be a complete muddle of facts anyway.

It was just quieter and less in anyone else's face.  I bothered less people with it.

This is good to remember.  Once I'm back to how I was, as miserable as that often was, THEN I'll be able to move forward in a different way.  I'll conquer new fears.  I'll move forward and be stronger than ever.  But, I need to understand what it is I'm really going back to first.  That way, I won't be so disappointed in myself and get too hung up on it all.  

I'm determined to get through this on my own…
but I can't.

Some days, I really want to. 
I want a normal life.  I want the life I've never relaxed long enough to have…

And some days, it just isn't worth the struggle to me.  I get mad at myself because it shouldn't NEED to be a struggle.  It's easy for other people.  I get frustrated and then stop moving forward all together, when I should be using those moments to propel myself forward.

Yes.

What happened to the determination I ever had?  I had it for stupid things, like winning boyfriends, but it was there.  Stalker level... but determination none the less that could be utilized now if I had any idea how to conjure and harvest it.

Exactly.  So how?  Just remembering won't work if I don't trust my own memory.  How do I picture the real Rowyn Golde?  Who is she?  Maybe I can pretend to be her until it sticks.  If I'm so easily led, perhaps I can trick myself into a better life.  

I want to blame someone other than myself.

I want to think I had no choice so that I can move on without just hating myself for doing this to me.  Punch out whoever did this to me and walk away. 

I want to put my goals and my emotional stability on someone else.  I want to get better FOR someone else, because I don't think I'm worthwhile enough to bother doing so just for myself.  Myself and I have an awful, rocky, love/hate thing going on.  Real soap opera crap.  I'm just not supportive enough of me to be my own therapist, let alone friend or goal.

Imaginary friends are probably unhealthy too, as is projecting and effectively using a friend as a therapy tool. 

My denial is broken.  It doesn't work anymore.  The reality is so strange and twisted and ugly to me that I just don't want to look.  It's not that I can't.  It's that I don't want to.  I want to wake up and just not care…  But I want to care.  I want to care and love everything.  …But I don't want to push myself.

I need to remember the cup.  There is a large blue cup in my parent's house that warped in the dishwasher.  When turned a certain way, it looks like it's smiling.  
It's ugly, for a cup, but cute for an art piece showing a facsimile of a human facial expression.  

The cup is deformed, but still functions.  I have an odd love for this cup because I look at it as though it is a mirror.  It doesn't match the other ones and other people would throw it out, but it still holds liquid.  It still does the job... and when looked upon from the right angle, it doesn't look deformed at all.    
It's still good enough, and I still like it.  
Even if I feel ugly, maybe I'm just different. 

My main issue as of late: I don't want to choke or have an allergic reaction to nothing at all.

Okay.

Well, it's strange science.  No one really knows anything.  Anyone can suddenly develop an allergy at any given moment to any damn thing.  That's the problem…

I have no control over my own body and I therefore have no control over whether I live or die.

Technically, no one does, but I'm having trouble finding comfort in that. 

It used to be that taking a chance wasn't a huge deal, because anyone can die any day from pretty much anything.  ...And sometimes, I was afraid, but I sat still and dealt with it with a smile on my face for the sake of those I cared about.

I have a hard time doing anything for myself when it isn't secretly for someone else.

This could be good in a sense.  If I smarten up and prove to myself that I can be okay for a few hours when with someone, even if it is FOR that someone, I can then remember that I had gotten that far and repeat accordingly.  

I knew in my heart that this (severe allergies) was common enough, and certainly nothing compared to EVERYTHING else in my life.  ...Everything else being other situations where I felt I had no control over my body, felt I couldn't cry out for help, felt no one would try to hear me anyway...
Much like suffocating inside yourself due to eating a macadamia nut.

It's a different kind of trauma, but for me it's just yet another trauma.  Nothing more and nothing less.  The difference really is that you can SEE if someone is going to hit you.  You can HEAR a car smash into another car.

You can't actually have any idea if someone freaking touched a nut and then touched something you are about to eat.

Tiny particles of instant death are scary, and even though I have lived just fine thus far, (lived JUST FINE thus far!!) they have become the end all be all of scary shit I can't really control.  The fact that I've HAD these reactions is the problem.

I've had these reactions, this is a real thing... and then I had throat damage that caused an amazing amount of pain from... something.  Environmental allergies?  Smoke damage?  Who knows??  Could have been anything. 

I had no control.  It just happened without my knowledge.

There is something kind of... rape-like about it all.  Beyond that, I've developed a desperate need for a plan, but I haven't yet developed the "umph" needed to demand a plan.  This is silly because a lot of my friends wouldn't mind one from time to time.  I still fear being an overbearing burden.  Crap.  

...So I don't eat or only eat in very specific circumstances in order have a sense of control. 

This is inherently wrong.

Especially considering that I want to eat.  I WANT to eat.  I've been avoiding even my favorite foods from my favorite places, just in case of... something?  Something like what??  Tree nuts and chickpeas on everything!! 

I'm going to die, but I'll die by my own rules?  …But I don't want to ever commit suicide.

Right. 

…Poses a bit of a problem, doesn't it?

Circular, illogical logic that I've been grabbing onto just so I can hold onto SOMETHING that I feel won't leave me of it's own accord.

Huh.  Abandonment issues to an odd extreme, yet I avoid social gatherings with my best friends.  Kay.

How very sad.

And how very silly.

...And I know that.



I'm not the only person in the world to have a crippling bout of depression, nor am I the only one to flip shit and turn into something I don't like.  The art of other people has helped me a lot in feeling less alone.
Penanggalan's Depression on deviantart and  Adventures in Depression on Hyperbole and a Half are great examples. 

My Brain Needs an Electrician

Lately, as my brain has started to attempt to rewire itself, I have more good days than bad.  However, there are still days were "pushing myself" by doing things I know I should be able to do is a harrowing experience.

 I'm almost always on edge, unless I'm just too exhausted to care one way or another.

This whole turning the thoughts off thing is harder to do than I was hoping. 

It's like some chunk of my brain only understands how to function in danger.  When I'm not in some kind of trouble, this chunk just sits and rocks back and forth going "Any second.  It's going to happen any second.  I don't know WHAT but it'll be a big ol' something and it's going to ruin everything."

It sits and scowls and panics and when it spots some other area of the brain having a good time, it pipes up just to yell, "DON'T BOTHER BEING JOYOUS!  IT'LL ALL COME CRASHING DOWN AGAIN!"

At which point, it breaks out the chalk board and goes into excruciating detail about random events in the past year, and throughout my life, which could not have been avoided and CLEARLY I was just helpless and the world was always going to be constantly ending, so why bother enjoying the moments I have?

...I'm aware of how insane the logic is.  I know.  I know and that just frustrates me even more. 

Then the rest of my brain takes off their party hats and starts crying, because of Captain Party Pooper.

A good example is what just happened today.

As you may have gathered by now, I'm part of that "Boomerang Generation" and living with my parents again.  This is not to say that I lost a job or just couldn't find one.  It's that I had my second "WORLD ENDING" breakdown and wound up back home in a heap of pathetic misery. 

So, I try to be helpful wherever I can.

I was told to stir things.  I accepted without a second thought, because I'm an adult and this isn't an issue.

 

Lookit me.  Lookit me bein' all sure of myself.

There was no reason for this moment of "GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH" but I had it anyway.  Knowing I was just being a loon, I kept it to myself until it went away.  

Panic attacks are very rare these days (unlike the beginning of the Summer) so I can mostly just ignore them until my heart goes, "Oh, this isn't an issue?  My bad." 

 

Like I said.  Stirring.  Woo.

And then...

 

Look at me go.  That is some hot stirring action.

It was around this time that I decided it was the timing of it that was getting to me.  I was afraid that I'd forget about it.  ...Then, I thought maybe it was this overpowering sense of guilt.  

I hate feeling guilty, yet I do it to myself for almost everything.  I figured, even if I did everything right, if the food wasn't perfect, everyone would assume it was my fault (they wouldn't) and then I'd assume it was my fault, and then I'd obsess over what I could have done differently.

Right.

 

Sooo I obsess over the idea that I might wind up obsessing, just like I have been avoiding things I want to do and giving myself reason to panic JUST IN CASE so I don't ...have a... panic attack?  

What?  

The Tooth Fairy

This tale explains how much trouble both of my parents will go through just to make me happy.  As much as I've given them a hard time (like most children), I actually do appreciate the ridiculous nonsense of things my parents did for me, such as the Tooth Fairy. 

See, for me, the Tooth Fairy didn't leave money.  No no.
The Tooth Fairy left presents. 
How did he or she accomplish this?
Was it through some magical, fairy means?
Oh ho, my friend.  I'll tell you. 

Flat things.

Whenever one of my poorly designed teeth finally gave up and fell out, I would get a new sketchbook, or sometimes a puzzle or a book...  Flat things.

The puzzles were freaking awesome.  I remember one of Dracula, one of The Toxic Avenger, one of the cartoon of Beetlejuice (it's Lydia and Beetlejuice riding a skateboard and it's so awesome that I had the thing permanently glued into a mini poster!), and even one of ballerina troll dolls. 

I loved all these things as a child.  And, for the most part, I still do today.  ...Except for maybe the trolls.  ...I was sort of obsessed with collecting those freaky little smiling bridge dwellers. 

I had at least a hundred of them.  They were slowly given away and sold at garage sales over the years. 

...However, I did still keep a few.  I kept ones that had traveled with me, and special costumed ones of things I still love.  One is dressed as an Egyptian, for example.  They are mostly in storage now, but... quite frankly so is a lot of my crap.  When I have room to display everything (or I'm just finally at the point where I'm ready to give up some more children's toys) then I'll proudly get them out of storage.

On a somewhat related note, I was never a big collector of beanie babies, but I did wind up with (and still have) some of the cooler ones.  I have the platypus, a ghost, a scorpion...  You know... Ones like those.

Oh oh!  Quick other story of my mom being awesome! 
One year, for Halloween, my mom made a costume for me that to this day is still the most fantastic costume that I ever had. 

I was a vampire troll.

I had fangs, puffed up, black troll hair, Mom did my make up in a troll-like fashion...  She cut a costume out of felt-like fabric that totally resembled something my troll actually wore...  For the feet, I wore pink tights over my sneakers and she drew freaking toes onto the tights. 

I was awesome.

In any case, back to the Tooth Fairy.

Usually, my mom took care of "contacting the Tooth Fairy" whenever I lost a not-so-pearly white.
This time, I had a loose tooth that was ready to exile itself from my head when my mom had to leave for a trip.  I don't remember where she went, but I'm sure it was lovely. 
Either way, she made sure that the Tooth Fairy was prepared. 

I went to sleep, head on pillow, content in the knowledge that I would still get a wondrous flat present for my tooth. 
I heard a thump, and awoke.

See, my room was never particularly clean.  These days, I actually have the ability to become frustrated at my own mess and take care of it.  Then?  Not so much.  I had two big defenses for this.  A: I don't go by "do as I say, not as I do", so until my parents cleaned THEIR room, I wasn't doing shit.  B: this way I would be awoken to an intruder.

Case in point:
I turned to see my father, in his sleep attire (which was pretty much just his underwear and T-shirt), holding a piece of paper, whilst sporting a very panicked "oh shit" expression, staring at me like a deer in headlights.

"Uh... Yes Dad?"  I had kind of always known that the Tooth Fairy was actually my parents.  Now I just knew that it was primarily my mother's job.  Clearly, this poor man was out of his element.

He handed me the piece of paper.

I wish I could draw out the whole thing, but my handwriting is not nearly as nice as my mother's.  In fact, my dad, my sister and I all have almost the same handwriting.  My mom's is the only one that is perky and legible and perfect.  Her handwriting matches her personality well.  Meanwhile, my father and sister are both left handed, so not only are their writing styles very difficult to read, but they also lean the opposite way like some freaky, mirror language.  ...and mine is just a scrawl with no real excuse.  I'd say "oh, I have that deformity in my wrist, remember?" but really, there's no reason.  You, as my audience, get to see my neatest handwriting in my little illustrations.  My neatest.  Yeah. 

SO!  The letter said something to the effect of "I am sorry that I could not make it for your tooth just yet, but I have sent your father to give you this letter for me, in my absence." (Did she KNOW he wouldn't be able to accomplish this task, or what?) "Instead, take this as an I.O.U., and I will be sure to give you a gift soon!" 

First of all, the letter took up a whole page, so it was actually much longer and more in depth than that.  That's just the gist. 

Secondly, all the periods were little teeth like this:

Yeah.  My mom wrote a letter AS THE FREAKING TOOTH FAIRY and my father tried (and somehow failed, but it's okay... he means well) to hand deliver it to my pillow. 

What can I say?  My parents, in their own strange, collective way, have always been problem solvers.

For example, my parent's den was crooked. 
Like, it sank into the middle.
I once told a friend that there were dead bodies under the floor, and as they decomposed, the floor sank in.  For all I know, that may have been true.

So, I grew up with books and such crammed under lamps and furniture in an attempt to ignore the fact that our den was crooked. 

This was the only part of the house that did this, and eventually my parents had the floor re-done so it was no longer an issue. 
Still, for my whole childhood, I debated if a slinky would move across the den floor on it's own.

Anyway, I remember playing along with the idea of a tooth fairy for a while after getting that letter (that was all too suspiciously in my mother's handwriting), thinking that my parents would be depressed if they knew that I knew.  ...I was also probably afraid that I would no longer get presents for losing teeth.

Considering all the work that's gone into my face dentistry-wise at this point, that was probably a silly fear.  My two front teeth are dental implants.  The two on either side both have caps because everything was moved over by one, after both of my lateral incisors were removed.  ...And so, my parents are STILL helping me feel better about losing my teeth, to this day.