I’m going to call this a hurdle. Because, even if you completely fuck up a hurdle, you still somehow move through it, crawl over it broken and bleeding, and find yourself on the other side. It’s not graceful. It may have taken you eight times longer than the other girl, but it happened, and that can’t be denied.
Logically, I knew a strong downward trend would happen. I’m not the person to switch to a different lifestyle and say, “This is who I am now. Flawless.” And I kind of wanted to say, “I failed. I’m done,” when I sat down to write this.
Here’s what I know: My diet’s one awry. I’m trying to eat all of the good food that I researched. It’s difficult. I hate walnuts. So much. I’m trying to revisit the salad at lunch. I’m thinking that maybe I can make a lunch smoothie with some/most of the ingredients I used in the salad, minus the walnuts and add a banana. I can also eat the carrots on the side. I don’t know if blenders can survive carrots. If they can, I’m not at that culinary level.
I haven’t slept well in the past three nights. I’m a vivid dreamer. It’s really cool when you spend the dream fighting with Harry against Lord Voldemort and we win and the dream ends with Liza Minnelli and Julie Andrews doing the Broadway musical version of Black Swan. You want to tell everyone those dreams. When they dreams are nightmares though, it’s all levels of exhausting and disruptive to life. Because I’m tired, I lash out. At things I’m angry at? Me, life, that I’m depressed and anxious — no. I lash out at dumb things that are slightly more tangible: people parking in my space, the employee who’s a constant minor inconvenience, guest’s feedback that is 100% kissing our ass. I can feel everyone talking about it and thinking I’m crazy for being angry. I want to grab them by the shoulders and say, “You have even seen the tip of this iceberg. You know not what you’re dealing with. You are back in England thinking your loved ones arrived safely in America because you haven’t gotten the news yet.” But, also, I feel so fucking stupid because trapped deep inside me is this rational person that sees that I’m completely out of control, and that I really am looking like an idiot.
My car engine light came on. I’m going to have to get that checked out. Every time I drive my car, I’m worried that my engine is going to instantaneously give out and I’m going to die in a fiery wreck. I also have to battle the idea of, “Would that be so bad?” I also have to deal with the fact that I don’t have the money to fix a car engine. It could feasibly be $2000 – $3000 dollars. I know for a fact that it would take me two to three years to save that money. That’s my budget for my trip to London. I can’t handle that. I won’t know until it’s looked at. So basically, my brain is a constant stream of worse case scenarios that’s eating me up from the inside.
I told my best friend that I’ve been a year clean from cutting myself. She’s super supportive and hasn’t been treating me weirdly, which was my fear. She still loves me and I’m still her best friend. That was a blessing. I’ve had a few moments this week of being able to state who I am and where I’m at. The were refreshing moments of honesty that didn’t blow up entirely in my face.
I’ve gotten really good at interviews. I’m kind of killing it as far as they go. That’s been a delightful development. Although, I’ve felt a little dead inside and gave zero fucks about the interviews, so maybe that’s been the driving cause of my success. I’m slowly reading The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck by Mark Manson and it’s brilliant. I hope it gets under my skin and changes me in some way.
And, finally, I hit the 100 page mark in the story I’m writing. That means probably jack diddly to real writers and maybe some less than official writers. It means everything to me. I’m writing a heaping pile of shit that might win over Twilight as the worse thing ever, BUT this is the longest I’ve ever spent writing something. Honestly, I never wrote more than five pages on anything. I’m twenty times better than I’ve ever been before.
So, to summarize(?): My hands haven’t stopped shaking in two days. I have a headache from sleep deprivation. I have that feeling like I could cry at any moment. I don’t feel happy doing any of my hobbies, in fact, I’ve starting mentally berating myself for even liking to do them. When I think about my behavior throughout this past week, the anxiety ball that’s ever present in my chest has solar flares and I have the instant urge to self destruct, but I’m trying to remember that things ebb and flow. Maybe the ebb more than they flow or flow more than they ebb, but this won’t be a constant feeling. In two days, two weeks, or three months, I’m going to be writing a post saying stupid shit like, “I don’t really think I even have depression! I’m so happy and life is tangible magic.” I just have to keep that in mind.
*slow inhale, slow exhale*