What does it mean to be prepared? Not in any practical sense... I'm not referring to packing your lunch the night before or laying your clothes out for the next morning. I'm talking about the act of steeling yourself for a daunting task. The shower pep talk, the mirror affirmations, the rambling crazy talk while pacing a waiting room or lobby or what have you. Maybe there's a rabbits foot nearby you could squeeze for good luck? Perhaps some sort of personal totem that makes you feel powerful and safe.
I don't disapprove of any of these things, and, one could opine that I am personally reliant on habits and good luck charms and well... superstitious mojo.
However, while I was preparing for my NYC trip I started to get this feeling like I was wasting a lot of time preparing for events that were to happen regardless of whether or not I had prepared myself. It's interesting to me that we spend time thinking about, imagining and fortifying ourselves in anticipation of moments in our lifetimes. When it comes down to it, the moments that we fret and prepare for are happening all the time. My guess is that we are missing the moments we strive to prepare for by consuming our moments with preparation.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
The Architect of Anxiety
I am the freaking Gaudi of anxiety.
In dealing with aching decades of anxiety, I have developed a marvelous repertoire of coping mechanisms; from small, obsessive habits (like repeating phrases endlessly as though they would avert the projected impending disaster) to forming intensely close, codependent bonds with one person at a time, pacifying my scared little ego's need for unconditional constant companionship.
I carried around a block of wood for a year, knocking on it every time I feel the need to. I had an order with which to dress myself, to eat gum, to have my back rubbed.
I had rituals where I would mill about my room busily preparing myself for a panic attack- I would get 2 1/2 liter bottles of water and line them up beside an industrial size bottle of extra extra strength tums, dentyne shiver gum, vicks cough drops, calvin and hobbes comics, pens, a book, k'nex toys and a bag to vomit in (which i only did twice in my life and never due to anxiety. I still have yet to throw up in a toilet this decade because it feels "too real". Knock on wood.) Finally, with all these things in place and just the way I wanted them, I could relax. Let go. Let it take over for a time, but only after I had established I was still the boss.
I half realized slowly over the years (though it has really just dawned on me now and this is why I'm writing it down) that in preparing myself to surrender to anxiety I actually made it so very much worse. People with anxiety shouldn't be architects. They shouldn't design these massive labrynths. Instead, what ends up happening is you build yourself a prison. By masking the symptoms of a panic attack all these years, I mainly succeeded in strengthening my compulsive need to control something, anything.
People with anxiety should not be architects building prisons. We should be MacGuyvers, cleverly espcaping hairy situations with a ballpoint pen and a stalk of broccoli and a dildo. Or whatever. We should be immersing ourselves in the experiences that define a life well and fully lived and should a problem arise, we should navigate through the rocky waves of the mind to stiller waters in a boat made of plastic wrap and apple cores. Or whatever.
Every day that lapses I am more ready to tear down these useless walls I built.
In dealing with aching decades of anxiety, I have developed a marvelous repertoire of coping mechanisms; from small, obsessive habits (like repeating phrases endlessly as though they would avert the projected impending disaster) to forming intensely close, codependent bonds with one person at a time, pacifying my scared little ego's need for unconditional constant companionship.
I carried around a block of wood for a year, knocking on it every time I feel the need to. I had an order with which to dress myself, to eat gum, to have my back rubbed.
I had rituals where I would mill about my room busily preparing myself for a panic attack- I would get 2 1/2 liter bottles of water and line them up beside an industrial size bottle of extra extra strength tums, dentyne shiver gum, vicks cough drops, calvin and hobbes comics, pens, a book, k'nex toys and a bag to vomit in (which i only did twice in my life and never due to anxiety. I still have yet to throw up in a toilet this decade because it feels "too real". Knock on wood.) Finally, with all these things in place and just the way I wanted them, I could relax. Let go. Let it take over for a time, but only after I had established I was still the boss.
I half realized slowly over the years (though it has really just dawned on me now and this is why I'm writing it down) that in preparing myself to surrender to anxiety I actually made it so very much worse. People with anxiety shouldn't be architects. They shouldn't design these massive labrynths. Instead, what ends up happening is you build yourself a prison. By masking the symptoms of a panic attack all these years, I mainly succeeded in strengthening my compulsive need to control something, anything.
People with anxiety should not be architects building prisons. We should be MacGuyvers, cleverly espcaping hairy situations with a ballpoint pen and a stalk of broccoli and a dildo. Or whatever. We should be immersing ourselves in the experiences that define a life well and fully lived and should a problem arise, we should navigate through the rocky waves of the mind to stiller waters in a boat made of plastic wrap and apple cores. Or whatever.
Every day that lapses I am more ready to tear down these useless walls I built.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Mid night fear
This is just for me. This feeling is completely and wholly mine.
I am lying in bed. I went to bed at 8 on a Tuesday with nothing pressing to wake up early for. This is a panic attack. Panic attacks differ greatly from anxiety attacks. I differentiate the two in one major way; anxiety attacks are triggered by a phobia or worry, panic attacks are not. Panic attacks are brought on by seemingly nothing. They attack the body with a succession of symptoms mimicking terror borne of nothingness.
Here I am. My face is hot, burning, flushed. My left side aches (it always does when I'm nervous) Under the blush I know I'm pale and I can feel my feet sweating. My breathing is shallow and erratic and my stomach is flip flop with each new thought introduced into the churning vat of sludge my brain calls fear. And it's driving the car. Too late to go out, too sick to get up, too early to sleep. I am prone waiting for the megavideo to time out and the silence to overwhelm me. Can't get up, mom's in the next room. Can't release the tension. help me help me help me help me. I move in slow precise increments. Can't fuck up, drop anything because that'll be the end.
Ever notice how whenever a part of you malfunctions there's always a moment where you realize how important that one thing is and how fucked your life would be if it didn't work all the time? A chest cold gives way to the revelatory perspective that if you had cystic fibrosis you would be 100% more miserable than that chest cold made you feel for 2 weeks and how glad you are that your lungs ordinarily work. Anxiety can be like that too only it's fleeting moments of calm that make you appreciate every single part of yourself because panic attacks feel like small, all encompassing rebellions. Nothing works. Your mouth, your throat, your skin, hell not even your ass. Your mind decides to save itself and skips town, chased away by the thing that has no name because it doesn't even really exist except in the cartoon fart skid mark cloud your mind leaves behind. Anxiety is like sanity's afterbirth.
help me help me help me.
I don't remember how to stop thinking about this. I don't think I ever learned another way. Our minds are our own and to a certain extent we teach ourselves and inform ourselves as to how to percieve what surrounds us. Did I just do a really shitty job? 10:00 on a fucking Tuesday, nothing at all to wake up for and I'm not going anywhere.
I am lying in bed. I went to bed at 8 on a Tuesday with nothing pressing to wake up early for. This is a panic attack. Panic attacks differ greatly from anxiety attacks. I differentiate the two in one major way; anxiety attacks are triggered by a phobia or worry, panic attacks are not. Panic attacks are brought on by seemingly nothing. They attack the body with a succession of symptoms mimicking terror borne of nothingness.
Here I am. My face is hot, burning, flushed. My left side aches (it always does when I'm nervous) Under the blush I know I'm pale and I can feel my feet sweating. My breathing is shallow and erratic and my stomach is flip flop with each new thought introduced into the churning vat of sludge my brain calls fear. And it's driving the car. Too late to go out, too sick to get up, too early to sleep. I am prone waiting for the megavideo to time out and the silence to overwhelm me. Can't get up, mom's in the next room. Can't release the tension. help me help me help me help me. I move in slow precise increments. Can't fuck up, drop anything because that'll be the end.
Ever notice how whenever a part of you malfunctions there's always a moment where you realize how important that one thing is and how fucked your life would be if it didn't work all the time? A chest cold gives way to the revelatory perspective that if you had cystic fibrosis you would be 100% more miserable than that chest cold made you feel for 2 weeks and how glad you are that your lungs ordinarily work. Anxiety can be like that too only it's fleeting moments of calm that make you appreciate every single part of yourself because panic attacks feel like small, all encompassing rebellions. Nothing works. Your mouth, your throat, your skin, hell not even your ass. Your mind decides to save itself and skips town, chased away by the thing that has no name because it doesn't even really exist except in the cartoon fart skid mark cloud your mind leaves behind. Anxiety is like sanity's afterbirth.
help me help me help me.
I don't remember how to stop thinking about this. I don't think I ever learned another way. Our minds are our own and to a certain extent we teach ourselves and inform ourselves as to how to percieve what surrounds us. Did I just do a really shitty job? 10:00 on a fucking Tuesday, nothing at all to wake up for and I'm not going anywhere.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Oh, incongruous
Do you ever feel cheated?
I do.
I feel cheated when I think about how I made this ability out of blood sweat tears and countless hours of lessons and practice and repetition and thought and just.. work. I worked so hard for so long to be able to play music like how I do now. And hey, it's not that I'm better than anyone else out there. It just takes a lot to be "good enough" to do this for a living and not seem like an avril lavigne, strumming a g chord once per song while maybe lip syncing.
So I have this skill set and guess what? I am completely lacking the life skills needed to do it for a living!
I am so afraid of traveling.
I hate it. I hate it on principle, in practice, in anticipation. I hate the weeks leading up to it when I have trouble functioning with sweaty palms and eyes lidded with ruminating thoughts of fear and self doubt. I hate the night before when I'm packing and I can't seem to placate myself no matter what I put in my suitcase! I hate the morning of when I can't eat and there's nothing to do but let myself be pulled along. I hate being away and knowing the world is continuing in spite of me. I hate entering a new city and not knowing where anything is. I hate arriving at the place I'm staying and not feeling at home. I hate setting off my first morning somewhere foreign to find food or coffee that doesn't suck and failing miserably. I hate feeling trapped by having so much free time and not knowing what to do with it, only knowing i don't know what to do or where I am. I hate not being in control. I hate counting sleeps till I get home. I hate not knowing where the clean washrooms are and above all else, I hate the hours between 8 and 11pm when the city shuts down and it's too early to sleep.
This is the last time I hope to write such a list. I'm trying to rewire my mind so that I can do things like go on tour. It's hard because I'm stubborn. It's hard because in addition to fearing travel I also fervently dislike it. Fear and loathing (I know, I know) create a perfect storm of avoidance I don't know how to get around. How do I get around this?!
I do.
I feel cheated when I think about how I made this ability out of blood sweat tears and countless hours of lessons and practice and repetition and thought and just.. work. I worked so hard for so long to be able to play music like how I do now. And hey, it's not that I'm better than anyone else out there. It just takes a lot to be "good enough" to do this for a living and not seem like an avril lavigne, strumming a g chord once per song while maybe lip syncing.
So I have this skill set and guess what? I am completely lacking the life skills needed to do it for a living!
I am so afraid of traveling.
I hate it. I hate it on principle, in practice, in anticipation. I hate the weeks leading up to it when I have trouble functioning with sweaty palms and eyes lidded with ruminating thoughts of fear and self doubt. I hate the night before when I'm packing and I can't seem to placate myself no matter what I put in my suitcase! I hate the morning of when I can't eat and there's nothing to do but let myself be pulled along. I hate being away and knowing the world is continuing in spite of me. I hate entering a new city and not knowing where anything is. I hate arriving at the place I'm staying and not feeling at home. I hate setting off my first morning somewhere foreign to find food or coffee that doesn't suck and failing miserably. I hate feeling trapped by having so much free time and not knowing what to do with it, only knowing i don't know what to do or where I am. I hate not being in control. I hate counting sleeps till I get home. I hate not knowing where the clean washrooms are and above all else, I hate the hours between 8 and 11pm when the city shuts down and it's too early to sleep.
This is the last time I hope to write such a list. I'm trying to rewire my mind so that I can do things like go on tour. It's hard because I'm stubborn. It's hard because in addition to fearing travel I also fervently dislike it. Fear and loathing (I know, I know) create a perfect storm of avoidance I don't know how to get around. How do I get around this?!
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