Pink Starburst Anxiety

"Never let anyone treat you like a yellow starburst. You are a Pink Starburst.

Black Nail Polish: Part 2; Chipped — January 17, 2018

Black Nail Polish: Part 2; Chipped

chipped

What a week!

Since we first met(yes, you).

Eight days ago.

This morning I am anxious and writing from the desk of my office, at work: a herculean feat, the anxiety-less will not understand; sandbags of weight, pulling at my dominant hand… still I type in an attempt to collect my thoughts. I take half of a Xanax, which was already broken in the small zip-lock bag.

Last night was a bad night.

I’m contemplating.

Should I break another? It is the last one in my stash and I am still five days away from my first therapy appointment.

I wore lipstick yesterday, the kind that doesn’t come off without merciless attempts. I spent the evening biting and gnawing at the skin, without remorse.¬†Today, they are red and sore and soft.

I started chipping at the black nail polish last night while on the phone for an hour with a man. Today, I pile layer, upon layer to cover the chips, the tips: the drying polish creates new ridges which only the diligent eye will penetrate–and it is not his.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trigger —

Trigger

I was doing sogood.

And I’ll tell you what–

It fucking sucks.

Dominant hand trembling–

Heavy head, numbing panic–

Attack. Attack. Attack.

I really was doing good.

And now one of them are explainable

No longer irrationally existing–

So my head wraps around and around

And around.

I used to be able to drink myself to sleep.

And, I’ll tell you what–

This Really fucking sucks.

Divorced but Never Married: Part 2 — January 16, 2018

Divorced but Never Married: Part 2

im-not-the-same-woman-i-used-to-be-am-18754305

In a previous post, titled “Refusing to Date”, I stated that “you cannot love someone unless you know and love yourself.”

When I left my ex of seven years, I was left with misappropriated sorrow in my heart. It has taken eight months for me to fully absorb this conundrum.

Today I know, that I indeed love myself. I love who I am. I love the kindness in my heart and the strength of my character. But it doesn’t erase the months, upon months of crying which kept me from moving forward.

I had told him we both needed time apart, time to grow and to consider our own character.

I lied.

It wasn’t me.

It wasn’t me that punched holes in the walls.

It wasn’t me that spat in his face.

It wasn’t me that tried to move on, only a month after seperating.

But today, I hate with much less anxiety in my heart. I hate that I used to hate him. I hate that he gave me three beautiful step-children to care for, but didn’t take the time to care for me. I will NEVER regret being the greatest mom I could be and a better wife than he deserved.

I am the widow of a living man.

 

 

 

Irrational Happiness —
Driving with my Brights On — January 15, 2018

Driving with my Brights On

Everything clicked today. Well, not everything, of course, but in 50degree weather, I braved out into the world and contemplated some of my demons.

At one point, I felt the endorphins in my body release and that old feeling of contentment enveloped me.

I had errands to run: I needed to pick up some blank canvases(on sale at Michaels); I also wanted to peruse the aisles of Barnes and Noble with a quad Venti Carmel Macchiato warming my fingertips; and lastly, hoping to coerce my best girlfriend to join me for dinner.

Check.

Check.

Check.

I can’t exactly put my finger on the moment I conceived my elation, but I took the dirt roads home and finally forgot about my mortality.

There is no longer any point

Holding on

To that instability.

It was always his burden

Regardless of my ability

To endure.

Not anymore.

Divorced but Never Married: Part 1. — January 14, 2018

Divorced but Never Married: Part 1.

After seven years, my surname never changed. Two years into the relationship, I realized more was expected of me than anyone else in the household(see above list and take into account my facetious nature). Not only did I hold down a full time job as the VP of Operations for a small, international business the first 5 of the aforementioned years, I attended college and received a Master’s Degree in English.

Imagine this: An insecure girl of 24; a bull-headed girl-scout(with a boy-scouts education); An old soul with a heart of gold–thrust into the throngs of motherhood with an up-and-coming alcoholic by her side.

While in school, I was too overwhelmed to notice how neglected and mentally abusive things were getting at home. Yet I persisted.

I was a DAMN GOOD WIFE and MOTHER.

We were engaged for 4 years, prior to my escape. I don’t know if there are new dents in truck doors; I don’t know if there are new pictures, covering fist-sized holes-in-walls; I don’t know why I startle, when I’m asked to check “single” or “divorced”.

Xanax for Breakfast; Weekends — January 13, 2018

Xanax for Breakfast; Weekends

My anxiety disorder manifests itself in various ways, during unexplainable times with debilitating frequency. It hasn’t been a lifelong relationship, so it’s easy for me to blame myself: past drug and alcohol abuse; staying in a relationship which, even after a loogie was hocked in my face, I continued to play the happy fianc√© and mother to my 3 step-children.

I decided to drink last night, in memory of my father(not my proudest moment, having been 12 days sober).

This morning I slept till 9:30 a.m. and rolled around in bed for half an hour. I checked emails, Facebook, texts,caught up on Trumps most recent, rambling tweets, and only desired to roll back over and get through a few more hours of life, unscathed. But, as usual my brain was “woke” and I ended up pulling myself out of bed to have my Keurig process 12, strong ounces of black coffee, before heading to the garage for a cigarette.

Next to my pack of Marlboro Light 100’s, a bottle of allergy medicine housed a tiny, zip-lock bag of 6 and 1/2 generic, yellow Xanax. I lit a cigarette and fished the bag from the bottle of little pink pills. I opened the bag, broke the yellow pill in half and tossed both pieces in my mouth, swallowing, with the bitter taste of coffee.

It is the weekend, after all, and with no paying work to focus on–the world around me has plenty of time aggravate my relapsed faculties.

Photo credit: Black Coffee | by Diaffi