I wrote five hundred words for this post yesterday. I deleted them all. I was being too clever by half. But that means I have to start over for today. This should be interesting. Yesterday’s aborted entry set me off into a spiral of anxiety and self-recrimination that left me in a bit of a dark place last night (a dark place I’m not sure I’m back out of).
Several weeks ago I alluded to my conflict-averse nature. I am so averse to it that I stopped being able to do an important part of my former job—critique and correct employees—at least a year before I lost that job. Last week I addressed my absolute conviction that thanks to things I’d done—mostly to/by myself—I was a bad person who was incapable of balancing the scales with future acts, didn’t deserve forgiveness, and should be punished.
The too clever by half comment regarding the original version of this blog was because I was trying to draw a connection to a pop culture character the way I incorporated the comic book reference last week (what can I say—it was fairly successful relative to other recent entries and I’m not above pandering). I was likening myself to Colonel Sanders of Spaceballs fame. He was always preparing. When it comes to conversations of any significance so am I. I play them over and over in my head. And then I either self-censor my side of the conversation or simply don’t engage at all.
Background for how this went so bad. We’ve been cleaning up my grandmother’s house to sell. About three weeks ago I had pointed out that an antique mirror wouldn’t fit in my mother’s car without putting the seat down (there were three of us). Nevertheless, and over my repeated insistence that it wouldn’t work, my uncle and I carried the mirror out only to see clearly that it wouldn’t fit.
I don’t make suggestions of an activity planning or job accomplishing nature very often. When I do I launch into a long explanation supporting my suggestion. Generally I expect my idea to be ignored (and when it’s not ignored it often turns out wrong—or at least the turning out wrong is what I mostly remember). When the mirror didn’t fit absent any acknowledgement that I was right it just reinforced what I already think about people’s view of me. Each of these instances is a raindrop but those raindrops have long since unleashed a flood that won’t abate. The idea that I’m a fuck up no one wants to hear from is pretty rooted.
My therapist suggested that I explain to my mom my perspective of what happened so she could understand. I agreed. Seemed simple enough, and I don’t ascribe any kind of maliciousness to what happened. Should be an easy conversation…that three weeks later I still haven’t had.
This brings us back to yesterday. I was writing on similar topics while my mother was in close proximity. Queue anxiety. Then we went to a grocery story. Queue more anxiety. Then I spent the entire night thinking about how I couldn’t talk to my mother which reinforced the knowledge that I am basically a wimp because I cannot stand up to anybody which of course led to me spiraling down a very dark course of how completely worthless my life is and how there’s no real point to it. Somewhere in there I had a full on anxiety attack. Thankfully there’s Xanax.
|Green Lanterns #15|
Have I mentioned I still feel worthless this morning? In a way it’s every day. Xanax this afternoon made the anxiety bearable. Though it’d be lovely if my heart wasn’t trying to bust out of rib cage. But still in darkness. Most days I don’t live in the darkness; most days I’m above it—still unhappy but not lost.
But I’m still a fucking pansy ass and it’s not like anyone wants to hear what I have to say anyway.