Alexander started Pre-K this week. He's doing great and impressing his teachers which I never had any worries about. I worried about Audrey adjusting, but she seems to be doing fine with everything except it messing with her nap time.
The problem, of course, is me. I had one of the worst anxiety attacks I've had in a while on Sunday. If you aren't really familiar with them, let me help you.
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| F is for Fucktard. Source |
First, it starts out innocently enough. There's a little tugging in your chest, like you have a bit of heartburn. You start chewing on your fingernails like mad. Before long, you're arms get kind of achy like right after working out. Then, that little tugging turns into a feeling akin to an elephant with a weight problem standing on you, making margaritas whilst doing the salsa to Ricky Martin's "She Bangs" on your chest. Then the panic sets in. You feel invisible eyes on you all the time. You're skin crawls while simultaneously trying to turn itself inside out. And that's just day one. You can't sleep which only intensifies the symptoms the next day.
Before you even know it, depression sneaks up on you like a bitch in the night. Then you feel like sleeping all the time and the only thing that really gives you any satisfaction is food and sex. Luckily, I have a husband now to provide me with the latter. The food is becoming a bit of a problem.
Yesterday, my coping mechanisms involved pizza rolls, a turtle sundae shake and mozzarella sticks from Sonic, and burritos from Taco Villa. Today, it was chicken fried rice, fried wontons, and Chex Mix muddy buddies. Oh yeah, I had those yesterday too.
I'm scared by the time he graduates high school, I'll be one of those ladies they have to cut out of their houses just so I can attend the ceremonies. They'll have to build a parade float with tassels and garland to cart me there. Why not have a marching band too. Seems like a festive occasion.
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| I would be the sun, obviously. \And, it only makes sense to be sponsored by Waste Management. Source |
I feel down in the very deepness of my soul that if I could just cry for like an hour I would be okay. The anxiety would go away and take it's whore of a wife, depression with it. But that's the Catch-22 with insanity. The medication I'm on won't let me. It won't let me cry. I can tear up a little bit when I find something moving on a show or see someone do something extraordinary for someone else, but anything personal, and Zoloft the plumber has turned off the waterworks. The only way to get the tears is to stop taking the medication which will cause a downward spiral of depression and with it, anxiety. Damned if you do, fucked if you don't.
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| Bastard. Source |
I'll be better soon.....I hope. It usually only takes a few days for the crazies to wear off. I'm fighting them, I really am. I hate that my husband walks in, looks around the messy house, the dishes in the sink, no dinner on the table, etc a wonders what the hell I did all day. He has a hard time understanding that some days, it takes all I have just to keep myself above water, so to speak. I say it's my back pain or a migraine that's kept me from the housework but really it's the drain of energy it takes to keep myself together.
