Remember last week, when I was all “Be As If” and manifest your joy? And I sounded like I was writing from the top of a rainbow cloud, dancing to a drum circle with Jesus and Buddha and all the ascended masters?
Well, if I’ve learned nothing else in my life, it’s that the universe loves a good joke at my expense.
This past week has been ROUGH, y’all. I felt like my whole world was being shaken up like a snowglobe. I couldn’t get my act together with basically anything. Food? I didn’t just go off the rails; baby, I bent the track. Fitness? Welp, I canceled my only dance class for the week, mostly because I couldn’t stop crying long enough to practice. Family fun? My husband and I had what I am pretty sure was the longest fight of our married life (see crying, above), and the baby is violently teething. Fearlessly Flourishing? I didn’t post a blog entry for (I have had to change this number twice already, so let’s just say some) days, which is I think the longest I’ve gone so far. I’ve had a headache for a solid week.
In other words:
I wish I could pinpoint one major catalyzing event that caused me to malfunction like a robot with a can of diet soda poured over its circuitry. That sure would make things easier. Unfortunately, that’s not usually how things go, in any of our lives, and definitely not when you have a history of mental health challenges. Since this hit hard and fast and kind of out of the blue, I didn’t quite feel like I needed to get my therapist on board for this one just yet, so I sat down and sorted through my own problems like a peasant.
This time of year is stupid. It’s almost my birthday, and I am one of those obnoxious people who is prone to melancholy around that time of year. I do not have any contact whatsoever with either of my parents, one for about 33 years and one for going on 7 years. In both cases, it is 10000% the right thing to do (or not do), but if you’ve ever noticed, doing the right thing is rarely easy or comfortable. That’s why so many of us do the wrong things. The other thing that messes with me at this time of year is my good friend, Existential Crisis.
I had some rambling paragraphs written about these two topics, but decided that rehashing the negativity wasn’t worth it right now, so I’ll just leave them as line items and a sassy meme today.
I do not believe that my issue is brain chemistry right now. I am not a diagnosing physician, but as a connoisseur of clinical depression (both original recipe and spicy postpartum), something about this feels more…energetic?…spiritual?…rather than chemical. So I thought, screw it, let’s see where that rabbit-hole leads (sidenote: I suspect Alice had ADHD; discuss).
So I’ve spent the last few days trying to get my head screwed back on straight. I’ve been refocusing on eating the things my body and mind need to function properly, which of course means more veggies and less pouring candy corn into my mouth through a funnel. I’m abstaining from alcohol. I’m dancing again, after a 10 day break (my longest since August). Also, writing (hi). Last night, I decided to go all-in on the energetic theory and did a bunch of awesome wild hippie stuff under the new moon with one of my best friends, because WHY NOT. I’ve never really been into any of That Stuff, but I was in a throw everything at the wall and see what sticks type of way. Chakras and sage and burning stuff, oh my!
After I did all this, I felt compelled to research my new ADHD med (Adzenys) to figure out why it feels like it might not be working as well as my first one (Adderall). And I learned something.
Y’all. I have been taking it wrong. The whole time. I didn’t read the directions because what kind of assclown needs directions to tell them how to take a pill every morning? Well, as luck would have it, this particular assclown has been swallowing them like pills, instead of dissolving them in my mouth, as apparently is intended. This is not a secret. They even made the pills taste like Froot Loops, for this express purpose. It’s A Whole Thing.
So I took my pill properly today, and wouldn’t you know it, I’m a hell of a lot more functional. Still kind of angsty, but at least getting things done while I feel sorry for myself. Protip: Chores and exercise done while wearing black and listening to The Cure are still chores and exercise done.
Anyway, this post serves no purpose whatsoever except to be authentic, and maybe explain why I’ve been slacking in the writing department, if you are one of the four people who reads regularly. Even when you’ve done a boatload of really hard, self-reflective work, even when you’ve spent your kids’ college funds on therapy, even when you feel like you’ve mostly got your business figured out–to the point where starting a blog to help encourage other people to do it feels like a good idea–old thoughts and energies get stirred up sometimes.
I don’t think it will ever permanently stop, given who I am as a person. However, I do have a nice shiny toolbox to rifle through now, to help me figure out wtf to do when I don’t know wtf to do. If you don’t have a toolbox, I really suggest you get one. Note to self: get a post together soon about how I built mine.
Hopefully, I’ll be firing on all cylinders again soon. Thanks for your patience.