Manic Monday Thru Sunday

I think I might be bipolar.  Or, at least, I feel a little bit like I'm on a roller coaster right now.

The good news is that I'm not sad every. single. day. 

The slightly weird news is that I'm finding myself manically making massive, multi-stepped life goals for myself.  And doing impulsive things.

In the last week, I bought tickets to a Queen concert, registered for a 5 km race, wrote an outline for a series of semi-autobiographical short stories, and spent a small fortune on lacy underwear.  Because it makes me feel good.  I've planned and created itineraries for numerous adventure vacations that (since I'm much less concerned about buying a home in the next two years) I may one day be able to finance.  And then I discovered that I could trade my crappy phone in without a penalty fee six months before my contract is up.  I've been researching numerous apps like a champ to streamline my life and help me become the most awesome super-human in the district.

The bad news is that I'm not happy every single day either.  It is often difficult to see any reason to get out of bed beyond the fact that I'm probably not going to have crazy dreams while I'm awake (they are alternately hopeful and vengeful, but always crazy).  Being sad is exhausting.  And trying to be not sad is exhausting.  And being exhausted makes it really hard to follow through on any of my awesome multi-stepped life goals.

Somewhere on the internet or somewhere (or maybe I just dreamed it), is the exact representation of the cycle of my life the way I see it.  I am a phoenix rising triumphant from the ashes of its former self, soaring majestically, and then getting swallowed up by a jet engine.

I have come to terms with my present state of affairs.  The problem is that six months ago, I knew exactly where my life was going.  I knew, on my 30th birthday last November, that this was the decade in which many of the most exciting things in my life were going to happen so there was no reason to bemoan the fact that I was aging.  The only thing there was to be sad about was that I knew exactly how long I would have to wait for it.

Now I feel totally rudderless.  Which is probably why when I have a sudden burst of energy, I'm making all kind of plans for my personal awesomeness.  So that I feel like I'm going in a direction.  Any direction.

The other good news is that I feel like I'm better at coping now. 

In my adult life, I've almost always felt that statements of affirmation were for the truly desperate and gullible.  Recently, though, I've found that a daily browse of the "quotes" section on Pinterest pumps me up sufficiently to get through, though I do have to be selective so that I'm not focusing on the quotes declaring undying hopeless love to some nameless other.  They don't help. 

I watch a lot of Netflix.  Watching Ted Mosby retell the story of how he met the mother of his children makes me feel less desperate and, to be truthful, a little bit hopeful. 

I put makeup on every day.  It started with the idea that I couldn't cry if I was wearing non-waterproof mascara.  Now it feels a little bit like part of my armour.

And finally, regular dance parties to this song.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDqADZygseM
Because I've got sauce.  Somewhere in the back of the fridge.

Solitude is Normal.

I think it's incredibly cliché to feel afraid to be alone.  But here I am, living the night terror.  On Wednesday afternoon, I'm counting down the hours to Freedom Friday.  By Friday at noon, I feel like I'm staring down the barrel of a 48-hour shotgun.

This is not to say that I'm completely without activity or social engagement most weekends.  To say that would be lying.  I've generally got SOMETHING to do or SOMEWHERE to go.  But when I've got a stretch of several hours that I'm not spending in the company of others, I start to hyperventilate a little.

I'm really uncomfortable in my own company.  And that's a problem.

It's a problem because it suggests I'm using the fullness of my social calendar as a means of determining my self-worth.  On its face this makes some sense; if other people want to spend time with me, I must be pretty awesome.  But most people (normal people) actually want to be alone some of the time.  That means that sometimes they're not going to want to spend time with me.  And it doesn't actually mean they think I'm not awesome.  It just means they need some time to themselves.  Deep, in the centre of my mind (where the rational thought comes from), I know I'm setting myself up for failure in the feel-good department if I use the number of hours I'm not alone as a barometer for my personal awesomeness.

I'm quite sure I'm also using social interaction as a way of distracting myself from my grief.  This also makes some sense.  Reminding myself that I have a lot of cool shit going on in my life, beyond the relationship I was in, has definitely been very helpful in shooting some happiness into my emotional milieu to make the sadness a lot more manageable.  On the other hand, it's nobody's responsibility but mine to manage my sadness.  And if everyone else out there can manage the shitty stuff in their lives without a CONSTANT source of distraction, then perhaps I should be trying to work on that too.

Furthermore, sometimes I actually NEED to be alone.  I'm loathe to admit this to myself, but occasionally, my social calendar becomes so jam-packed that I start to freak out a little.  Like, I start to panic that I'm going to disappoint someone that I didn't make it to their event, or that I didn't have time to make sure I had clean socks and underwear to wear to their event because I was stacking my commitments so tightly.  I probably become a little withdrawn and even kind of cranky.  And then people definitely won't think I'm awesome.  Certainly, I don't think I'm awesome if I'm withdrawn and cranky (which is probably more important).

So obviously, I'm not saying that I'm putting an indefinite moratorium on social interaction beyond work.  That would be silly.  But I am saying that I probably need to be a little more comfortable with myself BY MYSELF if I want my mental health maintain a head-above-water position.

Which begs the question: If I'm not freaking out about having hours to spend with myself, what should I be doing with that time?  I've made a list of things that I'm doing in my alone time that are making me feel good.  So far, I'm trying to read more.  I buy books almost compulsively, but then don't have time to read them.  I'm trying to set that time aside now. 

I'm also trying to find ways to surround myself with positive affirmation and reminders of what makes me happy.  I'm working on my wall of awesome friends and memories:

 

And I'm working on this art project (work in progress).

 

 

And then there's the never-ending knitting pile.  I think it's a good thing to make it a goal to, one day, see the surface of this table.

But sometimes I'm stuck with hours and hours of me and eventually I'm going to run out of knitting (or, more likely, will develop carpal tunnel).  What else could I be doing to make the me time more comfortable?  Suggestions from helpful introverts welcome.



Love is There.

I think most people expected that Valentine's Day would find me looking kind of like this:

 

 

And I don't think anybody would blame me right now for feeling like I want to shield myself from all those raining hearts.

 

But I like love a lot.  That's why I'm so sad that I've had my heart broken.  I don't get to have that kind of love right now. 

 

On V-Day, one of my friends posted this archived blog post to Facebook(http://www.yarnharlot.ca/blog/archives/2007/02/14/love_is_all_you_need.html), which provided me with some reading to while away the empty hours at work, and also a way to focus on the love I've got instead of what I've been so sorely missing these past few weeks. 

 

Because there is a lot of love in my life.  I have so many great friends who let me cry, who get me drunk, who make me laugh, who hug me, who distract me, who help me feel beautiful, who remind me to breathe, who promise me that one day I'm not going to feel this sad anymore, and remind me that I am actually worth the love I've got and the love that, one day, I'm going to have again. 

 

And actually, it was a pretty good day.

 

Valentine's Day started with a text message from a dear friend with the news that she had given birth to a beautiful and healthy baby girl that morning.  I'm not sure how I could possibly be cranky when my day starts with such great news. 

 

It was important to me that I have a good day and still be able to celebrate love.  When someone tells you he can't be with you any longer and he can't keep trying to make things work, it's really easy to believe that you're not worth the trying, not worth the love that makes you try.  And if it's true that I'm not worth someone else's love, why should I try either? 

 

I should try because deep, in my heart of hearts, I know that there are lots of really great things about me that are worth someone's love, particularly my own.  I'm generous, committed, perseverant, a good listener and honest.  I'm witty, pretty good at helping people see the big picture, and very good at finding the humour in a situation.  I'm a pretty talented musician, singer, writer, actor, and have been known to cut a pretty decent rug from time to time.   I'm a great cook, I'm pretty adventurous with food, and I learned how to roller skate when I was 28.  None of this is to say that I don't have flaws also, but I really think that love is about coping with the flaws because the good stuff is so good.

 

If I try to think about one of the happiest and most awesome times in my life as a single person, I think back to when I wrote this: http://www.hotmisst.blogspot.ca/2010/10/hot-people-unleash-their-secret-weapons.html.  I felt invincible when I wrote that.  I knew I was pretty great, and that sometimes I needed some armour to remind myself.  I lost some of that armour; I disposed of it when I was in the safety of a romantic relationship, thinking the relationship would be armour enough.  I forgot that I should always be my own most steadfast, brave defender.

 

My next project is rebuilding my suit of armour.  And learning to keep that armour safe no matter how safe the arms of another person make me feel. 

Grief is Persistent.

I'm not ok.

And guys, I've been trying.

I'm eating right.  I'm staying active.  I'm maintaining contact with friends.  I'm getting out.  I'm seeking counsel.  I'm staying involved.  I have a to-do list as long as my arm.

These help.  Lots.  But I'm still not ok.

I've been reading a little about the stages of grief lately, for what I think are obvious reasons.  I feel as though they're not really stages for me.  It's not like I'm walking up a set of stairs progressively reaching the upper echelon of acceptance.  My grieving process seems to me to be more of an elaborate spiro-paint picture.

The discussion that initiated our breakup lasted about two hours (or six months, or three years and three months, depending on your vantage point).  In that time, I felt all of the stages of grief.  Even acceptance, when 30 seconds after I left him and drove away, my phone rang.  I was sure it was him calling me to say he'd made a mistake and took it all back.

It was someone else.

The stages of grief continue to spiral.  They feed each other, causing an outbreak.  A vicious circle of crummy emotions.

Denial

The denial is easy.  The last year and a half was mainly long-distance.  I'm used to his not being here.  Most days are totally normal, but for a few phone calls and text messages I'm not getting anymore.  It isn't at all difficult to convince myself for a moment or two that I've just had a bad dream and everything is fine.  Remembering is hard.

Bargaining

I think I've done a decent job of not ACTUALLY bargaining with him since the break-up discussion.  Instead, I'm just making bargains with myself, or God, or the devil, or the great flying spaghetti monster.  IF I just deal with my shit, if I work myself out of my (borderline?) depression into something super happy and chill, if I lose a ton of weight, if I become a completely different and way more awesome person THEN somebody up there or out there will make him see it and he'll change his mind.  Right?

Don't bother setting me straight.  I already know.

Sometimes, though, it's that baseless optimism that gets me through the day.  It's what keeps the depression from swallowing me whole.

Depression

Every time there's a bit of something that I can't deny or bargain my way out of, that's a time that I find myself sobbing in the bathtub or getting teary-eyed while I look for the best deal on paper towel this week.

Once, in my childhood, I crawled to the blind end of my sleeping bag.  Then, someone (probably my brother.  Or my Dad) sat on the open end, trapping me.  It was all a hilarious joke.  I feel suffocated, confined and stuck by the depression part of things.  Problem is, just like thrashing around inside the sleeping bag only made me panic more, fighting the depression doesn't make me any less stuck. 

Acceptance

I'm even trying to work on acceptance, if for no other reason than the possibility that it might hasten the end of the depression.  I try to imagine myself alone.  That alone person imagines herself getting another cat.  This person rethinks her "crazy cat lady" plan.  I try to imagine myself with other people.  Like, BEING with them.  Loving them.  And then I feel guilty because my heart is still with him.  And then we're back to depression.

Anger

I've saved anger for the end.  Not because it's "best for last."  Not because it's going to be the juiciest read.  I've saved it for last because it is the hardest for me to be ok with feeling.  In the way I think of depression swallowing me whole, I think of anger as something chewing me up.  Anger will change me. 

Anger is poisonous.  Being angry at him makes things poisonous between us.  It closes doors on our relationship (whatever that ends up being [there I go...bargaining again]).  It poisons my friendships, because my friends were "our" friends and are still also his friends.  Anger means they have to choose, which they shouldn't have to do, since there's not really a right or a wrong side to this.

But I must admit to some anger.  I'm angry that I couldn't be what he wanted.  I'm angry that I worked so hard at making myself better and that all that work now seems to have been for naught, since I've got another great mountain of sadness and anxiety and self-doubt sitting on my chest after having shoveled the last pile almost all away.  I'm angry at myself for being weak enough to fear that I might never get over him, that I might always be alone, that some part of me is missing without him.

Most of all, I'm angry that this keeps taking so much of my time.  That I can't just man up and move on and start being a happy and fun person again.

But that's what moving on is going to take.  My time.  And I'd better get used to it.  Because I can't run up the stages of grief like a set of stairs, Rocky Balboa-style, much as I would like to.  The spiro-paint will stop when it's finished, and only then will I be ok.

Tears are Pain.

My only goal this week was to make it through a day of work without crying.  It took until Friday, but I made it through Friday's work hours without having to lock myself in the bathroom, unravel all of the work toilet paper, and whisper to myself to keep breathing.  I made it through without running into my office and closing the door when the wrong song came on the piped-in radio.  I managed stifling the lip quiver when one of my clients asked me if I was all settled into the area now, after almost four years, and wasn't I married yet?  Oh well, lots of nice young men out there. 

I made it.

So, I've got work down.  That's about 35 hours of the week.  The other 133 hours are another story.

And I wish they weren't.  Because crying hurts.  Physically.  I spent the weekend with my parents and joked that the reason for my rosy cheeks is that I've been bathing them in warm salt water for the past week.  You know, from my eyes.  And they're burning.  My eyes burn too.  And I have a headache most of the time.  My back aches from those moments when you just can't catch your breath and you start to hyperventilate.  My eyelids are almost purple from being rubbed dry.

Unfortunately, I'm really effing sad.  And I think that's going to be the predominant feeling in my emotional repertoire for some time to come.  Everything makes me cry.

• Remembering - Our relationship had been long distance for the past year and a half.  It's normal to wake up alone.  I forget and think that I might call him later.  And then I remember.
• Showering - Maybe it's about the time of the morning that I start to remember that things are not normal anymore.  Or maybe the privacy of the shower makes me feel comfortable to start sobbing, but I have yet to take a shower without some kind of emotional response.
• Listening to Music - I don't think this is a surprise to anyone.  Between Friday and today I've spent nine hours in the car with my mp3 player.  I've learned that there are many songs I can't listen to right now.  There's the obvious choices - REM's "Everybody Hurts" is a song basically giving you permission to cry it out and sometimes made me tear up anyway.  Neil Young's "Helpless" coming down the hill in North Bay was like someone kicking me in the heart with a steel-toed boot.
• Feeling the Love  - I just need to know that I'm going to be ok.  To be honest, the number of people who have offered kind words, open arms and the space to be really effing sad has been a little bit overwhelming.  At a time when it would be so easy to feel so very lonely, I have never felt so surrounded.  I will still need the reminder (probably quite often), but it's much easier now to believe that I'm going to get through this with more or less all the pieces I started with.
• Silence - Sometimes nothing's happened and I find myself in tears.

Things that don't make me cry include: making a rickety bed with my father at 2 a.m. on a Friday night after a long drive, playing complicated piano music, and sleeping.

The sadness I feel and the accompanying tears are a normal part of the grieving process, I'm told.  I know I can't carry a torch forever, lest I set myself on fire.  Maybe the tears are a safety feature - a built-in fire extinguisher.  But I can't cry forever, no matter how sad I feel.  I'm hoping instead to convert much of my sad energy into handcrafted items for friends, family, and self, feats of athleticism and devastatingly emotionally on point musical performances.  We'll see how this goes. 

When I was driving to my parents' this weekend, there was a tiny section of rainbow over the horizon.  When I was driving back, there was a sliver of new moon smiling at me.  Though I'm currently not particularly devout, I am a Sunday School veteran.  The rainbow was a promise from God that He would never flood the earth again. 

I'm not so naïve as to believe that I'm never going to feel heartbroken again, but I'm going to take it and the smiling moon as a sign from the ether that things are going get better.  Just like everyone keeps saying. 

Standing is Hard.

I've always been able to stand pretty strong in the face of adversity, but this one knocked me pretty hard.

My boyfriend broke up with me on Monday.

Yes.  I'm devastated.
Yes.  I spent the past two day trying to conceal my messy crying while I attended to my day-to-day duties.  My coworkers were awkward, but understanding.
Yes.  I think he's made a huge mistake.

But, as my father so eloquently put it when I called him in tears from a Tim Horton's parking lot just north of Orillia "It takes two, you know."

And I guess that's it.  I've received no real explanation aside from "I just don't think things will work out between us."  And maybe that's enough.  Lord knows I don't need to hear a laundry list of my faults right now.  I'm good enough at making them for myself.

And while I disagree - I think we're two matching puzzle pieces that just haven't found the right sides to fit together, I guess that with too much jamming together, even pieces that fit are going to be dog-eared and be a weak link in the puzzle when they finally find the way they're supposed to go.  I was never hell-bent on finding my matching piece.  I just met him and after a while, was so unflappably sure we fit together.  I hope I've still got all the right ins and outs and corners when someone picks me up again to find where I fit.

And maybe that's why I'm so upset.  When I've grown so tangled and twisted with someone and intertwined so much of my past and present and future with his (there's a lot of intertwining;  I really thought he was it for me), I'm just at a complete loss as to how to cut away all the pieces of him without cutting away great limbs of myself.  I've really never had much luck as an arborist.  Where the fuck do I start?

So, that's how I feel: like a broken puzzle piece holding up a tree that grew twisted around me and died, hoping like hell that when the dead tree falls it doesn't take me down with it.

But I have good friends to hold me steady through the contortions of untangling myself, and to help me clean up the downed branches.  I don't know the answer to a lot of questions, and I don't know that they have any more answers than I do.  But they keep telling me when I ask them.

I'm going to be ok, right?

And now we return to our regularly scheduled programming...

So, I know I've been a huge downer lately.  Obviously, a huge reason that I've been a huge downer is because I've been feeling down, though.  As you know, I've been working through some of my demons.

Sometimes, when you're feeling like things just aren't going right, you need to blog about it, cry to your boyfriend on the phone several times a week, enlist the help of a social worker, and start a band with your friend.

Other times, you just need a fancy-looking drink.  Here's a Licorice Twist, which I lifted from the Spring 2012 issue of the LCBO's Food & Drink magazine.  It's supposed to have lychee in it, but I live in Northern Ontario, so I used guava instead.  Word to the wise: It's not the same.  I found lychee in the grocery store just last week.  Alas, too late.

(c) other 3 percent