Toggle Switch

When people are less knowledgeable in the area of anxiety and clinical depression than I expect, I usually say, “If it were a toggle switch, I would have turned it off a LONG time ago”.

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I have incessant worry.  I get so excited when I don’t have something to worry about – I realize it and say to myself, “Oh my word, I’m happy right now!”  (But I’m usually pretty good at cooking up some type of worry.)  Thankfully, I have a handful of friends who realize this, and I call/email each of them with my worry. They all say, “screw that” in one way or the other, and my worry will usually slowly fade away.  Incessant. Toggle Switch.

Pay it Forward



High Anxiety

High anxiety = perseveration.  Sometimes, ok, a lot of the time, I spend perseverating.  It’s not a word most people know at the tip of their fingers.



  1. repeat or prolong an action, thought, or utterance after the stimulus that prompted it has ceased.
ORIGIN:  early 20th century: from Latin perseverat- strictly abided by, from the verb perseverare (see persevere) .  Note this word persevere – it’s how we go into survival mode when we have anxiety.
It’s not a pleasant part of anxiety (yes, there are good parts to anxiety).  It’s a part of anxiety we wear on our sleeve – people recognized it and get aggravated by it.  I don’t blame them for getting aggravated when I perseverate.  I’m like a broken record and cannot move on.  I roll things back in my mind over and over and over, thinking, “if I had only said this”, or “if I had only said that”.  Seinfeld has an episode with George perservating on what his comeback reply could have been and spends the whole episode trying to come up with a “good enough” one in his mind.  In the end, his comeback was silly, which goes to show you it doesn’t serve you well. (George and the shrimp store episode). Sometimes I get caught on a memory from years ago that I go over and over in my mind. My poor husband.  (He hears it, over and over and over).
My therapist is the kindest person around, and she helps me to work on coping mechanisms for it.  Mindfulness, mostly, and this little image she had me draw in my calendar that I picture each time my mind is stuck.  And Xanax. Xanax, of course.
Pay it Forward
PS: Where are the paragraphs I formatted?

Back to Therapy

I’ve been to therapy on and off over the years for pretty much the same reason.  Anxiety.  And my personal picture of anxiety has a lot of arms that extend off of it with other maladies attached (depression, chronic migraines, etc.).

If you are an avid blog follower or have read my book, you’ll know that I’ve written “flashbacks” about growing up with two alcoholic parents.  And with this plethora of alcoholic remembrances of mine, I’ve tried to use what I learned in writing classes:  Tragedy + Time = Humor for people to understand just where I’m coming from.  But my therapist said nobody will ever really be able to understand the fear it produced in me personally (and still does).

My last visit to the therapist, who knows me well, has me on a mission – a project.  You may be shocked at this mission.  I am to tell a little white lie.  A lie that will not produce harm to anyone in anyway.  You see, I have a huge hangup about lying.  To the point that I obsess about it.  There are many reasons and ways people lie: pathologically, innocently, bullshitting, by omission, humorously.  I can’t tolerate any of them.  I’m too darned black and white.  A lie is a lie, it’s dishonest.  My parents lived a lie every single day I can remember, by carrying on every evening with their drinks/escapades that sometimes put us in danger and always put me in a panic.  Then in the morning, they pretended as if nothing wrong had happened.  That’s living a big fat old lie.  And I, unfortunately, think it’s my personal mission to right the world of these lying wrongs!  It’s a heavy burden, I’m telling you.  It’s a burden I’m looking forward to shedding.

So over the next two weeks before I see the therapist again, I am to have a little fun with this.  Perhaps while ordering at McDonalds, I could order a vegetarian meal and tell them I don’t eat meat (I do eat meat).  Perhaps I’ll start a conversation with someone and tell them I just got a new puppy (I did not just get a new puppy).  My therapist wants me to see how it feels to lie and to see it doesn’t always have to be righted.  I’m game.  And I’ve been having fun thinking of things I can lie about.

See if you can catch me in my lie.  It’s coming.

liar liar image

Is Today a Good Day?

Who, me?  I’ve never been known to be a positive thinker.  I’d like to be, but I’m just not wired that way.  I wasn’t brought up in an environment that I could think positively.  I’m a “glass is half empty-kind of gal.”

After a mini-breakdown and crying jag last week, one of my friends got me a journal and told me she’s been reading a book that encourages you to write down things that you typically take for granted in life that bring a little smile to your face.  This will hopefully enable you to see the bright side of life vs. the dark side.  (We all know how I live on the dark side.)

So I started my journal on Monday.  It took me until Wednesday until I found something positive to write down:

Wednesday:  Elderly chimney-fix-it man who came to look at my leaky chimney said I was a sweetheart.  In other words, I think he was hitting on me.  That’s thinking positively, right?  I’ll take it.

Friday:  Bristol (a 4-year old) told me she liked my new glasses.  The woman at the gas station said she liked my cape.   The sun is out today.  Sciencegirl got some great results on her analyses today.

And the week before I got my journal:  My lawyerboy son came out and helped me with my caved-in snow-laden shed and recovered my family heirloom toboggan.

I’ll give it a week and see what I come up with.

Lookin’ Good

Today I went into Spa Alexis at the Hyatt for my manicure – whenever I can manage to get my ass out of bed I get a mani.   I have been quietly (well, “quiet” on the blog front) bumping up on my Cymbalta for anxiety/depression.  Somebody suggested to me, “you are not right yet”.  I’m so sick of it. There is a fine line in the milligrams it seems – for me anyway.

Today was one of those ass-out-of bed days.  Alexis (the owner of the spa) or Viper Tongue usually puts my falsies on for me for special occasions.  But as I said in a previous blog, I’ve been watching YouTubes on how to do it myself since my real eyelashes are broken off due to my….well, just being myself and pulling my extensions off when I wanted them off vs. taking them off properly, and now I need to put them on everyday.

As I was getting a manicure, Jen said, “your eyelash just popped off”.   I could feel it.  I couldn’t blink properly anymore.  The lash was hitting my glasses.   wtf?  I knew I didn’t glue that one down very well.  But I got frustrated this morning at application time after having glue stuck to my eyelids, the back of my hands, the countertop, and my forehead so I had quit when I was applying them.  I’m soooo bad at putting those on.   Do NOT tell me those Kardashian girls put their own on each day.  I need a makeup artist.  But I need one, “on call” since I don’t get out of bed most days, so … no requirement for lashes.

I turned to Alexis during my mani with Jen and said, “Look at my freakin’ falsie, it’s half off, half on;  I can feel it, can you fix it for me before I leave?”   Damn I didn’t have my phone for a pic.  She fixed it.

I Want to be Alone

Marty came back in town yesterday.  After a night of him sleeping in one room because of his snoring and me sleeping in another because of my high-decibel night terrors, he found me awake, but all cuddled up in bed watching a movie.  My bed, my safety zone.  The doorbell rang.  I told him not to answer it.

Marty:  Why not?

Me:  I never do.

Marty:  You mean this is an ongoing thing?

Me:  Yes, I can’t be bothered getting out of bed to answer the door.  As far as the doorbell-ringer knows, we’re not home.

Marty: (Shaking his head).  The next time I come home from out of town I’m going to find you living in the woods growing a beard, won’t I?