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.

per·sev·er·ate
pərˈsevəˌrāt/

verb

PSYCHOLOGY
  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
Sarah
PS: Where are the paragraphs I formatted?

FLASHBACK: DAD’S STUPID SOCKS

This is a repost:

Parts where you should giggle shall be in blue.  You may not know that these things are funny to me now; therefore, I feel compelled to point them out to you.

OK, this is a weird blog.  Especially as it’s a “flashback”.  These are particularly difficult to make funny to everyone else.  You all may think they are horrible and miserable and OMGs, but in reality, where I am now, my husband, kids, Goose and her boys all laugh at these type of things.  We have to.  It’s Darwinian.

After writing the blog from yesterday, about Elaine in a dead-end job having to purchase tube socks for her boss that were “just the right height”, it “triggered” a flashback.  Back in the earlier days of my marriage, this would have been a nightmarish trigger; now, it’s ridiculously funny to me.

One day, Dad came home, had his four or so martinis (to start), and picked me for the lucky one to argue with.  The five of us (mom and four kids) would usually duck and cover and hope it wasn’t us, but at the same time, we’d feel sorry for the person who was picked by him.

This particular argument of his with me has to be the most absurd, therefore funny to us all.  I hope you can see the humor in it.  He came home, drank, and confronted me in my bedroom while studying (a lot of good the studying did, I was a B- student all through high school).  He barged (stumbled?)  in my room, I turned around, frightened by the intrusion, and he said, “What did you do for me today?

I was stunned.  “Huh?”  I was 16 or so.  I thought to myself, “Crap, I didn’t do anything for Dad today, was I supposed to? ….I went to school, went to gymnastics practice, went to work for three hours, came home, and now I’m studying; now what do I say?”

So I said, “Nuthin, I was busy at school and work”.

BZZZZZZZTTT…   WRONG ANSWER.  I knew it was, my sarcasm started early.

Dad:  Did you at least pray for me?
Me: …ummm, no.  (Pray for you?  I don’t even like you.  You’re mean.)
Me:….but I didn’t pray for anyone.
Dad:  Did you do anything for anyone but yourself today?
Me:…No, I don’t think so.
Dad:  Well, then I have a chore for YOU.  Get your butt up and go measure my socks.  You should be doing something for me each and everyday.  You should be thankful there’s a roof over your head.
Me:   Measure your socks?  (Remember, I’m 16, sober, he’s a lot older, and drunk)
Dad:  YES.
Me:  How?
Dad:  Go get the GD yardstick and measure my GD socks.  (This is not said in the pleasurable conversation decibel, this is said at rock-star decibel.)
Me:  Measure them for what?  (eyes are now leaking, scared, quivering, as I’ve never learned quite how to measure socks)
Dad:  I don’t want any socks that are too GD short (s-h-r-i-l-l).

Off I went to the kitchen closet where the yardstick was kept.  I measured each and every pair of his stupid socks.  Hating him as I did so.  Can you believe it?  Who would make their kid measure their socks?  I don’t remember what his exact requirement was, but they had to be “not too short”.  That’s AMBIGUOUS for me, you know.  You all remember I don’t “do” ambiguous, right?

But, the funny part is, I KNOW how stupid it was.   And I knew it then.   And still, until this day, when I see a man cross his legs, and I see his bare leg, I know this poor man did not have a daughter who measured his socks for him.  And I have to laugh.  I laugh at my father’s absurd drunken request that I measure his stupid socks.

So the next time you see a bare leg on a man who crosses his legs, will you at least giggle for me?  And I wonder what would have happened if I wasn’t truthful – if I had lied and said, “why, of course, I prayed for you mightily today?”  Probably short socks on men wouldn’t be a trigger for me, nor would yardsticks.

Cheers,
Sarah

P.S.  Please, oh, please, laugh at the absurdity

MY FRIEND’S NEW HAT

Migraining today.  But refusing to let it keep me in bed, I medicated up, put on my Paris Hilton sunglasses and met my lunch mates for lunch.  We always laugh too much at these lunches, which makes my migrained head bounce to and fro in my skull.  But these friends are worth it.  Plus, they are understanding to the headache vs. some of my “friends” who think I’m trying to be noticed, walking around with my sunglasses on.  Maybe my new voodoo doll will work and they will, indeed, get a migraine for just one day.  Stop saying the word “vindictive”, I can hear you.

We were celebrating a belated birthday for Willie, Jen’s is still belated.  I special ordered this new hat for him.  I shot a beaver in my backyard with my new b-b gun, had the pelt sent off to a proper hat maker, and had this done up for him.  He loves it.  But who looks better?  Me, or Willie?  I hemmed and hawed about the real thing vs. the ones my friend Bob Sacamano sells down at Battery Park, because the difference is negligible.  Giddee up.


Cheers,

P. Sarah

FLASHBACK: DAD’S STUPID SOCKS

Parts where you should giggle shall be in blue.  You may not know that these things are funny to me, therefore, I feel compelled to point them out to you.

OK, this is a weird blog.  Especially as it’s a “flashback”.  These are particularly difficult to make funny to everyone else.  You all may think they are horrible and miserable and OMGs, but in reality, where I am now, my husband, kids, Goose and her boys all laugh at these type of things.  We have to.  It’s Darwinian.

After writing the blog from yesterday, about Elaine in a dead-end job having to purchase tube socks for her boss that were “just the right height”, it “triggered” a flashback.  Back in the earlier days of my marriage, this would have been a nightmarish trigger; now, it’s ridiculously funny to me.

One day, Dad came home, had his four or so martinis (to start), and picked me for the lucky one to argue with.  The five of us (mom and four kids) would usually duck and cover and hope it wasn’t us, but at the same time, we’d feel sorry for the person who was picked by him.

This particular argument of his with me has to be the most absurd, therefore funny to us all.  I hope you can see the humor in it.  He came home, drank, and confronted me in my bedroom while studying (a lot of good the studying did, I was a B- student all through high school).  He barged (stumbled?)  in my room, I turned around, frightened by the intrusion, and he said, “What did you do for me today?

I was stunned.  “Huh?”  I was 16 or so.  I thought to myself, “Crap, I didn’t do anything for Dad today, was I supposed to? ….I went to school, went to gymnastics practice, went to work for three hours, came home, and now I’m studying; now what do I say?”

So I said, “Nuthin, I was busy at school and work”.

BZZZZZZZTTT…   WRONG ANSWER.  I knew it was 🙂 (Nobody sassed me then, nor do they now.)

Dad:  Did you at least pray for me?
Me: …ummm, no.  (Pray for you?  I don’t even like you.  You’re mean.)
Me:….but I didn’t pray for anyone.
Dad:  Did you do anything for anyone but yourself today?
Me:…No, I don’t think so.
Dad:  Well, then I have a chore for YOU.  Get your butt up and go measure my socks.  You should be doing something for me each and everyday.  You should be thankful there’s a roof over your head.
Me:   Measure your socks?  (Remember, I’m 16, sober, he’s a lot older, and drunk)
Dad:  YES.
Me:  How?
Dad:  Go get the GD yardstick and measure my GD socks.  (This is not said in the pleasurable conversation decibel, this is said at rock-star decibel.)
Me:  Measure them for what?  (eyes are now leaking, scared, quivering, as I’ve never learned quite how to measure socks)
Dad:  I don’t want any socks that are too GD short (s-h-r-i-l-l).

Off I went to the kitchen closet where the yardstick was kept.  I measured each and every pair of his stupid socks.  Hating him as I did so.  Can you believe it?  Who would make their kid measure their socks?  I don’t remember what his exact requirement was, but they had to be “not too short”.  That’s AMBIGUOUS for me, you know.  You all remember I don’t “do” ambiguous, right?

But, the funny part is, I KNOW how stupid it was.   And I knew it then.   And still, until this day, when I see a man cross his legs, and I see his bare leg, I know this poor man did not have a daughter who measured his socks for him.  And I have to laugh.  I laugh at my father’s absurd drunken request that I measure his stupid socks.

So the next time you see a bare leg on a man who crosses his legs, will you at least giggle for me?

Cheers,
Sarah

P.S.  Please, oh, please, laugh at the absurdity