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?

Vitamin D

Just chewed my two vitamin D chewables which is the highlight of my day as they are sweet and chewy.  Like dessert!   Of course, my next big highlight is taking my Xanax for a good night’s sleep in hopes of not pummeling my husband around 4 am thinking he’s my father, sister, or brothers.  Or anyone who pisses me off during the day.  #nightterrors.

xo

 

 

 

 

THE PERSON NEXT TO YOU….

I was hoping to have a uneventful trip down to NYC.  But the lady next to me kept singing and the pill-popping man in front of me needed medical assistance when we landed.

The two girls next to me were very excited to be going from Buffalo to NYC.  They didn’t seem all that much younger than me, but they sure seemed a lot more immature than me.  The one kept talking (nonstop) about how she wants to go set up a karaoke machine and sing at Bacchaus Wine Bar and Club 31 in Buffalo.  Hmmmmm.  Then she kept giving samples of her singing, saying to her daft friend, “was that good? you’d tell me, right?”

Meanwhile, before we boarded, I was watching this poor man about my age pop little blue pills every 15 minutes or so. His wife kept rubbing his back.  I’ve been there, baby.  I’ve been so afraid to fly before that I popped way too many Xanax and was drooling and stumbling by the time I deplaned!  Nice visual?  I have no idea what those blue pills were but by the time we landed that man needed medical assistance off the plane so we had to wait for the EMTs to guide him off the plane.

No problem, as I was still being entertained by the singing lady who also was preaching the bible vehemently and screwdriver drinking.  Can you say “oxymoron”?  It was only a 50 minute flight.

HOW TO ORDER PIZZA

I ordered “no cheese, but with black olives, pepperoni, and mushrooms.” It came w/ cheese, no olives or pepperoni, or mushrooms.  Check out the proliferous amounts of cheese, and the negligent amount of olives, pepperoni and shrooms.

Just don’t order your pizza from Johnny J’s Pizza in Elma, NY :).  I can only scrape off  wrong orders from them so many times before I look more foolish than my usual foolish self.  I used to think to myself, “what if that was my kid making that pizza and simply had made an inadvertant mistake?  I’d swallow it.  But I’ve seen those kids.  They are not anything like my own innocent kids.  They are kids who don’t give a fiddler’s fart about whether or not they get fired or pink slipped.  Little do they know, the pizza they are tossing together could send someone into anaphalactic shock or a migraine for five days simply from their not giving a rat’s ass and tomfoolery.  Nor worries.  After this happened to me for about the fifth thime, this officious jerk lost her big-girl panties and her patience.  Marty kindly offered to take it back to which I said, no, but thank you; I’ll take it tomorrow and throw it up agains the wall.  He suggested that we both have to start checking our food as soon as it’s in front of us before paying and walking out the door.  (Tim Hortons is the King of screwing up your breakfast burrito w/o cheese that comes laden with cheese, and you don’t realized until after you’re driven five miles past the ever-so-efficient drive-thru.

So I moved on to acceptance (who, me? – never) and decided to make myself popcorn for dinner.  Voila.  This pic below are the popcorn kernals on the floor before making it in to my beloved popcorn pot.

OK, so what if  my dinner ended up being Xanax?

I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO’S ANGRY

HEADACHE LEVEL:  0 (“yay” is an understatement)

EFFEXOR LEVEL: 37 mg (still dwindling down)

PERIMENOPAUSE LEVEL: 3 (Marty’s lucky day)

All levels are on a scale of 1-10, 10 being the worst.

If you read my post yesterday about my anger issues which I blame on being pre-menopausal, peri-menopausal, or para-menopausal, you will see that I have a few new BFFs below:

And when the first one talks about a “gas experience”, she is speaking about my incident at the gas station, not an experience with flatulence, though I have those, too.

As a fellow “paramenopausal”, I say DO NOT manage the anger.  It is my firm belief that we owe it to the world to let them know how badly they all suck.  We owe it to ourselves to let out the ugliness inside.  I am in an angry mood and had a similiar gas experience this morning.  However as I was leaving my spot, I opened the window and told the idiot parked in the double lane what a great parking job…. probably should have been nicer to that elderly lady who really had no idea what I was talking about. Oh well I am in a bad mood and she should understand as she probably was once menopausal and angry.

I thought that was pretty damn funny.  In fact, I laughed out loud for the first time in days.  Then I got this reply as well:

My husband told me that since I have gone through menopause, it is like I have continuous PMS that never goes away.

To which I said:  What? You mean this will never go away?  Oy vey.

Yes, I’m reading my book about “anger”.  Is there a magic bullet to erase my Calvinistic perfectionism?  In the olden days that magic bullet was Milton, then Valium, now Xanax.  Oh how I wish I could live 24/7 on Xanax.

Love,

Little Miss Sunshine

MORMONS, TSA, AND XANAX

I was in the shuttle to take me back to the airport Thursday.  I was sharing it with two men who made me and the driver sit outside their hotel and wait for them for ten – 15 minutes.  I was ready on time, why couldn’t they be.  Don’t they know I have less and less anti-anxiety meds in me and everything is massive to me?  MASSIVE.  As in blown-out-of-realistic proportions.

When they got in the van, the one fellow apologized saying they were eating breakfast.  Hmpf.  It was 10:40, maybe they shoulda gotten up a little earlier.

I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.  They were Mormons at a convention that had just finished up.  They were discussing “John’s” marriage.  At their ripe age of, oh I’d say, 28, they had pronounced John’s marriage in a state of apathy and one of the biggest signs was the fact that John and his wife had not had sex in seven years.  Ha!  To be so young and to show their puffed up ignorance.   They decided they didn’t think John (couldn’t figure out how old he was) was really ready to take on this huge commitment of some sort that I couldn’t figure out.  These two young guys being judge and jury.  I wanted to turn around and smack them both and say, Cher style, “SNAP OUT OF IT’.  Dumbasses.

By now I was so worked up about being late for the airport, when the good ole’ Mayberry TSA overofficious jerk in his polyester suit (I wrote about before) got in my face, I lost it.    He was a loud talker, a close talker, and using an accusatory tone (to everyone).  As I started my security strip routine to put things in my bins, he started looking for things to yell at me about.  He refused to believe I had no liquids or gels (I travel with just about nothing when I go back and forth to our place in Georgia as I have things there.)  I burst into tears and started shaking and told him that I knew how to do the security check and that he had to get out of my face.   He just stood there looking at me , shaking and crying.  He couldn’t stop his overofficiousness, however, and said to me, “Good Answer”.  ????  (To my not having any lotions or gels, I guess.)

Image by Salon.com

The worst/best part came when a nice old British lady came up to my heaving shoulders where I sat trying to regain my composure afterwards and said, “Honey, that security man over there has your watch.”  NOOOOOOOOOO.  I told her I was so upset I wasn’t going to go get it from him.   He could have it.  He knew exactly where I was sitting (there is only one plane at this airport at a time.)   She said, “Would you like me to go and have a word with him?”  A kindred soul, no?

I wanted to ask her for a hug, not my watch.  I wanted to ask her to come home with me and tuck me into bed.  Hell, let’s be true, I wanted to ask her if she had any Xanax on her since I was running so dangerously low I was afraid to take my last one until I really needed it.

Love,

Little Miss Sunshine

FRANKENSTEIN PART II

I needed to get the other side of my cervical epidural done.  See this blog for reference.  This one didn’t go as well.  I’m still in the rigor-mortis position six hours later, but not because I am freaked out like last time,  but because it hurts like hell this time!  So since I love empathy, please bring it on.

As I write this, I cannot sleep despite all the extra Xanax I kept taking in wait of the surgeon to be ready for me, starting at 2 pm. The last time  it was just plain freaky/gross, hearing the needles playing around in there with my arthritic neck.  So the doctor suggested I bring along my Xanax.  So Xanax I brought and took, and took, and took, as I waited and waited and waited.

Marty, my night in shining armour (where’d that come from?) told them,”if she waits on a gurney back there like she’s been waiting here for over three hours, I’m going back to get her and we’re leaving.” Bam.  I was taken straight in, very unmuch last time.  Sometimes helps to have a man around. Here’s a little help for the empathy part:

AFTER PROECEDURES - XANAXED

LOVE,

LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE

BEFORE PROCEDURE - FREEZING WITH TWO COATS OVER ME