Tuesday, May 22, 2018

A story of sea salt and yoga. Kind of.

This morning, as I was vacuuming sea salt off of the yoga mat in my bedroom, I had a moment to pause and marvel at what-the-actual-fuck brought me to this place of vacuuming sea salt off of a yoga mat as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

I graduated from my first yoga teacher training class (230 hours!) in April and, for mother’s day, I picked out a $100 yoga mat on amazon as my reward/mother’s day present. Seeing as I have no fewer than 10 yoga mats scattered in and around my house – not to mention the dozen or so others that I have bought and distributed out to the world – my husband would have had ample reason to question the necessity of my purchase. But, like any smart man, he learned long ago that questioning such craziness doesn’t usually result in an answer that changes the end result anyway. Fortunately, none of the other mats I had purchased over the years cost me more than $20-$30. This was to be my first “good” yoga mat. 230 (life changing) hours and a certificate of completion deserved a “good” yoga mat, in my mind.

Husband, as he’s preparing to hit purchase on the amazon cart: “Why do you have to treat the mat with sea salt before you use it?”

Me: “…what now?”

H: “Yeah, there’s a video and everything. Didn’t you look at this before you picked it out?”

M: “Well, yes, of course, but my looking was more about what color I wanted.”

H: “Are you sure this is the one you want?”

M: “Yeah, I’ll figure it out, whatever.”

Sure enough, it arrived, and the instructions for use – which, as an aside, no $20-$30 yoga mat I’ve ever purchased has come with instructions. Just saying. – started with allowing the mat to lie flat and covered with sea salt for 24 hours. More specifically, allowed to lie covered in sea salt and exposed to sunlight, during those 24 hours.

Well, like most things in yoga, there was no real explanation as to why my mat required sea salt and sun. But, like my husband, I have also learned to not question these things. I mean, why all the crazy poses? Who can even bend like that? Why am I in bare feet? How does sitting in silence and breathing help anything? I DON’T KNOW. But I’ve learned that it just does. So I laid my mat out and salted that bad boy like I was the salt bae.

(you all know this guy, right?)

Then it rained. For a week straight.

I mean, my mat was inside, so it’s not like I left it out in a deluge, but there was no sun. Like, none. For a full week. So, I left my mat sitting out – in my bedroom, right next to the windows – waiting for the sun to make it’s reappearance, covered in salt. I wondered idly if the cat would have it licked clean before the sun got to it, but he respectfully left the mat alone. Given his affinity for clawing at our couches and batting anything smaller than him around as a plaything, I attributed his newfound respect to the magic of the mat combined with the sea salt. Clearly there was something to these instructions.

Finally, the sun arrived, and this morning, I found myself wondering how to clean sea salt off of a yoga mat. The vacuum worked well enough and I followed that by cleaning it with organic yoga mat cleaner (hand to god: it’s the only organic anything in our house) and a rag. The mat is now ready for use. But, so far, the only use it’s gotten is the cat checking it out. Because I had to sit down and write about how vacuuming sea salt off of a yoga mat had somehow become completely normalized for me.

As I type, this smug bastard is clawing up the couch in the other room

Life is weird like that sometimes.

Honestly, my whole journey with yoga has been much like the mat and the sea salt: I didn’t know exactly why I was doing it, but it seemed like the right thing to do, so I followed the instructions. And, really, it both saved and destroyed me (and then saved me again, for good measure). My journey with yoga, that is, not the mat. Although the mat is pretty cool. The color just feels right to me. And I’m sure the sea salt has now imbued it with magic that I can’t even begin to understand.

With that, I think it’s time to get on my mat. More to come on this yoga stuff though. There’s so much more to tell.


This post was written while listening to the Spotify Acoustic Covers playlist, where songs like Wicked Game and Hotline Bling can coexist in harmony. Somehow.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

I'm trying to think of a clever title. I got nothin'.

It's been almost two months since I've written anything here but I have a very good reason for it: I've been slowly and methodically losing my god. damn. mind. 

Since the two year clinical trial I was in was wrapping up this summer, my husband and I decided that if we were ever going to have a second child? this was the time to try. I mean, I'm not getting any younger and I'm certainly not getting any healthier. And maybe most importantly - for me anyway - Callie really wants a sibling. Even if there will be a large age difference. I mean, she's gonna grow up with a crazy momma. She at least deserves to have someone to commiserate with.

So, in order to even consider any of this, I had to get off of ALL of the medication I've been taking. Most notably, the psychoactive meds that have been keeping me somewhat sane the last 3+ years. And that? has proven much harder than I ever imagined. 

I've been white-knuckling my way through it, but it sucks. Everything in me just wants to scream white-hot rage at everything else.  And I don't think it's fair to put everything and everyone in the world on blast just because I'm broken. 

But I really *really* want to. 

So, instead, I find myself building walls and reinforcing old, well-established walls. Not only to protect myself but to protect others who really shouldn't have to put up with my shit. 

"Oh, but we love you and we want to support you and it's okay because we know it's hard...."


If you can say that, you obviously haven't yet been run over by the out-of-control trainwreck that is me. I am destructive, people. Give me something good and pretty, and I will crush it. Not usually on purpose, but, meh, it happens. Some people are water signs, earth, air, whatever. I'm TNT. I blow. shit. up. 

It has just been particularly difficult recently. I'm almost off all of my meds completely and everything in my body is screaming for the serotonin it seems incapable of producing itself. My anxiety is at an all-time high, I'm crying on a daily basis, my jaw is so screwed up from - what? clenching my teeth? I don't even know - that half the time I can't bite down anymore, I can't sleep, and when I do my dreams make me regret it. I'm in withdrawal from the meds and I know someof that will pass, but some of it won't.

And even as hard as it's been to ween off of these meds? I want more than ANYTHING for this next year to pass as quickly as possible so I can just go back on whatever-the-fuck-it-takes to keep me from losing my mind completely. 

I'm amazed at how much *better* I was actually feeling before. Even for my bad days, it was so much better than now.

So much better. 

Friday, June 15, 2012

I should come with a warning label.

This is the time of year that I love/hate. For FB purposes only - otherwise the summer kinda rocks. What, with the extra days off and ample chances to get drunk outside. I'm not such a fan of the humidity, but that's a whole different gripe. 

No, my ongoing frienemy status with this time of year has more to do with my former students. They've graduated. They are no longer my students. I welcome them to my FB world. 

Then the waiting game begins. 

You see, I spend every waking moment at work being as professional as I can manage. We all know this isn't as professional as most, but it's clearly not vodka-at-11am, vaguely raunchy/suggestive blunt cards, and fucking-cock-shit-balls kind of language. And, well, my FB is. 

The problem is, my FB is my real life. Not that FB *is* real life, but my posts truly are my thoughts and anything that amuses me? gets posted. I'm kinda easily amused. So I post a lot. It's my outlet to offset all the times I do have to pretend to be grown up. Trouble is, these former-students often think I *am* grown up. 

They are grossly mistaken. 

What happens when they land on my page? Well, I rarely know, actually. I think, for some - well, probably most - it's a shock, to say the least, that their adult-school-counterparts are 1. real people and 2. sometimes vulgar. Okay, a lot of times vulgar. For me, at least.  

But today I got this message, from a former student: "Mrs. Witzel, uhhh, I gotta say that from a guidance counselor the statuses I've seen are pretty damn funny. I'm glad I friended you."

Now, I'm pretty sure I can take this as confirmation of a few things: 

1. I am the most awesome guidance counselor ever. 

2. At least some of my statuses wouldn't actually be as funny if I *wasn't* pretending to be a grown up in my waking/working hours. I can live with this. 

3. It's okay to let your former students see that you're a real person. Some of them may even like you all the better for it. 

However, I do understand that not everyone will. But, that's real life. You're not going to like everyone, y'all. And if someone doesn't like who I am in "real life" (ie. my uncensored, vodka-swilling, self) then they should unfriend me ASAP. Like, seriously. In fact, maybe I should put that as a disclaimer somewhere because really? I wouldn't take offense. I'd actually totally understand. 

See how I just turned that into a muthafuckin life lesson? 

Best. counselor. EVER.  

(and I'll drink to that.)

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Note to self: trust me on this one.

Dear Teenage-Me,

I know what it's like. All the negative self-talk? It's a lot of noise and it's distracting and it's consuming and, worst of all, it's all lies.

Let me clarify: I am you. And I wish I could explain in a way that you would truly hear me. But I know all that negative self-talk is loud. Louder than I can be from 20 years in the future. So instead, let me at least add my commentary?

"I need to be skinny because...."

Let me stop you right there. You don't NEED to be anything other than YOU. And who you are? Has nothing to do with how you look. Period.

".... I want people to like me."

If someone likes or dislikes you based on your size, shape, height, weight, hair color, skin color, etc, what concern is it of yours? You don't need people to validate your worth by validating your appearance. You? are awesome. And all that awesomeness? has NOTHING to do with what size you are.

Don't judge people for how they look and don't tolerate others that do.

You're better than that.

And better than worrying about what others think of you, okay?

".... I want a guy to fall in love with me."

Really? If that's the reason someone falls in love with you then they will fall OUT of love with you just as quickly. Because that isn't love. You don't judge people by the way they look - remember? We totally just covered that. Why would you want someone who does to "love" you? Those people? are ugly on the inside. And that kind of ugly rarely changes.

".... I want to stop calling myself fat."

Then stop. No, really, STOP. NOW. It's that simple. You're calling yourself that because - in your mind - it's the absolute WORST thing a girl could be. And you think you ARE that. You're letting a three letter word define who you think you are. And worse than that? You're perpetuating the idea that fat = bad, fat = ugly, fat = worthless, fat = not good enough. And you are WRONG.

".... I want to be someone's idea of perfect."

First of all, you already are. But I'll give you a pass on not understanding that until you've had a child of your own. How about just embracing yourself as the perfect YOU? No one else is exactly quite like you. You bring a light and beauty to this world that no one else will ever duplicate.

".... I don't want to be the fat-friend anymore."

Then don't be! Be the friend with the gorgeous eyes or fabulous hair or awesome-fashion-sense. Be the friend with the smile that lights up a room. Be the friend who people come to for advice. Be the friend who loves life. Be the friend that people can trust. Be the friend whose inner light shines. Be the friend who knows her worth. Be the friend who reminds her friends of *their* worth.

Just be yourself. And don't be defined by a size.

".... I want my stomach to be flat, I want my hipbones to poke out, and I want my thighs not to touch."

Who looks like that?! Even people who "look like that"? Don't look like that. Seriously. Go look. Don't buy the hype. (You're smarter than that, too.)

".... I want to think positive things when people are looking at me."

Chances are? The only person thinking negative things about you, is you. Most of the time? People are too busy with their own negative self-talk to worry about someone else. Everyone has their own issues and insecurities. Everyone. I promise. We're all walking through this world praying to go unnoticed and be noticed, at the same time.

It's complicated.

".... I want to be able to tell myself I'm beautiful and believe it."


You silly girl.

You young, vibrant, beautiful, gorgeous, silly girl.

You ARE beautiful. But that has very little to do with your size. Youth fades. Physical beauty? That fades too. Being "skinny"? Christ, that can disappear at any moment, regardless of your age.

But all of that is dynamic. It changes. It comes, it goes, it may never return.

Embrace your inner beauty. Let your inner light shine. Believe in your beauty. BELIEVE in yourself.

Silly girl. Someday you'll look back at the radiant beauty you are now and wish you could give that girl-you-were a hug and whisper in her ear: "you are good enough, you are beautiful, and you are loved."

Trust me.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Fuck. this. shit.

I started crying in the hallway of school today - fortunately between periods and I managed to make myself look preoccupied when kids did come wandering by (what's that hanging on the wall? oh yes, incredibly fascinating...). I left my office because I had already hit the point where being-alone-with-whatever-song-might-come-on-Pandora-next was the emotional equivalent of russian roulette. So I got up to walk around. And there I was, tears streaming, right in the hallway.

The HALLWAY, people. 

Of a high school. 

Full of teenagers.

(yep, never a dull moment) 

I'm weening off some of my meds and I'm tackling my anti-anxiety med first. Why? Meh, it seemed like the best (and safest) one to start with. Also, coincidentally, it's the worst one for me to be on long term. I'm down to half my regular daily dose. 

First came the return of the twitches. Little spams, or tics, in the muscles of my arms, legs, and torso. Basically anywhere is fair game, but it's the larger muscles that do it. Enough to make me visibly jerk. It's embarrassing and annoying at times but manageable. Livable. However, that's far from the worst of it. 

My startle reaction is also in high gear. Totally out if control. Meaning, any loud sound or unexpected stimulus makes me jump. Like, literally jump in surprise. I look like a spaz. (hey, there's a word you don't see enough: spaz. Apparently it's 1992. You know, in my head.)

For me, anxiety doesn't manifest in panic attacks. Not usually anyway. It's this constantly tensed state. Like my fight-or-flight reaction got stuck in the "on" position. But that constant state of "whatthefuckisgoingon" is incredibly draining. Like, insanely so. And instead of that energy ramping up into a panic attack, it usually results in crying.

Why crying? Seriously, beats the hell out of me. 

I'm not a cryer. I really dislike it actually. Not because I'm all, "I'm too tough to cry" but just because I'm not a cryer. I'm not overly emotional to begin with. It's just not me. But anxiety? Anxiety apparently likes to cry. And if I try to stop it? That's when the panic attack sets in. My breathing constricts, my heart races, and I basically feel like I will pass out. 

It's FUN. 

In the hallway...... *sigh*

Seriously? I don't have the energy for this shit. 

Sunday, April 29, 2012

It's a Sunday night. I really don't have anything good to say.

Things I hate right now:

Disappointment. I can't decide if it's because I expect too much or simply because I'm not jaded enough to expect the worst, but I am rather tired of feeling this way. Hope is dangerous like that. It lies. 

Money. Because I'm fucking broke. And I've never placed the proper value on it, really. I mean, not the value others would have me place on it. It's just not important to me. Unfortunately, the debt collectors don't feel the same way. Bastards. 

Twitches. I'm trying to get myself on a lower daily dose of Xanax, as I may have to ween off it altogether soon. Aside from the increased anxiety - which, for me, has always equated to crying - I'm twitching more again. It's like I have MS with a side of tourettes. HATE. 

Things I love right now:

Friends. A friend was here Friday night and we talked until 4am. Alcohol wasn't even involved. We just hadn't seen each other in awhile and apparently there was a lot to cover. I didn't even mind missing the sleep - which is really saying something. I may not see him again for many many months, if at all. That should be a part of the first list. 

Other friends. I have two friends who text me on a regular basis and I'm quite sure I have actually just created them both in my head. They are my Tyler Durden. Most people don't even answer the texts I send - let alone text me first - so, again, I may be creating them. But they do humor me so. As I do myself. Which actually doesn't help refute my beliefs here. 

Alcohol, wine, chocolate, and anything salty. Because it's that time of the month. And either I embrace being fat or I kill people. I've chosen the former. You're welcome. 

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Bitches be CRAZY.

It’s 40 minutes into detention duty, I brought a book and actual work down with me, but all I have managed to do is hold various text/email conversations and play 15 games of Words With Friends. Welcome to the productivity that shapes my life.    

Spurred on by the content of two of my conversations, though, I have come to a conclusion: Women don’t like me. I’d say it’s that *all* women don’t like me but that’s not entirely true either. Crazy bitches don’t like me, and since most women are crazy bitches, it’s clearly just the vast *majority* of women that don’t like me.    

(I can say this because I am a woman and I am legit crazy, so, yeah, there ya go.)  

((No offense intended to the other crazy bitches out there who may be reading this and are now totally agreeing with my assessment – I am infinitely unlikeable to the female population, I know.))  

This truth was pointed out to me by a male friend after I was telling him about a recent blow out with two female coworkers. He pointed out that this wasn’t the first time that I’ve dealt with similar issues and he was completely right. The best I can figure is that I simply don’t get along well with women. (although I’m not totally discounting his theory: “I’m telling you, it’s the boobs” (they are kinda powerful and stuff, but I’m still not 100% sold.))  

And it’s not that I actively look to NOT get along with other women, but it's that I don't actively look TO get along either. I'm not terribly girlie. Even in high school, all my friends were guys. Except for my one close female friend, who was known to befriend (and even date, with unfortunate results) strictly gay men. (although she was in theater so the pickings were slim to begin with) However, this brings me to my second conclusion: the women I do get along with are generally the women that other women don't like as well. But, gay guys? LOVE them. And they love them right back. As do I. (love me some gay men.) 

These conclusions, which are hardly earth-shattering, have only further cemented my new-found belief: My "inner girl"? is really just a gay boy in drag. It explains SO much and the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. 

Point 1: women don't like me - I'm not girlie enough to even care. 

Point 2: women who love gay men, love me - because my inner girl is a GAY BOY. 

Point 3: I can rock stiletto heels and fake eye lashes like no one's business. Obviously. 

Point 4: man-hating lesbians do not like me - because my inner girl is a GAY BOY. (gay, but a boy nonetheless) However, lesbians who still like men (just not *like* like them, because then they would simply be straight women who don't like me) do like me. (that's a complicated one, I know, but it still holds true.)

Point 5: I love gay men. I really do. Because - yes, you guessed it! -  my inner girl is a GAY BOY. I also just love men in general. Mostly because they don't give me the trouble that women have. Throughout my whole. goddamn. life. 

Now, when it comes to teenage girls, I have to say - this doesn't hold true. Most of my female students still love me. All I can guess is that their inner bitch is still maturing. They'll get there. And, in the meantime, they love me. And the more problems they have? The more they love me. I am the flame to messed-up-girl-drama-moths. 

Disclaimer: this blog has potential to offend, well, everyone. Except maybe straight men. (men are such pigs (there: equality for all))

Post-Disclaimer Disclaimer: that probably should have been posted at the beginning of this post. And, since it wasn't, I will simply just apologize en masse. I'm sorry if anyone's panties are in a bunch. But frankly? not as much as I probably should be.

Monday, April 9, 2012

Judgment vs. Judgement (or, "How I Spent My Spring Break")

Preface: it should be noted that I use the term "spring break" very loosely here. In that, when I think "spring break"? I think hot coeds getting drunk and stupid on some beach in Florida or Mexico, whereas my "spring break" was nothing more than a long weekend that was topped off by getting peed on by a cat. Totally different. But, I'm getting ahead of myself....

My long weekend began with finding Ghetto Dawg unable to walk, stand, or not try to bite my face off every time I cane near her. I called the vet and they fit me in right away - getting her into the car was another matter altogether. After dressing myself in a thick coat, Chris' work gloves, and throwing a beach towel over P-dizzy's head, I hauled her whole 25 pound furry body to the car as if I was carrying a whining yelping bomb with teeth.

It was awesome.

When we got there, she continued to try to eat the faces of everyone present, which was lovely as well. In addition to the Xanax I had slipped her (from my own personal collection, thankyouverymuch) before we came in, they gave her a shot in the ass to sedate her. And then still had to muzzle her because she *still* wanted to eat their faces.

Hannibal Lector Dawg is not amused.
Cut to many hours later, and the vet thinks she has something called "Beagle Pain Syndrome" which is roughly akin to doggie-meningitis, has the symptomology of MS, and has nothing to do with her NOT being a beagle.

Yep, you read it right. Princess-Ghetto-Hannibal-Lector-Dawg, for all intents and purposes, has doggie MS. Of course that wasn't the vets official prognosis, but it's mine. And of COURSE she's my dawg. We were meant for one another. I just can't bite people's faces off. Though I wish I could.

Later that night, I went to see Alex at Grace for a small new tattoo. It took me 30 mins to get into downtown Phoenixville (because apparently it's the cool new place for hipsters and wanna-be-hipsters to be seen (please note: I'm not even entirely sure what a hipster is, but it seems right)) and only 20 minutes for the set-up and tat to be done.
(it's a mantra and a personal reminder)
The tattoo itself led to an interesting discussion (and follow-up Google search) on the proper spelling of "judgment". Many long web-pages short, either "judgment" or "judgement" is considered acceptable, but the sans "e" spelling is considered correct and preferred everywhere except in Britain and Australia. So, as long my life-long trend of being hopelessly not-well-traveled continues, I should be good.

The next two days were uneventful, spent with family, eating way too much, and only about 65% of my time was spent in my pjs, which is about 27% short of what my preferred goal would be. Meh, you win some, you spend some time actually bathed and clothed.

Cut to today, the last day of my totally righteous and awesome "spring break" when I awoke early for a doctor's appointment only to find that my million-year-old, dying-slowly-from-what-I-have-diagnosed-as-kidney-failure (didn't we establish by now that I'm a vet? keep up, people) cat had slept on me, peed all over herself - in her sleep - thus peeing all over my covers and, yes, all over me.

Let me tell you - in case you've never had the pleasure - waking up at 6am with your boobs smelling like cat urine is as much confusing as it is completely unsettling. I'll leave it at that.

And other than my doctor explaining that I've had a significant weight gain over the last two years (no shit, you mean my clothes aren't shrinking? do you suppose it has something to do with the fact that I'm taking more drugs and hormones than a dairy cow?) and him asking "do you exercise regularly?" (answer: is working to keep my sanity considered exercise? because it totally should be), it was a fun visit. I followed up by making an appointment with my OB-GYN (because I need a second opinion on his whole you-must-quit-all-psychoactive-drugs-if-you-want-to-have-a-baby stance (which was slightly overshadowed by his Dr. Obvious announcement that I was fat (and by the possibility of waking up 4 months pregnant and finding you're so depressed that you want to drive your car off an overpass and that can't possibly be considered safe for a baby either)) for later this month and an appointment with my neurologist next month, because why should they be left out of the "wow-Jamie-you've-gotten-HUGE" fun.

(and if that last paragraph isn't proof positive that I need to be medicated I don't know what is.)

P.S? I've never been on a real "spring break", even in college. I'm thinking by the time I can afford to go hit a beach with a bunch of drunk coeds for a week, it will be more like "Geriatrics Gone Wild". (I'm gonna own that (wrinkled and sagging) shit.)

P.P.S? Callie made this today at pre-school. It's a rocket ship. (and that's all I'm saying about that.)

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Move along, nothing to see here.....

Wow. It’s the end of March and this is only the second blog I’ve written in 2012. And, as I look back over the last few entries (sporadic and grossly spaced as they were) I realize they’ve all been about MS in some way. And none of them have been all, “Goooooooooo Team MS!”

I’m such a whiney bitch. Even I get sick of me.

(get it? “sick of me”? autoimmune disease?? Ha, brain-hole humor.)

((only I find me funny.))

I wish I had something awesome to blog about. Instead, it’s 2:29 and I’m hiding in my office until 3:00 so I can go home and hide there. Today started out with me yelling about everything little thing that needed no yelling about, making snarky comments in a meeting to no end, and generally bitching about everything to cross my path. Cue the unexpected-but-I-totally-should-have-seen-it-coming crying fit and you understand why I’m hiding.

Seriously, no one needs to see me like that. All, runny mascara and red eyes….. ew. Not fabulous.

So, back in November, I did this presentation for the high school here. Save for the kids that were absent that day, the vast majority of the people here know I have MS. As I mentioned before - it’s much easier telling a few hundred people at a time that I’m ill than those one-on-one conversations where people don’t know whether to feel sorry for me or ask questions or just run away. Just sit there and let me talk at you, en masse, for 20 minutes or so, and you’ll get the idea. Much easier for all involved, including me.

However, this time, I took my MS message and tried to use it for good. If I was going to drop the MS bomb on 1200+ people, might as well try to make something out of the shrapnel. (is that the word I’m looking for? “shrapnel”? I feel all foggy today. It just doesn’t seem right. There’re no red lines under it, so at least it’s spelled right, but please forgive me if the context is wrong. I’m too lazy to thesaurus that shit. (and btw? I totally spelled thesaurus right. *self high five*))

Watch the video and you’ll get the point. We’re all dealing with something. My something is MS. And depression. And hiding in offices. Oh, and drinking wine, but that’ll come later tonight.

If I have the energy.

(who am I kidding? They make straws for that shit.)

I’ll try to come up with something fun to blog about soon. Or, you know, I’ll try to come up with a better combination of meds. Pinky-swear.

Monday, January 16, 2012

I miss me. (and my size 8 jeans)

"You don't seem like your normal happy self."

Well, no shit.

Actually, I don't usually think of myself as either normal or happy, let alone both. But I guess the difference is that I haven't been wearing that mask of normalcy very well or consistently recently. It's just so damn exhausting. And unless you have to put on mental and emotional preparations everyday much like the average person gets dressed or does their hair and make-up, then you probably don't understand the energy that that preparation requires.

Good for you. Really.

But on the days that I can't even be bothered by showering let alone getting dressed or doing my hair, what makes you think I have the energy to mentally redress myself?

I actually rather miss myself.  

I don't even know, anymore, if I miss the real me or simply miss the ease at which I could wear my mask of normalcy, but either way - I miss it. I miss being snarky and witty and irreverent and intellectual and even occasionally charming. I miss me. This moody and depressed and insecure and pissed-off person really doesn't sit well on my psyche. Like most of my clothes these days - it just doesn't fit.

(but please don't get me started on the clothes not fitting thing - I can't even get my mind around the shear circumference of my body right now)

I find myself in a constant push and pull as I try to figure out where I stand - with myself, mostly, but others as well. Medication changes are always hard too. You can't have as many meds flowing through you as I do and change them without expecting to have some moments of readjustment and loss of equilibrium. Some days I think things are improving. Some days I feel very disconnected. And some days I am just worried and scared that I'll never be able to find the right combination to keep me stable.

I meant to write this as some sort of update to the last entry but I really don't have an update to offer. Like I said, some times I think things are better, some days I don't. So I guess I'm just still existing.... and waiting to see where that goes.

Interestingly though, to me anyway, I gained a bit of reflective insight recently. (Not that it has managed to effect any change but it was still an interesting insight.) I was talking to a student recently about cutting. I've never been a cutter myself though there was a time in ninth grade when I thought it would be a good idea to scrape a large area of skin off my arm with a house key.

(Cause yeah, that made sense.)

Cutting doesn't make sense. Not to the cutter or the people around them, but the behavior persists. You see, sometimes the noise and the agitation gets so great - inside your head - that you can't silence or calm the chaos. In an attempt to focus the noise - to scream louder than the screaming in your head - you take that energy and turn it on yourself.

That? I do understand. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I tend towards self-destruction. I'm not suicidal - and most cutters are not either, in case you were curious - but I do tend towards self-destruction. I want to blow things up. I want to scream louder than the screaming in my head. But that rarely manifests in clear cut (pun unintended) self harm. Instead, I over eat. I binge eat, even. I drink too much - not even for the buzz, so much, cause that's hard to come by most days - but mostly because of the volume.

Yeah, I don't really understand it either.

I mean, I do understand it, but it doesn't make sense. It's not any healthier than cutting. But the mechanism is surprisingly similar. In addition, there's the "benefit" of the weight gain. (sidenote: some psychologist somewhere at some point decided that fat people are fat because they find some sort of benefit in being fat - otherwise they'd be thin. Not so much; I'd like to argue that sometimes the benefit is in the action, not the outcome.) Anyway, there is a part of me though - and likely always will be - that doesn't believe that I deserve to be thin. So maybe there is benefit in there somewhere.

It supports my warped self-conceptions and my need to live down to my expectations of never being good enough.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.  We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?'  Actually, who are you not to be?  Your playing small does not serve the world.  There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.  We are all meant to shine.  It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone.  And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.  As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."  ~Marianne Williamson

I'm not afraid that I'm inadequate. Part of me will always believe myself to be inadequate. I'm afraid that that part of me is wrong. And how do I reconcile that with the screaming?