Prozac

I have made and canceled countless doctor’s appointments, but today, I FUCKING MADE IT.

I can check a physical, pap smear (ick), STD testing, and thyroid testing off my never-ending to-do list.

I brought up my anxiety and all the shitty thing that go with it, like the constant jaw clenching (and subsequent pain) and horrendous sweating. Seriously, I have tried every damn clinical strength deodorant there is and I still constantly look like I ran a fucking marathon after doing exactly nothing. It’s fucking disgusting.

I got bloodwork done to check my thyroid just in case, but she diagnosed me with an anxiety disorder (duh) and prescribed me Fluoxetine – a generic version of Prozac, which should help with the depression, anxiety, and panic attacks all in one handy little pill. She started me on a low dose with a gradual increase to the full dose. I have a follow-up appointment with her in a month and she gave me a referral to a shrink for therapy. Now I just have to call and make a therapy appointment and actually go to it.

Triggers

I’m sitting at my desk, The Spill Canvas is playing on the Google Home speaker behind my laptop.

As I’m mindlessly scrolling through Facebook, I stop on a Portlandia skit about organic chickens. The video auto-plays, but the sound is off.

All of a sudden, I can’t hear the music anymore. It’s still playing, but my heart rate is louder and it’s all I can hear.

“What the fuck?” I think to myself. “There were no triggers. None. What the fuck. Oh fuck. This is a heart attack, not a panic attack. It can’t be a panic attack if there are no triggers. I’m having a goddamn heart attack.”

By now my head is throbbing and I’m sure I’m about to die at my desk.

“Fucking stop it.” I tell myself. “Stop being a little bitch. YOU’RE FINE.”

Still alive. Still very much an anxious fucking mess. And now apparently there doesn’t have to be a trigger I can identify to cause a fucking panic attack.

Fucking fantastic.

A Letter To My Narcissistic Mother

A Letter to my Narcissistic MotherDear Egg Donor,

Thank you.

Thanks for the anxiety.

Thanks for the depression.

Thanks for the self-loathing.

Thanks for making me question everyone’s motives.

Thanks for refusing to tell me who my father is.

Thanks for not believing me when I was in second grade and told you the man at my daycare was molesting me every day.

Thanks for treating me so shittily that I moved out of your house and into a physically abusive boyfriend’s house when I was 16 years old because the physical abuse he put me through was easier to deal with than the emotional abuse you put me through.

Thanks for following me across the country to humiliate me in front of my colleagues at a conference and scream at me that my marital issues are all my fault.

Thanks for cutting me out of your life when I asked for an apology.

Oh wait, those thank you’s were supposed to be fuck you’s. Except the last one. Seriously, thanks for cutting me out of your life. You don’t deserve to be in mine.

FUCK YOU.

Leash Your Fucking Dog!

When I first adopted my dog, she loved everyone and everything, including people and dogs.

Then she got attacked by another dog.

Now, she doesn’t trust other dogs at all. (Can you blame her?!) I’ve spent the last several years working with trainers and behaviorists to get her comfortable enough to not growl and snap at other dogs in preemptive self-defense, but her trust in other dogs is forever broken. (Kind of like my trust in men. Gone.)

This morning, while we were going for a walk, out of nowhere, a little dog ran from it’s owner across the street and charged my leashed dog right in the face, snarling, growling, and snapping at her.

I had to pick up my sixty-pound dog to protect her and the little asshole accosting her. Do you have any idea how hard it is to lift a terrified sixty-pound dog in a millisecond while having a panic attack?

How hard is it to use a fucking leash in an area where leashes are required by law?

LEASH YOUR FUCKING DOG!

FUCK!!!

More Yelling

Today was overwhelming as fuck.

STBXH had agreed to continue helping me at work for a few hours each Saturday until the end of the year, which would have made today his last day.

On the way to work this morning, he was driving my car. He was coming up to an intersection where we had to make a right, but he didn’t signal. There was a car coming the other way waiting to turn left, assuming we were going straight because STBXH hadn’t signaled.

“Can you please signal so they don’t wait for no reason?”

THUD. He clipped the curb hard turning right and didn’t respond.

“Can you please pull over so we can check the tire?”

That question unleashed a fire-breathing dragon.

“STOP FUCKING YELLING AT ME. YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO TREAT ME THIS WAY!”

“Do you understand the irony of you screaming at me to stop yelling? I think you should go home. Take today off.”

Cue more rage and screaming about how I need him at work.

I calmly asked him to pull over again. This time he did. He walked the few miles home while I drove off to work. When I got there, before going inside, a panic attack took over my body. The shaking, dizziness, pounding head, and crippling nausea were overwhelming.

I texted one of my friends who helped me pull myself together enough to get through work. I was pretty certain I was going to either pass out or vomit on someone, but I made it through without doing either.

I headed to my friend’s house after work. She immediately gave me a hug, wrapped me in a soft blanket and a neck massager, fed me a good meal, gave me a few ibuprofen, packed me a bowl (yay for living in a legal state!) and gave me a cider. I am so grateful to have her as a friend.

Fuck You Anxiety

Fuck You AnxietySeriously Fuck You
I Mean It Too

You’re like a snake in the grass
Making me fall flat on my ass

Your venom sinks in deep
Making me wonder if I should keep

Pressing on every day
Will I ever find a way

To make it through?
Meanwhile you

Hide in wait
Making me hate

You and me
Will I ever be

A normal human?
Fuck you Anxiety.

Anxiety

At any perceived conflict the sound of my increasing heart rate deafens me, getting louder and faster until I am pretty sure I am having a heart attack.

My hands shake like a caffeine virgin after four shots of espresso.

They say anxiety won’t kill you, but every time this happens I’m sure they’re wrong and this is how I die.