“This first Friday in June, all I know is I am doing my best. My very damnedest. And it looks like this…”

I felt like this today.

You don’t need to hear about the numbness, excruciating pain, overwhelming anxiety, residual anxiety, paranoia, dizziness  or that I prayed to whomever was listening to just end it. Fucking end the ridiculous, relentless, ad nauseam, non-sensical hours that consume my days. Frankly it’s wearing me down, ripping me to shreds and fucking exhausting fighting invisible monsters.

Yes, I know I’m sick. Yes, I understand tapering off benzos is worse than hell it’s maggot filled shit. Yes, my empathetic, cool therapist talks it out. Reassuring me I am indeed strong enough.

Resilient enough. Tough enough. However. Makes me wonder.

Where in the hell am I going to replenish precious missing elements when the planet is currently fluctuating between earthquakes, tornadoes and drought? In a constant state of chaos, flux. How to replenish when I can’t remember pieces of yesterday. Blurred and hazed memories clog and pollute the brain.

Where? How? Why? Great questions. With zero answers.

I said NO anyway. For shits and giggles, ya’ know.

I don’t feel like shit, I feel eradicated, violated and obliterated.

I go to the hairdresser’s armed with my peppermint and lavender doused washcloth unsure I can make it through the hour-long dye process without flipping the fuck out.

Home. I want, need, have a deep desire to be home.

Grey roots and I have a larger more burning desire to feel pretty, alive, and validated.

Breathe, just breathe. You are safe. You are fine. You’ve been through this before. You are safe, breathe.

Your stylist is your dear friend who knows and loves you well she will take you home if necessary.

FUCK YOU anxiety, fuck off, go fuck up someone else’s day/ existence.

It’s sitting there threatening strangling my neck, throat, cramped shoulders, tingling extremities and limbs. Sitting patient, greedily waiting to pounce.

I apply eyeliner (Armani #02 pencil my fav.) and concealer to brighten my shiteous, difficult existence and in spite.

Tomorrow will come with or without me, isn’t that the cliché? What they say? Whoever the hell they are, Martians maybe. Fuck if I know, can’t be sure.

This first Friday in June, all I know is I am doing my best.

My very damnedest.

And it looks like this… on the outside

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” – Harper Lee

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That’s the thing about boundaries

“I’m sorry.”

This may be the most overrated, overused phrase in my catch-all, go to, spit it out library. Most times I don’t really mean it, “I’m sorry” is the quickest way around, under, over and out of an uncomfortable situation.

Boundaries, now there’s a swash and spit mouthful. A word worthy of top shelf book space. I don’t pull it out often enough. Managing the days with a serious mental illness (it’s high-tide time I accept it) boundaries should have an entire section in Webster’s. Not really but damn it well should.

There are the managements, physical ick-awful pain, aches, nauseous, brain burning exhaustion. The clenched jaw, neck so tight you’re unaware until you grab a stick of gum to quash the anxiety and each chew hurts. It’s worse than the worst flu delirium and yet there I go again, apologizing. “I’m sorry for not taking the laundry down, I’m sorry for needing a minute, an hour, whatever to wait out the hot flashes, chills, blurry eyes that are clouding my fucking vision. I’m sorry I cannot think straight with the incessant ringing in my ears, head spinning from the constant whir. I’m sorry I can’t remember what I was thinking two seconds ago, or which of the million thoughts swirling around I’m going to shut out, or which I’m going try and  focus on.

I’m sorry this is my fucking, miserable reality. It’s not exactly what I’d hoped either.

I’m sorry you think I don’t care, or am not listening. I’m sorry you think I don’t care, or am not listening.

For that, I am truly sorry. I am listening behind the white noise and I do care about what you’re saying. I care about what you said two days ago, that I am just now processing.

See, how that goes. I’m sorry. I am the first to understand empathy is the wasted, throw away emotion. There are better, far healthier choices, words to choose.

So I’m going to try hard, as if I don’t try every single solitary second so you get my exhaustive, over-exaggerated, moot point.

Boundaries. I’m going to incorporate that word into my repertoire, get used to hearing the way it sounds.

No. I can’t.

I’ll let you know when I am able.

Polite, and to the point.

Take Me To Church

My therapist Friday, “you’re an addict. You’re in recovery (say what?).

I don’t care how you got there, or which doctor gave you the pills. There are no healing shortcuts, no way around, over or under it. You have to plow straight through.” I looked up the twelve steps. Can my shrink please put me in a medically induced coma and wake me up when it’s over (approx. 2-3 years from now). On a beach, frozen margarita in hand. (to clarify, I’m just crazy and allowed one drink after the benzo detox.) ??? Step. # 1 yeah, yeah…

Recovery hurts. Recovery is not funny. Not funny, ha, ha, ha at all.