Where does one begin when they've neglected their blog for almost three months?
I guess I start here: I'm alive.
We've been back from our trip to the states for almost three months now, and I only just finished unpacking our suitcases a couple weeks ago. That should give you some indication of what my mood (and life) has been like since returning to Kuwait.
I'm only just now beginning to feel like my normal self again. I'd been feeling the way I used to feel after my husband would come home for a two-week vacation, and then leave for six months of work again. As time goes on, one gets used to being away from family and friends, but get a taste of what life is like having them around again -- drinks with girlfriends, dinner with family, movie dates with the husband -- and it's like starting the whole process all over. I had to keep reminding myself that I would eventually feel better. I'd eventually feel normal again. But things kept happening. Newtown happened. I could barely function after what happened there. And to make matters worse, I was feeling a ridiculous amount of guilt, because, unlike what every other Mom I knew/read about was saying -- I'm gonna hug my kids a little tighter -- I was so full of anxiety that my nerves were on edge, making me horribly crabby, so that every little thing Liam did made me want to scream.
And, then, the day after Christmas, our housekeeper came to work in hysterics because her husband (who was back home in the Phillipines) was shot 12 times by a masked gunman on a motorcycle. They believe that the hit was meant for someone else, because her husband lived a quiet life, and didn't have any known enemies. Her pain was so raw, so visceral, that I could almost feel it. I did the only thing I knew how, in this particular situation, and gave her some money to send back home, to help pay for the burial. We had helped her a few months earlier with her adult son's burial, who had recently died in a car accident. It makes me sick to think about a woman losing her son and husband within six months of each other. I can't wrap my head around it. When things like this happen, I have a really difficult time dealing with the reason why life has to be so hard for some people. I have a hard time accepting why some people have to endure so much suffering. The only thing that seems to help is reminding myself (over and over again) that all I can do is try to live my life a little fuller. Because what is death for anyway, if it isn't to remind those of us here to live?
On a lighter note: my husband was reminded of the reason why my friends/co-workers nick-named me "frigid brigid" ("fridge" for short). I don't do emotions very well. My husband said to me a few days after: "I thought you were going to offer our condolences? Did you even give her a hug?" My response: "Yes, I gave her a hug. Okay, maybe I didn't give her a hug so much as I let her hug me, but still. I gave her money. Money is better than hugs anyway." I have issues.
Couple these events with my worsening anxiety, and I've been a ball of nerves. I've always had what I would consider "situational anxiety" -- anxiety thinking about a particular event (like my thesis, before I finished it, although I did just have a nightmare about it the other night) or going to a place I'd never been before or making phone calls or leaving the house -- ummm, ya know, normal people stuff. Lately, I can be sitting on the couch minding my own business and my heart suddenly starts racing and I have a hard time catching my breath. Or some days, like today, I wake up so full of anxiety that my hands actually feel weak (probably from clenching/tensing in my sleep), and my legs feel as if they'll buckle beneath me when I get out of bed. The other day my husband looked at my trembling hands and said, "Oh my god. You look like a junkie coming off of heroin." This sort of anxiety is totally new to me. I wonder at what point I take my doctor's advice and begin taking the anti-depressant he prescribed for me. I had a bad experience with them during college -- weight gain, sleepiness, etc. -- but he has assured me those were "old school" pills. For now, my anti-anxiety pill seems to do the trick, and I only have to take it when I need it. But the way my doctor explained it makes total sense: taking an anti-anxiety med without (or instead of) an anti-depressant, would be like continually putting out a fire, instead of dealing with what was causing that fire in the first place. I've been willing myself into feeling better, but no matter how positive I am, or how many freakin' self-help books I read, I can't seem to make my way completely out of the fog.
So, for now, I do what I do best: I organize the heck out of everything. I'm naturally an organized person; or, maybe, I've simply become an organized person over the years, since it appears to be the only way to control the chaos that always seems to accompany my anxiety. Feel like your life is spinning wildly out of control? Begin obsessively organizing anything with labels -- canned goods work exceptionally well:
I can't tell you how much this soothes my soul. I begin organizing as if my life depended on it. My poor husband, though, has a hard time finding anything when I get like this, which I don't quite understand since I've explained my organizational system to him over and over again.
One more thing: because I feel particularly vulnerable when I write about this topic, I feel the need to express WHY I choose to write about it. Often, writing about one's own struggle with depression and anxiety can come off as highly self-indulgent (at least, I worry it may come off that way), especially when I feel guilty even dealing with these struggles, because I have so much to be thankful for, and everyday so many other families deal with heartache and loss and trauma. (If you want to understand the guilt, read this. I swear this woman lives inside my head. She writes about her struggles with an absurd hilarity that I can't compete with. And, if someone can say it better than you, let them). So, here is the reason I share this part of my life: I am a Monkee, friends. A disciple of Momastery. We believe in shameless truth-telling. We believe in basking in the light, instead of hiding in the darkness. We believe in living more authenticly, so that others (women, especially) will feel free enough to do so, as well. Okay, so I'm a little obsessed with the whole movement, but I've never before seen women come together like this. A group of women who lift each other up, instead of breaking each other down.
As I was finishing up this post earlier, Glennon (from Momastery) posted this quote:
And there you have it.
Okay, friends, I promise happier stuff tomorrow. I needed to get this out of my system.
I guess I start here: I'm alive.
We've been back from our trip to the states for almost three months now, and I only just finished unpacking our suitcases a couple weeks ago. That should give you some indication of what my mood (and life) has been like since returning to Kuwait.
I'm only just now beginning to feel like my normal self again. I'd been feeling the way I used to feel after my husband would come home for a two-week vacation, and then leave for six months of work again. As time goes on, one gets used to being away from family and friends, but get a taste of what life is like having them around again -- drinks with girlfriends, dinner with family, movie dates with the husband -- and it's like starting the whole process all over. I had to keep reminding myself that I would eventually feel better. I'd eventually feel normal again. But things kept happening. Newtown happened. I could barely function after what happened there. And to make matters worse, I was feeling a ridiculous amount of guilt, because, unlike what every other Mom I knew/read about was saying -- I'm gonna hug my kids a little tighter -- I was so full of anxiety that my nerves were on edge, making me horribly crabby, so that every little thing Liam did made me want to scream.
And, then, the day after Christmas, our housekeeper came to work in hysterics because her husband (who was back home in the Phillipines) was shot 12 times by a masked gunman on a motorcycle. They believe that the hit was meant for someone else, because her husband lived a quiet life, and didn't have any known enemies. Her pain was so raw, so visceral, that I could almost feel it. I did the only thing I knew how, in this particular situation, and gave her some money to send back home, to help pay for the burial. We had helped her a few months earlier with her adult son's burial, who had recently died in a car accident. It makes me sick to think about a woman losing her son and husband within six months of each other. I can't wrap my head around it. When things like this happen, I have a really difficult time dealing with the reason why life has to be so hard for some people. I have a hard time accepting why some people have to endure so much suffering. The only thing that seems to help is reminding myself (over and over again) that all I can do is try to live my life a little fuller. Because what is death for anyway, if it isn't to remind those of us here to live?
On a lighter note: my husband was reminded of the reason why my friends/co-workers nick-named me "frigid brigid" ("fridge" for short). I don't do emotions very well. My husband said to me a few days after: "I thought you were going to offer our condolences? Did you even give her a hug?" My response: "Yes, I gave her a hug. Okay, maybe I didn't give her a hug so much as I let her hug me, but still. I gave her money. Money is better than hugs anyway." I have issues.
Couple these events with my worsening anxiety, and I've been a ball of nerves. I've always had what I would consider "situational anxiety" -- anxiety thinking about a particular event (like my thesis, before I finished it, although I did just have a nightmare about it the other night) or going to a place I'd never been before or making phone calls or leaving the house -- ummm, ya know, normal people stuff. Lately, I can be sitting on the couch minding my own business and my heart suddenly starts racing and I have a hard time catching my breath. Or some days, like today, I wake up so full of anxiety that my hands actually feel weak (probably from clenching/tensing in my sleep), and my legs feel as if they'll buckle beneath me when I get out of bed. The other day my husband looked at my trembling hands and said, "Oh my god. You look like a junkie coming off of heroin." This sort of anxiety is totally new to me. I wonder at what point I take my doctor's advice and begin taking the anti-depressant he prescribed for me. I had a bad experience with them during college -- weight gain, sleepiness, etc. -- but he has assured me those were "old school" pills. For now, my anti-anxiety pill seems to do the trick, and I only have to take it when I need it. But the way my doctor explained it makes total sense: taking an anti-anxiety med without (or instead of) an anti-depressant, would be like continually putting out a fire, instead of dealing with what was causing that fire in the first place. I've been willing myself into feeling better, but no matter how positive I am, or how many freakin' self-help books I read, I can't seem to make my way completely out of the fog.
So, for now, I do what I do best: I organize the heck out of everything. I'm naturally an organized person; or, maybe, I've simply become an organized person over the years, since it appears to be the only way to control the chaos that always seems to accompany my anxiety. Feel like your life is spinning wildly out of control? Begin obsessively organizing anything with labels -- canned goods work exceptionally well:
I can't tell you how much this soothes my soul. I begin organizing as if my life depended on it. My poor husband, though, has a hard time finding anything when I get like this, which I don't quite understand since I've explained my organizational system to him over and over again.
One more thing: because I feel particularly vulnerable when I write about this topic, I feel the need to express WHY I choose to write about it. Often, writing about one's own struggle with depression and anxiety can come off as highly self-indulgent (at least, I worry it may come off that way), especially when I feel guilty even dealing with these struggles, because I have so much to be thankful for, and everyday so many other families deal with heartache and loss and trauma. (If you want to understand the guilt, read this. I swear this woman lives inside my head. She writes about her struggles with an absurd hilarity that I can't compete with. And, if someone can say it better than you, let them). So, here is the reason I share this part of my life: I am a Monkee, friends. A disciple of Momastery. We believe in shameless truth-telling. We believe in basking in the light, instead of hiding in the darkness. We believe in living more authenticly, so that others (women, especially) will feel free enough to do so, as well. Okay, so I'm a little obsessed with the whole movement, but I've never before seen women come together like this. A group of women who lift each other up, instead of breaking each other down.
As I was finishing up this post earlier, Glennon (from Momastery) posted this quote:
And there you have it.
Okay, friends, I promise happier stuff tomorrow. I needed to get this out of my system.
