Saturday, September 19

My mind is like a bad neighborhood; I never go there alone.

I'm still not comfortable blogging in public. Even right now in this coffee shop, I feel like people are looking up from their laptops or their Wall Street Journals and know I'm writing this sentence. How is it in the last two months my neurosis has become completely unreasonable?

I've been experiencing extremely severe mood swings as of recent, which I'm 90% contributing to the withering Cymbalta in my system and also the fact that my old coping mechanism of drinking too much too often is no longer a stabilizer I can continually rely upon. When things got tough, I was usually tough. But now when things are tough, I'm a defeated wreck on the floor. A crisis puddle. An exhausted, tattooed shell.

I'm incredibly irritated all the time now. The smallest inconvenience or blip in the progress of my day becomes a matter of national security. And while I'm sitting there having a melt down on the carpet in front of the washer and dryer, I say to myself well, this isn't right. Why the fuck am I freaking out? This isn't a crisis in any way and I can deal with it tomorrow. However, my body feels the need to respond in a severely emotional and physical way. Yesterday I screamed all the way home from Walgreens. I mean it was like five blocks, but having to continue to juggle my shit health insurance company, Walgreens, and my doctor's network has been an on going struggle since I moved here. I essentially just want one day where I don't have to make a phone call and navigate corporate automated systems or take extra care of my increasingly shitty body and the companies I depend on for it to operate in a normal, humanly fashion. Just one day! Just one. How nice it would be just to eat something without having to math. But sadly, I drew the genetic short straw and am constantly dependent on prescriptions, my doctor, and unfortunately, Walgreens to stay alive. I now just have to assume that things are going to be completely fucked up whenever I make a phone call, give someone an account number, or leave a message. Just...fucked.

"Fuck" is every other word out of my mouth now. NOT saying "fuck" has been a challenge. And it doesn't matter if the topic at hand is positive or negative. Why, yes, Queen Elizabeth II, your ongoing legacy of poise, regality, and monarchy has been fucking incredible. To be honest, I was pretty liberal with coloring my language in the first place, but now I'm lying somewhere between Lewis Black and an angrier Lewis Black. Every sentences that comes out of my stupid face has had some form of the curse within it. Someday, my phrasing and choice of words will be that of a little old lady who just wants you to get the fuck off her lawn. Or something. I'm hoping to find a medication balance in the future that leaves me alleviated of the severity of my emotions with the capability to still feel. That balance would be nice. Or just straight up balance would be nice.

Let's pause for a second: everyone in this coffee shop is talking about the fire engines that showed up at the condominium across the street. Each person walking in with their tiny dog or yoga mat has been curiously skeptical of the reason behind the giant red trucks blocking the intersection. Maybe someone left a joint unattended! Har har har har! My guess was incredibly burnt toast. But instead, some idiot left the heat lamp for his iguana on the highest setting and lit the tiny dinosaur's habitat on fire. No word if the go-to pet for weird guys with mullets and without sleeves survived.

Sorry. I had to.

Seattle is back to being Seattle. I'm sure it never intended to be different, but the short bursts of rain along with insidious traffic continues to be a challenge. I am now actually considering buying rainboots. I've never owned a pair. The only boots I have now are suitable for cowboys or Midwestern moms. I love that it took me going kayaking in Alaska to purchase actual rain gear. I've never owned any of that kind of stuff. Just a hooded jacket was fine by me. But some people prefer to sulk in the rain, others prefer to repel it. I'm glad I didn't completely forget how to drive in the rain after being away for so long; some people forget between daily forecasts. When it rained in Minnesota, it was usually accompanied by momentous thunderstorms and power outages. But now the wetness serves as a soft tinkering on the deck and gutters while I'm ruminating instead of actually sleeping. 

I know I've written about it at some point or another, but I've been contemplating the aspect of home. I finally decided that the idea of "home" is wherever I feel safe. Even though I was drinking in the location of where I parked my car, where I received mail, and where I slept at night, I was never really home. AA feels like home. Most of the time, Seattle feels like home. Maybe home is wherever my car is because I can leave whenever I want. Safety was something I never had when I was drinking. I'm safe with my family, the people who love me, my friends, and my sober network. Safety can be both physical and emotional, and I feel like I didn't have either of those things in Minneapolis. I've tried so many times to put into words on why exactly I left, but I can finally say I just didn't feel safe. I lost certain elements of safety in Minneapolis, and I needed to rediscover the components of a healthy life elsewhere. I mean even though I'm saying "fuck" all the time, I feel more safe than I did. 

I can't stop thinking about a fucking iguana on fire. 

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