Category: Mental Health

Creeper

I noticed a random, oddly named account on Instagram regularly watching my stories. I clicked on the profile and noticed that they had zero posts and zero followers and that they were only following three accounts.

I switched profiles to my art account and noticed that they were following me there… I am two out of three total followed accounts.

I sent a playful message to try and inquire as to who this mystery voyeur is and they left me on read. Anyone who knows me knows I don’t like that…

So I blocked them on both accounts.

Now whoever would go through the hassle of creating an Instagram profile to creep on me? I’m nearly flattered, just nearly. But still creeped out.

Anyways, I can imagine that if you’d create an Instagram profile to see me, then you are probably reading this blog, too… because the statistics show me that people are… but one particular watcher is quite diligent.

Pruning

About two years ago, I was an intern at a private horticulturist for literally one day. Bluebird Growers; I love blue birds, I love plants, I had a little time to spare and I wanted to work on my green thumb. I figured “why not?”

There was one single lesson that I remember from that day and it applies to life as much as plants. It took me until the far side of my 30th birthday to be able to understand the teaching.

The lone scientist and I were pruning lavender, mint, and a few other herbs. Trimming away the discolored leaves and buds, he began to explain how these part suck life from the plant. He said that the plant will produce new growth regardless as long as it has sun and water. However, if we remove the ailing parts, then the plant can harness this energy in a more positive, productive manner.

The most important lesson that I must currently learn is to simply trust the journey. When we release the parts that we are fighting to hold on, we realize that fighting wastes energy, even if it’s in the name of something we perceive as positive.

Trust the journey. Let it be. Que Sera, Sera!

“Done is better than perfect.”

Thank you, Libby from 2-D Design for that advice; I don’t think you know how tightly I will forever hold onto that little gem.

It is my new worry stone, tucked deep into the miniature watch pocket of my favorite faded blue jeans.

When I am doubtful, unsure, and feel like I can’t meet my own goddamned unreasonable expectations, I pull this pale little gem out (in my mind’s eye) and run my fingers over the smooth surface of it’s comfort.

“Done is better than perfect.”

Most people won’t even take the time to do the damned thing. It’s the same sentiment as “You’re lapping everyone who is on the couch.”

Just doing it is the battle.

Do what you can. Do your best. And move the fuck on. 

 

I am a flake.

So in case my posts haven’t demonstrated for you, allow me say it:

I AM A FLAKE.

Or at least that is how it seems from the outside… but, in all honesty, it’s more like I am constantly evolving or shifting my perspective and ideas.

My opinions and thoughts behave like water; they ebb and flow with my moods. Some are unyielding ice while others are quickly fleeting steam.

(Also, I have these mad depressive episodes which prohibit me from normal human contact due to wild amounts of anxiety.)

Plus, I am kind of a flake… so what?!

Hoping to be back sooner than last time!

(but not promising anything because I refuse to give you anymore fucking ammunition to call me a flake… okay?!?)

Just kidding.😉

💘- AM

Dear Stranger, apologies

from me to you.

It seems that the only time that I want to talk to you is when my life is awry and I need the open ear of no one and everyone all at once.

I am a mess.

Do I tell you that I have been trying to find the right anti-anxiety medication for weeks since complications with my usual one and now it just feels like a really fucked up guessing game?

My 4.0 GPA is waving goodbye as my social anxiety sets in making my ADD less manageable, my work less quality and my attendance less likely. I have spent the whole class period in the parking lot of the school with my hands firmly gripped on the steering wheel unable to convince myself to enter the building. I find every reason to put off the assignments until sheer panic sets in and I frantically try to come up with something that looks presentable.

But then I should be doing homework right  now, shouldn’t I?  😳

I am new.

It has been so long since I’ve written that it feels like I have lived a hundred lives & changed a thousand times.

My opinions on life and love and hate and drugs and mental illness and sanity and God and the universe and my past and my future all seem to ebb and flow unruly as the sea.

Today I am new. Today I am different. I may not always make new choices, but how I think on them will be.

Each grain of sand collecting together, building what will have been my life.

 

Bad Choices

Why do we knowingly make self-defeating decisions?

Is it the comfort in the disappointment?

That old familiar friend, self-hate

waiting within our ear to whisper,

“Why not? You know you want to. You might as well. You are already thinking it.”

So you do.

Acting as though you are more clever than poor choices,

while you make them.

And then afterwards

that same voice hisses,

“You fool. You knew better. Aren’t you smarter than that?”

It has been three weeks.

Three weeks ago today, I walked out of your front door with two bags of clothes, my dog, and what tiny bit of dignity I had left.

I wish I could say that it was easy. I wish I could say that I am sure that this is what I want. I wish I could say that I will replace you. But I can’t say any of that just yet. So I won’t.

I can say that I am happier now. I don’t feel as mentally weighed now. I want to love myself now. I didn’t care to before.

Since we have parted ways, I have went to see my primary doctor and my therapist (which I haven’t seen either in three years prior), I have set up a full schedule of six classes (most taken yet) for the Fall semester (while maintaining my current 4.0), and I have gotten a part-time job.  I haven’t found an apartment yet. I haven’t saved enough to make a move. But I am hopeful and trying.

I wonder how you are and how you have been. I want to talk to you so much that it makes the lump in my throat ache and the knot in my stomach swell. How do you feel being surrounded by me? All of my stuff is still strewn about your house.  We haven’t spoken since two days after, when you said you were happier this way. We haven’t spoken of my things or when or where I will move them. I just don’t know yet. So we won’t talk until I do.

I am currently living with my mother for the first time since I was seventeen. I am sharing a room with my little sister. We are all getting along better than I ever expected. I am grateful. I am humbled. I am loved.

But I am also impatient. I want progress. I want to move forward. I want to be past this part, past this chapter where I am hurting. Growing pains, we will call them. I am ready to start loving myself.  Where to begin?

 

 

“More Fucked Up Than a Soup Sandwich”

So I saw my therapist yesterday.

It has been nearly 3 years since I have sat on that couch. And she said so many things. So may brilliant and scary things. Words like General Anxiety Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, ADHD,  and Codependent are still floating through my mind.

Just a ball of nerves or General Anxiety? Just bad dreams or PTSD? Just spinning wheels or ADHD? Just helpful or Codependent?

Yeah right.

There is no fucking getting out of that last one.  It took very little research to know that she was right. When she said the word “Codependent”, I was like, “Shit. you got me. Finally one that I can’t talk myself out of.”

The following is from Mental Health America.Net

(original post here: http://www.mentalhealthamerica.net/co-dependency)

“Co-dependents have low self-esteem and look for anything outside of themselves to make them feel better…They have good intentions. They try to take care of a person who is experiencing difficulty, but the caretaking becomes compulsive and defeating. Co-dependents often take on a martyr’s role and become “benefactors” to an individual in need.

The problem is that these repeated rescue attempts allow the needy individual to continue on a destructive course and to become even more dependent on the unhealthy caretaking of the “benefactor.” As this reliance increases, the co-dependent develops a sense of reward and satisfaction from “being needed.” When the caretaking becomes compulsive, the co-dependent feels choiceless and helpless in the relationship, but is unable to break away from the cycle of behavior that causes it.”

This basically just described the relationship that I was just in that just ended. He started as  a drug addict.  I was his martyr. I “saved” him. And it just didn’t work. It didn’t work for either of us.

And here I am, still acting like a little bitch when I know that it wasn’t a healthy relationship…

Get over it, Amber!

My therapist thinks I shouldn’t date until I get these dependency issues worked out. She said I was allowed a “fuck buddy” but I know that I can’t separate love and sex so that just doesn’t jive with me. Time to invest in some batteries…