My, Oh My.

 

It will someday claim,
All I’ve left of these short breaths…
My “anxiety”.

It pains by no name,
Bringer of a thousand deaths…
My old memories.

It’s whipped me to shame,
Jimmied my heart from my chest…
My own mockery.

It’s always the same,
Threatening to take my best…
My PTSD.

“For No Reason”.

Recently, I have been experiencing the old feelings and fears again “for no reason”, according to “Dr. Quackenfuck”…my blood pressure has risen to the terrifyingly high level again; my chest feels as if it’s been cinched inside of a medieval vice or something; even when I’m sitting on my ass and doing nothing – I can’t catch my breath to save my Life.
I am fully aware of the need for those in any medical profession (especially psychology or the like) to resort to the use of the term “for no reason” when they are unable to conclude any other reasonable cause for a given symptom – they have been doing that to me all along because they refuse to accept the REALITY that maybe I’m just simply beyond “fixing”. What the fuck are you supposed to do when your shrink has more faith in your mental state than you do, even deep down when nobody’s looking?
Life, for me, has come once again to a crossroads apparently…one in which I’m facing a decision between sanity and none – between survival and death – between will and abandon. I harbor this strange and indescribable notion lately that I have completed certain things that were necessary to complete prior to any absence of my future presence. I know that sounds drastic and it’s not meant to; I am NOT reaching out for help during a suicidal spiral through this post, I swear. I am stating what’s what – for me as much as it can be for the entertainment of anyone reading this…
I am confused and kinda angry lately; been spitting at the Gods often and cursing their’ being…I feel very resentful and even bitter towards everything that is (or isn’t) taking place in my life. I am not whining about things not happening to my own liking, please trust me…I am NOT the type of person who goes through Life with high expectations of happiness, fulfillment or, even the simplest of comforts, for that matter; I have learned that Life can be a nasty bitch without a second thought towards my own comfort or concerns. I have learned that the only way I am going get through Life will be via the state of complacency with specific truths; and I long-ago gave up on any ideas or daydreams of someday painting my own white picket fences or chasing rainbows into the future. I am real. I am grown. I am titanium against emotional strife; it’s a familiar element of being alive that I have come to master from one day to the next. Not all of these ways are “healthy” i.e. I am a total pothead (and despite regular poetry about alcohol, don’t partake in the LEGAL vice of liquor), I am driven to be highly physically active to the point physical exhaustion as a means of juggling my anxiety-ridden thoughts and keeping them from overtaking my ENTIRE lifestyle, and of course: there’s always my unhealthy adoration for firearms of any kind (but for stress relief shooting, I do prefer a long barrel rifle).
Anyway, I detach emotionally – I withdraw socially – I become paranoid and fearful, jumpy and sketchy…I become enveloped by feelings of distrust towards everyone I know and care about – young and old. I am a fucking train wreck and my shrink refuses to believe it, somehow…he says I have “no reason” to have the wobbles again at this stage of the game…whatever the fuck that means: “this stage of the game”.
Last time I checked, this was no fucking game by any stretch of the imagination…and if he doesn’t start taking me more seriously when I tell him things so extremely difficult to share with another human being that breathes, takes notes, and can repeat words – – – I will not go see him anymore. I will find someone new to traumatize every week, instead.

My, My.

It will someday claim,
All I’ve left of these short breaths…
My “anxiety”.

It pains by no name,
Bringer of a thousand deaths…
My old memories.

It’s whipped me to shame,
Jimmied my heart from my chest…
My own mockery.

It’s always the same,
Threatening to take my best…
My PTSD.

The High Speed Wobbles.

Anybody who suffers from an “anxiety disorder” will know the wobbles well, most likely.

It happens to the very best of the best of us; no matter how far into ‘recovery’ and/or treatment we may be – it never completely leaves us for good, it always returns to remind us again…we have no control. It happens on a good day, a bad day, a day you never even make it out of bed at all.

For me, the wobbles tend to come out of nowhere, typically blindsiding me into submission to an emotional tsunami of anxiety, malcontent and paranoid fear. This seems to truly wash over everything – the thoughts in my head and heart, the feelings I harbor in general, my level of energy, my attention span, any motivational element in my life at a given time; I become consumed very quickly and completely by the anxiousness when this occurs. I become paranoid of my surroundings and the people in them; I lose any sense of reason. In turn, what usually happens, is that I trigger my own reflexive fight or flight response through the sudden increase of adrenaline and serotonin coursing through my body – and I react as if I were being attacked in a corner.

I know, it’s fucking disturbing…but true.

I have a roommate, I’ve written about him and his lack of understanding surrounding the details of the things that I struggle with from day to day, in regard to constant fear and perpetual edginess; he likes to scare me. He finds it amusing, which in all honesty, makes him NO DIFFERENT from 9 out 10 dudes that I know, unfortunately.He likes to hide in the shrub near the front door and wait for me to walk passed in the dark after work…he likes to pop out of random closets and spaces that I’d never be expecting him to pop out of. It’s unfortunate.

AS, IT’S DOES NOT AMUSE ME.

When I am startled by someone, in the moment, I do not see. I do not recognize you in the slightest, in spite of being only inches from your face and looking dead at you, I do not see you. I am not there. Somebody else must be; because it is during this slice of time after being startled by someone that my subconscious should recognize but doesn’t communicate such to my conscious mind, that my body honestly seems to just take over and do what it thinks I need to be doing in the moment that I get startled. As my roommate is learning  slowly, but ever-more surely – my typical reaction to being startled isn’t to run, after all…shocker! I’m a fighter! And apparently, I go for the eyeballs and face…we are mapping a pattern.

He doesn’t (and by all rights really couldn’t, anyway) get angry with me for physically assaulting him when this happens, he didn’t even hold a grudge four times back – when I pepper sprayed him, reflexively…

He cannot say that I haven’t warned him, and he cannot say that at this stage of things either – that he doesn’t have a good idea of what he’s looking to get into every time he shimmies himself between the shrub and the drainpipe when he hears my car alarm beep beep…so, I no longer feel in the least bad when I have to eat across the table from him when he bears a smeared nose or scratch marks into the corners of either eye. He asked for it.