A Tale of Woe

I wish I had the comedic efforts of Allie Brosh to aid in this tale, but alas, I am not in a place of creativeness; if I were, could I even begin to write/illustrate something as magnificent, yet touching, as these entries? I hope so, but know the answer is "LOL, probably not, girl."

On with the tale...

It all started sometime last year, when I started feeling something of a quarter-life crisis. I was happy with the good parts of my life, but couldn't shake the funk of the bad parts. In fact, I often let the stuff bothering me eclipse the stuff that made me smile. It left me in a series of funks, but every time I found my way out, so I figured it was just self-pity or a part of growing up.

Not so long ago, I felt better for a lengthier period of time than I had for as long as I can remember. My life started to go on an upswing: I figured out some of what I wanted to do and who I wanted to do it with. I felt mostly okay, but there would always be something...

That something was and is normally me overthinking any and everything. It's how I've always been, and on occasion, it can be helpful. But there are the other times, most times, when I overthink something that has little importance in reality, or overanalyze someone's actions for stupid reasons. Times when I can't stop the thoughts, as irrational as they sound even to myself. Times when I can't find happiness or any other emotion, even when I want to.

via Hyperbole and a Half

I alternate between non-stop movement and sloth-like slowness, physically and mentally speaking, both accompanied with this astounding fatigue that feels like it has been here since I was born. I am never quite manic, but I'm never quite depressed either. Must mean the irritability, the paranoia, the anxiety, the sadness, the nothingness, the tiredness, and all the ups and downs and in-betweens must be normal, right? It's totally normal to feel nothing about a new job. It's totally normal to slouch in non-productiveness all day because you feel like an ocean is sitting on top of you. It's totally normal because it's not noticeably or dangerously abnormal. Right? RIGHT?!

I'll take wrong for $500, Alex.

After a series of events and lots of chats with my truth-sayer, I realized the reactions I have, while somewhat a part of who I am, are still not necessarily normal. It's like I have a five-course Brinner in front of me all the time and I just think, "Huh, I really could care less about the delicious and copious ways in which crispy bacon has been utilized in this meal." But then sometimes I think "THERE IS NO WAY THIS IS MINE. SOMETHING MUST BE WRONG. THERE MUST BE SOMETHING HIDDEN UNDER THIS TABLE! THE CHEFS ARE PROBZ POISONING ME! GOOD BRINNER JUST DOESN'T FALL INTO MY LAP!" And other times I'm like "Oh, man, I really hope all the animals that died to make this didn't have large families, and golly, I really hope these carbs don't clog my arteries and give me a heart attack, and SHIT, I should probably make sure that everyone else at Brinner has their meals taken care of first, and OMG! I can't believe the chef hasn't come out of the kitchen to check on us yet. Do you think he's okay? He's probably burning alive."

It's exhausting to read. It's exhausting to write. It's exhausting to live. I mean really, who can't just sit back and enjoy the bacon, no matter the circumstances? You should be able to... but I can't. Why?

In good faith, I headed to my always-trusty Internet to start investigating the process of fixin'-uppin'. After a few duds, I found a somewhat decent and free online test to take to begin to narrow down what my mind's ailment could be. I knew I couldn't be bi-polar, but everything seemed somewhat similar; a distant cousin of the disorder perhaps. And while I did score high on said disorder, I also scored high on something called Cyclothymia.

To be crass, cyclothymia is like bi-polar lite. If bi-polar were the Catholic church, I'd be Episcopalian. Of course, I have to be diagnosed. I have an appointment to chat with my trusty psych later this month to hopefully do that, but I honestly don't know what the course will be. I do know that it's a step.

That step is a crucial one, but it's not where this journey starts, and most certainly not where it ends. I also have to start making decisions that make me happy, and more importantly, decisions simply to be happy -- a hard fight, but one I think I can win. And this happiness must be based on my own notions, not some pre-described ones my friends, or my family, or even society as a whole may try to force upon me. I need to find my happy to find my way back to myself.

So goes my tale of woe. I know it's not the worst there's ever been, nor the worst there will ever be. But I do think it's an important tale to tell because as someone who has lived it for a long time, it can be really hard to admit to yourself something is wrong. It can also be even harder to notice something is wrong to begin with. Luckily, I have a person to kick my ass in gear, but if you don't... well, here I am:

Get your ass in gear! Take a test. Call a number. Make an appointment. Mental health is still health. E'rrybody got time fo' dat.

Random Thoughts II

(Photo by Jessica White)

• I am scared of everything, so I'm thinking about covering every mirror in my house with post-its that say: "Hey, dumbass, do you know why you're scared of everything? Because you marathon horror movies when you're home alone all day, as if this will alleviate your crippling fear of the random creaks your house makes throughout the night."
• Simon Pegg's autobiography should be required reading for all high school students.
• I should probably be sent to rehab for Internet and TV addiction, but there's not cable there.
• If this model is plus size, let us all kill ourselves now because we, as society, are awful and stupid.
• I will never be as funny as Allie Brosh. I can live with this, but with much shame and darkness.
• "Top Gear" is magical.
• My house is full of many delectable foods to make a hearty breakfast, but I instead choose to start my day with peanut butter crackers and a piece of dark chocolate.
• Oh, hey, remember those approximately MILLION entries I've written about how the generation before us FUCKED UP OUR EXPECTATIONS OF REALITY? Someone is finally apologizing. Thanks, John Cheese. P.S. I really enjoy your food.

..... I just realized there still might be some people out there who don't understand linking. See the words in different colors throughout this entry? Those are links. CLICK THEM!

Email: imgonnadothatgirl@gmail.com

Twitter: @The_Gonna_Girl

Disaster Strikes

Today couldn't have gone worse for my newly enforced gonna. I started off the day with the best of intentions, but you know that means that someone had to ride in on a life-ruining horse and annihilate my dreams. This black knight of horror I speak of is the HVAC guy, but ya know... we'll come to that.

To my terror, our heat broke last night. Well, not broke, but it kind of tried to kill us, so we decided to keep it off until we could get a professional to come out and talk it down. I went to bed wearing my man's wool socks and aviator-chullo-wolf hybrid hat.

Despite the setback, I woke up this morning feeling less sick than I have all week and decided to take advantage of it by cleaning the house early so I could get to my aforementioned writing sess. I even went and met J (the bf) for lunch because, by jove, there were SO MANY hours in the day!

I returned home to the cold (and the shivering little monkey dog), but even that couldn't deter me from my newfound tenacity to write like a motherfucker. Two of my best friends were coming over later in the day, but I had time before they'd arrive. It would just make the sweet victory of following through even more sugary. Oh, and the HVAC guy? He'd be pulling in my driveway annyyyyy minute, so I could relax, watch some telly, and know that every little thing was gonna be alright.

I was almost all the way through Glee (WHAT IS THIS SHOW EVEN?! JUST STOP.) before I realized that the appointment with the HVAC dude was well overdue. I frantically texted J to see where the hell this guy was. No one had been driving by, at least not between shitty musical numbers, and panic started setting in as I realized my perfect plan was being slowly poisoned by a stranger. I waited a while longer before giving in to the overwhelming depression I felt about losing my hour of writing.*

While I was halfway through a glass of super flat Dr. Pepper and even more than halfway out of my chair, J texted to let me know the renewed time of our HVAC appointment. It was too late for me to redeem my lost time and my friends were arriving at any minute. With the help of a SERIOUSLY TIME-CHALLENGED HANDYMAN, I self sabotaged myself... again.

Of course, I soon forgot about my despair when my lovely ladies showed up and made me laugh. My bf came home and kissed the anguish away. The delectable dinner that followed truly and fully erased my memory, thanks to a semi-food coma. I was completely numb to the horrendous error of the day until I laid my head down to sleep.

I instantly was wide awake and the writing fiasco came crawling back into my memory like an injured fawn. I jumped up, ran to my computer, and knew I had to tell my story. Oh, and in doing so, I got my hour of writing in. (I was also unfortunately reminded of why "Roadhouse," even with the Swayze touch, should never be endured..... even on mute.)

So, yeah. Never give up, never surrender.

P.S. If you're wondering about the rest of my October gonnas, they're on the way. I'm editing video tomorrow!

P.P.S. Happy 100 posts to me!

* See: Hyperbole and a Half's most recent entry, specifically this photo.