O is for One (Reason I Hate Myself)

oI am lying in the fetal position in my bed. Eyes wide, I stare at the fan blowing dust around. It feels like insects are crawling through my innards. My head unconsciously moves side to side. Hair crumples then smoothes, crumples then smoothes. A wet spot grows on the pillow.

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

I sound like a child refusing to eat their vegetables. My breath hitches and I inhale spit. And I can’t stop the fear.

Two minutes ago I had been sitting up, talking on the phone, acting normal. Being normal. Then I said yes. Not to anything weird or illegal. I said yes to a job interview.

Yep, something I’ve been asking for people to give me for the past two months of unemployment sent me into a tizzy. An anxiety fuelled, irrational, inexcusable, tizzy.

A simple request for an interview, something I’ve done many, many times over the years, reduced me to a weepy, childlike, shadow of myself. No longer am I the owner of a Bachelor’s degree in psychology. I’m not an adult woman who took care of her elders for the majority of her life. I’m not even the author of a story that was published in her university’s literary journal of no renown.

From the moment I gave into the anxiety, I believe I became a failure of a person. Unable to handle reality. Unable to be me.

People ask me why I hate myself. This is only one of the reasons.

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C is for Cat

 

 

c is for catOkay, I promised a positive post. Here it is…

I love cats. No, I don’t love them…I adore them…I practically worship them. I know it’s stereotypical, the fat spinster with a ton of cats. Frankly, I’d love to be that crazy-cat-lady stereotype, but I don’t actually own a cat. I haven’t owned one in over a decade. Why not? Mostly because I haven’t had the financial ability to take care of a cat or I lived in an apartment that didn’t allow them.

So, what did I do to get my kitty fix? I visited my brother, he had a beautiful mostly purebred Charteaux (more about the breed here: http://www.cfa.org/Breeds/BreedsCJ/Chartreux.aspx) named Snicklefritz. 

SnicklefritzSnicklefritz is German for troublemaker. My sister-in-law, an army brat who spent the majority of her childhood in Germany, named him. He was a great cat, devoted to my brother and tolerant of me. But he died about a year ago. Since then, the only cat fix I get is when I visit the local humane society.

Why do I love cats? Maybe it’s because they’re beautiful. Look at this pic: 

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How much more beautiful can it get? Or this one: 

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But it’s not just because they’re pretty, or soft, or cuddleable. It’s not even that my genes have programmed me to love anything baby-like. Honestly, I think it’s because cats are exactly what I wish I were: beautiful, graceful, enigmatic, dignified, and supremely indifferent to what everyone else is thinking (or at least they act that way).

 If reincarnation is real, I want to come back as a pampered house cat. 

 More beautiful cat pictures:

1.1     3     7     7.2     995951_10201910769873574_394336770_n     62361_10152459463990417_1673430173_n     72508_10151283845497054_1170918509_n     225216_10153069315275417_456734519_n

P.S. I don’t remember where I got some of the above pics (with the exception of my brother’s cat. I got that one from my sister-in-law). If you know who should be credited with a pic and it’s not showing, please let me know and I’ll update this post. Thanks!

P is for Posts, Patience, Positivity and Promises.

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I’ve had a bad couple days. Not horrific, just bad. I’ve made bad choices, wallowed in my guilt and negative thoughts, spent too much money on things I didn’t need, ate things that were bad for me, and neglected my writing.

 

But I don’t want this blog to be just about me and my stupidity—I mean my negativity. I want to have some positivity in my posts.

 

So today’s post is short. Dear Reader, once again I’m asking you to be patient with me. A positive post is coming soon. I promise.

 

A is for Avoidance (and B is for Bed)

ImageI had a list of things I was supposed to do last weekend. Basically, it’s a list of things I’m supposed to do every day. Things from the simple (shower) to the mundane (laundry) to the complicated (figure out what values you want to live by and start implementing them into your live) and the terrifying (write down an account of all of the abuse you’ve suffered). Did I get any of it done? Not really. The only thing I did get done was start this blog. I suppose I’ll get kudos for that from my shrink. But I avoided doing everything else. Avoiding stuff is the one thing I can honestly say I’m really good at.

The fact is I’m a coward. I run—well I don’t run. That would require physical activity and my circus-lady fat makes that difficult. I hide. Usually in my bed. You’d figure, since I spend all that time in my bed, that my bed would be the most fabulous thing I own. It’s not. I sleep on discount store sheets with a clearance comforter, both of which have developed holes. My mattress is a cheap twin that I barely fit on and it sits on the floor. I don’t have a bed frame. But it’s what I can afford.

And it’s mine. I paid for every bit of it. Every hole is from a nightmare I thrashed about and kicked through. Every dip in the mattress is from my fat curling into as tight a fetal position I could get into. My bed is a testimony to my survival as a human being the past few years. In that bed I recovered from surgery, broken bones, suicidal impulses, irrational angers, overwhelming fears, migraine headaches, deaths of dreams and births of ambitions.

I love my bed. It’s me.

Since my bed is me, it should follow that I love me. But I don’t. Maybe because my bed is the part of myself that I can’t embrace. The fragile, bleeding, vulnerable part of myself that I don’t allow to come out anywhere else but in my bed. I hate that part of me. I avoid dealing with it. And in that avoidance that part of me gets bigger and bigger until I end up in a different kind of bed.

One in someone else’s guest room because I’m homeless and have avoided myself into helplessness.

Or one in a hospital because I’ve avoided myself into hopelessness.

I may love my bed, and I may be good at avoidance, but it’s about time I learn to love and be good at something else. It’s mundane, it’s painful, but it’s necessary. And one day, it’ll be me.

Dear Reader – My First Post – Please be Kind

This is my very first post on my very first blog. I’m scared. Not because I don’t think I can do it. Not because I don’t think I’m a decent writer. But because I get scared easily. Yep, that’s me. Little miss scaredy cat.

You see, I’m one big bundle of fear. The weird thing is I’ve never been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Major Depressive Disorder, yes. Binge Eating Disorder, oh yeah. Suicidal Ideation, yep. But no anxiety disorders.

Bet you weren’t expecting me to be so open on my first posting, huh? Well, I’m trying to bust outta my comfort zone and I figure go big. The truth is, in my 40 years on this earth, I’ve been under the care of a counselor or psychiatrist or shrink (pick your poison) longer than I’ve been an adult. I’ve been hospitalized for suicidal ideation (having suicidal impulses) twice and have had suicidal tendencies since I was 12. I’m a walking example of screwed up.

But I’m persistent. I never completely give up. There’s something in me that says that I deserve to be alive. I deserve to breathe air and eat food and walk the streets. Despite what my f****d up brain chemistry says, some part of me believes that I’m worthy. And so I keep trying to improve myself.

And this blog is part of my attempts to improve myself. In this place, where no one knows who I really am, I intend to push my boundaries and talk about stuff I don’t talk about to anyone but my shrinks. I’m gonna push past my fear of failure (that my posts will suck, that I’m a bad writer, that people will hate me, etc). I’m gonna push past my fear of success (that I’ll do so well that I’ll have to continue, that I’ll be expected to do even better in the future, that people will expect things from me that I cannot give, etc). I’m gonna push past my fear of everything and (as the commercial says) “just do it.”

Dear Readers, I beg you, please be patient. And kind. I’m trying my best to be more than my diseases.

Thanks for reading, Bonnie.