There are 7 unfinished blog posts kicking around in my drafts. I blame my phone. And my scattered, anxiety ridden thoughts. When I have a free minute between classes or while waiting to pick someone up I can't just sit and ponder life. I must be doing something, staying busy. The key to life is to never stop moving. You know?? So I start writing. And I write and I write and I write. Then it gets put on hold from all the pesky teaching I must endure. Or the driving.
I drive a lot.
By the time I get back to it I am over it. I don't care anymore. I have already moved on. I set a goal this week to finish one blog post.
Nothing like setting goals unreachably high, I always say. And why isn't unreachably a word?
Do you watch Sons of Anarchy? If you answered no, don't start. Or do start if you are into awesome. But don't start if you aren't into total addiction and the neglect of every good thing in your life, including sleep. If you do watch it then you will recognize the name of this post as the name of the matriarch of that most dysfunctional, yet completely awesome, biker gang.
Gemma.
Gemma is undeniably ferocious. She will not be messed with. She will rip your heart out and eat it for dinner if she thinks you are in her way. I love Gemma, she gets stuff done. I love her until she messes with something I don't want her to mess with then I want to hurt her. Gemma causes me much emotional distress.
So, naturally, I named my anxiety disorder Gemma. I did this because I believe in naming things. It makes them easier to refer to. It gives them life.
And anything as relentless as an anxiety disorder deserves a name. Am I right? You know I'm right.
For its name, I choose Gemma. Everyone now, go name your disorders!
Gemma was doing great. For almost a year I had her under control. She flamed up on occasion but I'd just tell her to back the heck off, take a few deep breaths, inhale some Clary Sage and she would retreat. Then, all of a sudden, a couple months ago, she stopped retreating. She gnaws at my insides trying to get out. She makes my heart race, my bowls churn. She takes my breath away.
Gemma, stop. I can't breathe. Please, back off.
I tried ignoring her, you know, not looking her in eye. I put her off and put her off until one day I said to the man, "I don't think my anxiety pills are working very well anymore."
And he gave me that chin tucked in, eyebrows raised, know it all look and said, "You think?"
To my doctor I went. I hate this part. So badly do I want everything to just run as it's supposed to run. I told her as much.
"That's how we'd all like life to work, dear. Some of us just get to run on different operating systems. That's all."
She's right. Or maybe she's not. Who knows anymore. All I know is that sometimes I can't breathe and the name "they've" given it is anxiety. The name I give it is Gemma. But you know, sometimes I wonder if I'm not just making this stuff up. Did I make Gemma up? Did I create her in my life to add drama and chaos? There are days that are so good I have to wonder....
And then there are the days when I know, for a certainty, that Gemma is there, inside me, wreaking havoc on my thoughts and my actions, making me doubt my own sanity.
So, my doctor has decided that the meds I was on have lost their potency in my soul and we should try new ones. I hate the very idea of this. It means detoxing and trying something new. It means withdrawal. It means the unknown. She's cool beans about it and thinks I should be too.
But, if anyone knows me well then they know that I am cool beans about nothing.
And for that, I blame Gemma.
