My last attempt at writing was dated March 12, 2012- just before the end of my 3rd season of episodic television:
I need space. My skin and my skull feel too tight. After twenty two episodes and 10 months of 60-75 hour weeks, I am tired. My brain is completely saturated. I feel like a dippy chicken. (Though it seems I am making up the name of that toy, it is in fact its patented product name.) All I am capable of are the motions--- pendular motion back and forth: dip, ascend, dip, ascend, dip, ascend--- hypnotic; nothing but mundane routine.
Gross.
It sounds like I was writing that with my head in the oven of the HomeEc room in my high school. How embarrassing. No soul. No meat. I forced it-- desperately digging into a place of juvenile discomfort-- indulging a momentary temper tantrum. I'm pretty sure the remainder can be found in a journal entry ghost written by my 15 year old self. So, with nothing but a flare for the melodramatic left on the page, I thought it best to walk away and gather a little perspective.
For longer than I care to admit, anxiety had been the governing body in my emotional court. Gut- wrenching, breath stealing all consuming anxiety. It was the force behind any achievements or actions. My worst fears about relationships, work, family, money, successes and failures -- all the grown shit that you like to ignore from time to time while hanging onto a more youthful version of yourself had a heavy hand at the center of my back ready to push me over the edge. I think there was actually a part of me that thrived on it. The anxiety rush was akin to an adrenaline rush; only uglier--- like the relative no one talks about. I noticed that I began to make subconscious decisions based less on logic and more on feeding that anxiety; making sure it would survive. I surrounded myself with people that made me worry more and made me question myself. There was a comfort in being nervous or worried that something was going to happen and then discovering it had. An odd thing, to find comfort when you are at your most uncomfortable. Being nervous, worried, edgy-- it was like a vibration through me. My thoughts- a mile a minute. The words- coming faster than I could write them. Uneasy was so easy.
Then, it got a little ridiculous. Overfed and ruining my life like Audrey II. Next level anxiety smothered me and I was struggling to survive. I had had enough of the Kool-aid. It was time to begin what I thought would be an ugly arduous break-up with my insecurities and woes. After a long scrutinous look in the mirror, I shed all the things that made me feel like I had swallowed a grapefruit. I stopped worrying about what was going to happen and I let life start to happen with nothing but happiness as the focus (within reason of course). No resistance; just ebb and flow. If met with an undesirable obstacle, I disengaged and distanced. Soon, I noticed a most unusual turn of events.
It just stopped.
Nothing.
I had decided to break the spell and indeed it had been broken. It had to just be coincidence right? Anxiety's reign of terror over me had run its course at the exact moment I had had enough? Was it in my control all along? I'd never admit to that.
So there I lay, floating. Unchartered waters. Set a drift on serenity without a fucking clue where to go.
I found myself calm, happy, and satisfied.
Fuck.
What are you supposed to do when the driving force behind your words and thoughts takes a holiday, perhaps a permanent one?
I tried desperately to recreate that pit in my belly. The fight or flight that makes everything clearer and cleaner and hysterically logical (Not hysterical like the Marx brothers but moreso Chicken Little) couldn't be that far gone, could it? What the fuck am I supposed to say now? What happens when you're getting everything you want? How do you stay hungry for it?
So now I'm anxious about not feeling anxious? Well, that's just obnoxious.
In hindsight, the Chicken Little mindset was immature- much too panicked and angsty for my liking. I'm happy now...happier than I can ever recall being. Nothing to complain about, no unrest. It's been a difficult concept to wrap my head around: sometimes when you look up, there's NOT a piano ready to hammer you through the sidewalk. It's an odd feeling and it's taking some getting used to.
Happiness. Huh. Who would've thought?
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