Scrambled and Fried

My writing is all over the place, bits here, scribbles there scattered over 2 and 3 binders and scrap books, a visual representation of my mind.

We moved floors in September, only 2 years after landing in Calgary. Up 8 floors to the 20th, better views and more ‘me’ spaces for each of us, our own personal islands of escape and solitude. I love my son but need time to myself away from everyone, but the cat. He makes his presence known no matter where my butt cheeks rest.

This forced isolation and social restrictions suits me. Always the loner, not belonging in any particular space justifies my anti-socialistic behaviour. Forces me, no, allows me to hide behind my walls. No pressure to get out among the masses, accept dinner invites, coffee dates, or walks. It’s okay to stay away. It’s the new ‘thing’ it’s fashionable, trendy, and safe.

My switch from the Escitalopram* to Venlafaxine* went well. A bit of insomnia and gas the only side effects. This new medication and volunteering once a week have improved my mood, reducing the anxiety allowing me to focus on the positive. The move probably helped to some extent. My compulsive nature to organize, putting everything in order, has overridden any thoughts of seizures, suicide, and self harm. The boxes are unpacked and pictures hung creates a homey atmosphere. I’ve landed and this is my space. This is home.

My constant need for change, leaving the negative aspects of life behind, is a rebirth born by the desire to start fresh, wipe the slate off and move on. It’s my way of taking control, clearing out the clutter and throwing out the trash. The view of the world widens, presenting a new horizon to explore, new opportunities and shifting from the past and present to a future filled with promise and new beginnings. Going way back to my childhood, I’ve written off those who hurt me, erected an impenetrable wall around them, shutting them out and permanently dropping them from my spam folder, barring them from my life. I stuffed them down a well of pain, sealing them off with layers of concrete. As we chip away at the layers, slowly exposing the forgotten ‘treasures’, worthless and useless, I still manage to patch up the holes with new emotions, people and experiences I no longer wish to acknowledge. Some habits are hard to break. They never leave us, entirely.

But. I have changed. I’m better at listening to what my body is saying. Have become in tune with the grief of losing Mom, how my life has altered and learning to accept, or at least realize, my limitations. I can express myself, how I feel in a given moment, logically weeding out those anxious-riddled emotions, sifting through reality versus the ridiculous with no basis in truth.

I’m better at asking for help or finding workarounds to achieve a goal or task. I no longer feel completely useless, broken, and helpless. My body has its limitations. The need for naps, scheduling appointments, errands, and hobbies over days, not hours. I’m getting there. I’m a work in progress, a shape being molded into a new structure, more stable and stronger.  

*antidepressants

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