Fifty feathered headbands

I just finished several months work with a wonderful production. Much Ado about Nothin’, my jukebox musical inspired adaptation of the Shakespeare play had a great run. The kids were adorable. The show, fantastic. The goodbyes, tearful but happy.

So, why am I still crazy? Why am I still anxious? Why am I depressed?

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A Little Kindness

So, I’m home on the weekend from my theatre gig. It’s father’s day and because I understand my husband we aren’t really doing anything except some serious fast food abandon (lots of Popeye’s red bean and rice, the big tub not just the little one.) And while we are eating John mentions that he’s going to have some of our friends over to play board games while I’m gone next week…and my stomach drops.

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I will have bread again

I do not eat grains anymore.

This is another one of those mental health things. For me, grains = more anxiety. (I have an anxiety disorder so strong that for most of my life I couldn’t even call people on the phone. And if people called me first I would refuse to answer or automatically chuck the ringing phone across the room. And that was when we still had landlines. The phone would just come right back. It’s not logical, folks.)  Anyway, people are often skeptical of this grains, anxiety connection. I know that when my father and sister first told me about their own results (not over the phone) I was kind of like, “Oh, wow… that’s cool.”

You don’t intentionally dismiss their experience but you do. Not because you doubt them but because you don’t want to stop. If what they’re saying is bunk, then I can keep on eating multiple sandwiches and whole bags of chips a day. (They were the “healthy” chips, so it was totally ok.) In my head I was like, that’s so awesome that they feel good but that won’t work for me.

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Poor Maureen

I have been talking a lot about my Avoidant Personality Disorder. Which has made me feel like an ambassador of some kind. But then I started thinking about my diagnosis, which was less than facebook official, and became suddenly wary.  (Which ticked my anxiety into high gear ironically—feelings of inadequacy, “I’m a fraud,” blah, blah, blah)  I don’t want to go into how I was diagnosed and subsequently medicated (boy, that sounds nefarious) but technically, well,  I’ve already mentioned it once before on this very blog so you probably already know… Cutting to the chase, I got my anxiety disorder diagnosed by my general doctor and not a psychiatrist.

Psychiatrist seems more legit, right? That’s what I thought too. So after a confusing series of emails to my doctor, the poor nurse may have thought I was some kind of nut (nothing’s wrong I just need legitimacy. No, I don’t want to hurt myself or others to get it. She wasn’t wrong about the nut part, but that’s not the point) I get an appointment with a counselor. They must deal with worse because she gave me a referral to the same counselor I saw when I first started my meds with very little hubbub. A counselor is like a psychiatrist, right?  I think to myself. Either way I don’t want to be too much trouble, so I take it.

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Just a reminder to anyone suffering from any disorder, addiction, or even just trying to change their diet. Relapses will happen. They will. The key is to Stop, Drop, and Roll. (Yes, that is also what you do when you are on fire. It’s not a coincidence that it is the same advice.)  You stop what you are doing, immediately, drop whatever it is that is causing your relapse, whether it’s a bag of chips, or a train of disparaging thought, and you roll on. Because you can’t go back, you can only roll on. Learn from it, but don’t stop.  Do not give up the whole thing. Especially if you also have AvPD, because your instinct will be to run. You will want to pretend that you never even tried to be better (or that you don’t deserve to be better.)  You do.  Everyone does. Except maybe Hitler.

I am not a worm

In writing this blog, I’ve done some internet research on Avoidant Personality Disorder in order to help explain myself. Which, you know, is always a good idea. The internet and an anxiety disorder, what could go wrong?

One thing that has been bothering me is the blatantly whinged description of symptoms. And while they’re true, it sees almost rude to describe a person that way. I know, that’s silly. How can a medical description be rude? Like when you describe Irritable Bowel Syndrome you aren’t literally accusing a person of having a crabby intestine, right?

So, why does it feel like the internet is calling me a worm?

Personally, I’d like to set the record straight.

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Chronically batshit

It’s a real thing.

That’s what I have to say after discussion of literally any aspect of my mental or physical illness. It’s a real thing, I promise. There are more issues than I’d like to admit but like I’ve said before, this blog is about honesty.

Here is a list of the real things that I battle everyday—

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Holly loves fat

The title of this post seems a little illeistic.  Honestly, I did not know the word, illeist, until I looked it up, because I didn’t want to say “the title of this post sounds like a douchebag who talks about himself in the third person.”  Apparently there are a lot of illeists and not all of them douchebags— Elmo, for one. Have you noticed that he only calls himself Elmo? Sure, he’s got a hand up his butt but he’s definitely not a douchebag.  Nixon did this too. Maybe he had the same problem as Elmo.

The point is I love fat.

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