This Is a Title, I Guess

I am not known for patience or restraint.

I get frustrated angrily, when people don’t think on the same track as I do, or feel as passionately as I do about a subject, when people don’t listen to what I’m saying or when I work hard on something and it doesn’t work or isn’t successful  (looking at you, Convergence trilogy… in five parts).

And when I feel or do something, I tend to go all-out, even if it’s starting sentences with a conjunction. When I write, I’m on fire with it. When I drink, I go hard. Any drink. If I have a liquid in hand, I’m downing it without realizing it. There are several restaurants around town that know me as “the water guy” and it’s a somewhat known fact amongst my friends that when I go out to eat, the food could be middling, the service could be bad, but my tip is based on how regularly my water glass is refilled.

When I’m in a friendship, it’s important to me that they know I am absolutely loyal and that I will do what I can to help or to support them or build them up. When I’m in a romantic relationship, I make sure that person knows how beautiful they are, how much they inspire me and how much I support their endeavors.

And when I fuck things up… in any capacity, really, I have to fix it. I can’t let things just be broken. I can’t give it time to  heal, it has to heal right away, and my God, I’ve got to be the one to do it. I have to set things right.

It has never occurred to me that time and space can help heal things in their own right. I have always wanted to slip in with gifts and apologies and affection and promises. Believe me, too, guilt over whatever it is I said or did plagues me every second of the day. It fits in nicely with this anxiety disorder I’ve been diagnosed with. I begin to overthink everything. “Oh, she hasn’t texted me. Oh, she seems distracted. Oh, she seems more distant. Oh, she’s talking to other people, she must have given up on me, I should give up in general”, and it’s fucking weird and overwhelming, and it’s always been that way for me. It’s an ourobouros of self-confidence, intensity, and self-destruction.

The last week has been sort of a different thing for me. I’ve been pulling back a lot, in a lot of ways, and trying to focus more on myself and the things I’m feeling about work, family and personal relationships with people. I’ve tried to leave bruised relationships alone entirely, because as desperately as I want to fix them, I don’t know how, or if they want to fix it. I do know that everything I’ve tried before has seemingly made things worse. I’ve even cut back on my writing about things. More on that in a second.

The distance I have been giving situations and people is hard for me, especially in cases where we used to speak every day. It’s difficult to go from that to feeling like even talking to them is grossing them out or offending them. It’s difficult not to text them and hope that things go back to how great they were.

The biggest rub is that I no longer know how to conduct myself in my writing. It’s sort of a Catch-22: I have prided myself on being open and honest about myself and my life, my issues, my successes, my goals and my failures. I have prided myself on being a voice for people who don’t want to talk about their similar experiences and on being a support for people who needed to know someone else was out there going through the same stuff.

It’s that same openness and honesty and lack of restraint that has led to some of my best writing and has driven away people because of my intensity. For the last few weeks, that thought has marinated in my mind and I’ve found it difficult to piece sentences together. For a blog post, for a status update, for a text message. I haven’t done fuck-all for the book I’m supposed to be writing.

I thought my words were broken.

That can’t be right. Maybe I’m broken.

I’m not broken, I’ve just got restraint issues. I have anxiety. I overthink so I overact, and it comes out in everything that I do. It isn’t the words, it’s the level of emotion behind the words. I’m loading a crossbow with a grenade, and then calling in an air strike before the smoke clears, because I have to be sure. And then I hate myself for no reason, because I’m positive I’ve missed the target by a mile.

I’m in a weird position that I never thought I would be in. I’m scared to write to the people I know. I’m worried when I write something positive that people will think I’m either overcompensating or that it’s only a matter of time until I hit a downward slope again. I’m worried that if I post something negative about how I’m feeling or what I’m going through, that it will be too intense for some and drive them away, because this has already happened. I can’t post art because I’m not feeling particularly artistic, except in bouts of frustration in which I try to vomit something beautiful out just to make myself feel better, to mixed results.

I’m left posting funny pictures I find online and watching a Hell’s Kitchen marathon to distract myself, and to keep my phone busy so I’m not tempted to text anyone I shouldn’t.

You know, it’s funny. The last half a week or so is the least anxious I’ve felt in a long time. The medication helps, even if it’s half a pill every three days or so. The anxiety is slipping away, but nothing is really better. The words won’t come, and three weeks of out of character action has completely fucked everything else up for me. Now when I’m lonely, I can’t even ask to go out for beers. I can’t even put that shit on Facebook. Hell, I don’t even want to drink about it, anymore.

I know what not to do, I suppose. I still don’t know what I should be doing.

Oh, right. Hell’s Kitchen. Gordon Ramsay is my spirit animal.

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