Stagnation

I'm in a funk.  I'm stuck in a rut.  I need a project I think but I can't muster the energy to do anything.  I have a commissioned quilt to make.  I need to clean a table to work on it.  That makes me mad, then depressed, then stagnated.   I'm held back by clutter. Most of the clutter is in my mind though. 


I miss my old house.  I'm looking for a new one.  We've been in this one for three years and the stuff we've accumulated is smothering me.  I need to just get sewing since I can't find a good place to knit anymore. 


Maybe some of my problem is the depressive books I have been listening to.   Maybe, tomorrow.

Losing my imagination?

Maybe I'm just losing my mind.    The medication I take to curb my anxiety and panic attacks leaves me feeling like I have no creativity left.   


I know that isn't true.  I could come up with tons of things to do, creative things.  However, my energy level to get me started just isn't there.  That is because of my medications and my condition.


Meanwhile, I was thinking about a way back when scenario... I would have these elaborate ideas and from those ideas came inspiration which brought actual things to life.  Sometimes the inspiration would just be to deep clean the house and ta da I would get it done.


BUT, you knew it was coming... those elaborate ideas often came without my medication so when I sunk into the throws of panic or depression it was severe.  Doomsday scenario kinda stuff.


In order to get back to the feel good release of creativity, I'm just going to force myself to do things.  First off, write this post.  I'm a good talker, story teller but I let my conditions keep me quiet most of the time.  No more.  I may not post every day but I will write something. 


The next step will be to do some crafting outside of the internet.  I have lots of unfinished objects.  I will set a goal to complete one a month, clear the shelves for something else. 


Wish me luck.

No longer picking at my self the PTSD is causing panic attacks.

Ever have a random thought, or memory pop in to your head?  Did you enjoy it?  Lately those random thoughts have been plaguing me.  I'll hear a snide remark from 30 years ago or something said just last month and I'm ready to be hospitalized for a heart attack.  So I'm 44 and menopausal. My anxiety attacks, panic attacks, or cookoo moments bring along hot flashes now.  The worst place to feel the effects is my feet.  I'm laughing right now... I give you permission to laugh too.  Sweaty feet is not uncommon around here because it's Oklahoma and the temperatures are nearly 100*  so my feet should sweat in my New Balances but when I'm strutting my stuff in my sandals or flip flops my feet should be cool and dry not so sloppy wet I feel like I wore them in the pool. 


So I'm slip sliding around on my shoes, my knees feel like I'm walking on ice and one wrong move can cause a disk to at least feel like it's slipping in my lower back.  Then I get angry.... Don't talk to me.  I'm about to verbally disembowel the next person who says "hi" okay, I don't.  I'm more professional than that but the chick who just cut me off speeding to her spot in the car wash line as I was creeping through the parking lot trying to dodge all the hand dried cars parked there.  Well I called her some creative names. I instantly feel guilty, convicted and another heat wave begins in my shoes.


So when people say words hurt, they're right. But nice words hurt too. Supportive words in the time when someone really needs the truth can also be damaging but we have to discern which time it really is.


Meanwhile, I'm trying to hold back a panic attack right now because a 2 ton gorilla in a blue tutu just danced across my mind. I will not go back to that moment when I'm in a choke hold in a hallway.  I had the right to stand up for my beliefs but um don't stand up to someone who has new found skills in hand to hand combat...you end up in a headlock.   okay I'm coming out of it.  I have this irrational urge to do some Thai Chi.  It's after midnight and I'm under the influence of a sleeping pill, I think Thai Chi would be a little dangerous to attempt in a dark house.  Maybe I should sleep and just dream about Thai Chi... who would be my teacher tonight?  hmmmm, that's a good way to deal with a hot flash thinking about men. 

My latest battle with PTSD

Most people know Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from hearing of soldiers dealing with it then doing drastic things.  I grew up with PTSD.  My mother was mentally unstable, I walked on eggshells around her.  I became "the mommy pleaser" then a "people pleaser" and that translated to doing anything to make the guy I was with happy, against my own mental health.  So lately this one guy has been on my mind because something he caused has been triggered.  Who he was isn't really important, what he did is.  I was at a point in my life where I was nothing important to anyone.  This guy made me feel beautiful, worshiped but lead me down a "50 shades" path.  I'm nothing to look at but to this guy I was as stunning as any bikini clad gal on an 80's pin up poster.  He and I had fun.  He would wrap me in ribbons creating awesome supportive garments out of decorator ribbon, strips of sheets, shop towels, anything which could wrap around my body at least once and be held in place with a safety pin.  He had one complaint, I had blemishes on my breasts.  He insisted, if I were to be "with him" for an evening I had to be meticulously groomed before our time could commence. He became an esthetician for 30 minutes and then my poor girls were "made up" along with the rest of me.  I could have a huge cold sore on my lip, impetigo on my legs, a ringworm on my neck and pimples on my hiney but the ta tas must me pristine.    To this day, I still pick at these things. 


About 10 years ago someone sent me a photo shopped image of a breast with a lotus blossom seed pod super-imposed on it with the heading of "do not try on bras in the store" our you could get this rash.  It was a hoax, I pointed it out to the sender and family war broke out over it.    I was a know it all with a superior attitude, yada, yada, yada.  Behind the scenes though I had started mutilating my chest.  Used all manner of torture.  I soaked my bras in bleach or rubbing alcohol then put them on to "medicate" the clogged  pores, and miscellaneous sores.  I tweezed and squeezed until they were raw and bloody.  I don't thin my husband saw me without a shirt for months.  Every blouse I wore had blood stains on it.  My bras were a ragged mess from picking and prodding through them.  So I started seeing a therapist.  She started me on the several life changing meditations.  I changed my thought processes and soon things were smoothed over and the family was back to normal.  My final task was buying new bras, pretty well fitting bras.  Finally I was happy with my chest again. 


Last week that dang lotus pod erupted on someone's hand in a "health warning" post on facebook.  I've resumed some of  my bad habits and I can hear that guy's voice in my head again.  My therapist moved away so I'm going to have to find a new one. Meanwhile, I'm vomiting when I see those floral accessories in stores and in décor.  This form of PTSD is back again.  I have resolved one thing different than before, I won't be bleaching my pretty lacy support garments.  I'm going to protect those because they are nice, expensive and make me feel like a real woman when I put them on in the morning and I feel free when I remove them at the end of the day. 


Seriously, people this like cutting, or shooting up my fingers crave the motions.  Ugh, I think I need to go sit on my hands....